The recovery story ~ her journey will inspire you!

I am going to tell you where I came from and where I was. I grew up on a small island in the Pacific Northwest, known for its whale watching, breathtaking sunsets, and rich history. You can walk from one end of the island to the other, port to port. There are miles of beaches, and everyone knows everyone, passing each other, always with a smile on their face. There are trails to walk along with some of the largest green trees you have ever seen. We grew up participating in log rolling contests in the cold, salty ocean. You can see cherry, apple, and pear trees, strawberries, king salmon, salmon berries, peas, and farm-fresh eggs. There are fields of flowers: Yellow, purple, blue, orange, and white.

I’d sometimes lie in the front yard with my brothers and sisters laughing and, of course, sometimes fighting, but there was always lots of love. On occasion, we would walk down to catch the glowing shrimp hanging from the docks at the ferry landing. We would lie there on the dock, smiling, and sometimes, if we were lucky, we would experience the Northern Lights. It was like a great god, flickering and flashing colored lights above us.

When I was twelve years old, we would later move to yet another remarkable place, Sun Valley, ID. Never had I experienced snow before this, but maybe 1/4 of an inch, which would melt in an hour or less. I was in disbelief and ahh. It was another small, quaint town tucked away in a little mountainous area, where everyone also knew everyone.

What a beautiful picture I have painted. All of it is true, but inside my house was a different story. Three different ways lead into the house. Now, pick one and follow me through the door.

This is where the third, possibly fourth generations of alcoholics lived. Their cupboards are filled with hard alcohol within arm’s reach. All rooms were tidy and perfect; everything was a disguise. Inside was our hungover father, who left for work before we got up and was home after we were in bed. He was rarely seen, and if he was, he was drinking or drunk. Also living there was my older, angry brother, whom we were frightened to be near. But also, inside was a mother who loved us and escaped us from the hostility and belligerent, withdrawn father with a fake smile on her face. Always telling us everything would be OK.

It’s ironic that my father worked day in and day out, yet sometimes never had enough food to put on the table, or he would eat before he came home and pass out.

Later, my mother escaped us from the misery and met the most wonderful man whom raised me. We were happy and loved. We were spoiled. I played sports and received good grades, graduated from WRHS and later became an exchange student. Life was mostly good.

I started drinking at about the age of 14 and stopped at 35. In between those ages, nothing but war stories, ups, downs, jails and institutions, the death of a grandmother and grandfather, a little sister, and best friends. The loss of siblings, a biological father, and a daughter. Most due to alcohol in one way, shape, or form. By this time, my drinking was a hundredfold. Then I found the bottom. I closed the book of horrors. I was living in and was willing to change it.

The keyword is willing.

it was a dark and cold world I was living in. I was selfish, self-centered, egotistical, self-serving, ignorant, self-destroying, and angry. The worst part of it all was the anxiety that controlled me, which I disguised with poison I forced into my body daily.

I could go on like this for hours. I was an obnoxious twerp who lived inside my own head, spreading all this wonderful trash around me for everyone to share with me, even if they didn’t want it. It was forcing it on them and manipulating everyone and everything around me.

That was the only way I knew how to live, whether in the past or the future, but never in the present. The moment of right now, what counts, didn’t exist. It took many years to build the house I lived in, which had no windows or doors to look out of.

By powers greater than myself, I found a crack in the walls of hell I had built. All I was armed with was a delicate candle that could blow out at any minute. It began during my second stint in prison at a grief and loss group, which further opened that crack and let the light in. It followed with this program, totally giving up and letting go. Through it all, there was honesty, drive, and willingness to change.

My eyes were that spark I had when I was outside with my brothers and sisters, lying on that dock.

The awesomeness and power of it all can be overwhelming at times, but the foundation is solid. The walls are up, and the doors and windows are open. The roof is on. I can work on the inside; not 100 miles an hour, but a little piece at a time.

The most powerful forces of my life are now my willingness, honesty, friends, Kim, Sarah, my little brother, my mother, and, of course, my three children. Thank you for opening your doors.

I genuinely have found the love for life and sobriety today that I have been missing since I was a child outside, and I get to experience it with my very own children. Love to hate me. Hate to love me. It’s up to you, but I am becoming OK with me.

In closing, to the commissioners and anyone who has financial power over the program, please don’t let it fade away. What is in your power to keep it; beg, borrow, panhandle, I don’t care! Just keep it. Jails and institutions are not the place for an addict. Drug court is what has saved me, not sitting on a bed waiting for a date to come and likely use again. Some may fail or disappoint, but those who don’t, you will probably never understand or begin to fathom at what depths they have changed their lives for the better.