I remember the tailspin of my last drinking years, although it is a chaotic blur with intermittent blackouts. I was knocking back wine until dawn while working remotely for the family business, dragging my teenagers to school on three hours’ sleep, then crashing again until the West Coast office opened. Quarterly Reno trips turned into liquid marathons, airport bars at sunrise, a missed flight, and groggy late arrivals that left my coworkers furious. Alcohol soon eclipsed everything, including job performance, mortgage payments, and even food. Blackouts, drastic weight loss, and a failing digestive system made it clear the disease had hijacked my body, mind, and will. The day I whispered to my reflection, “You’re already dead,” I knew it was detox or die. My next employer invested hope in my recovery, and with their support and a second stay in treatment, I took my first true step toward lasting change.
Sobriety has since rewritten my entire script. Daily meetings, spiritual study, creative outlets, and therapy keep the black‑hole of suppressed feelings from accreting. I’ve learned that while drinking didn’t start every crisis, every crisis featured a drink in my hand, and stuffing pain only supercharged it. As long as I stay active in my recovery program and never pick up that first glass, I get to keep living a life I once thought was impossible.
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