Reader Stories

This is a reader story. We believe in providing our readers with a space for them to share their story however they see fit. The thoughts and views expressed are that of the author and should be treated as such. If you wish to share your own stories please see here for more information.

The author is Cassidy McCannon from Texas, USA.

Everyone’s sobriety story is different, not everyone has relapses but some people do. I’m one of those chronic relapsers. I’m 29 years old, and will be 8 months sober when I turn 30. I never really thought I was going to sober up. I had lost everything. I lost my apartment, the girl I planned to marry (call her mj), my awesome job, almost lost my family. 2019 was spent crashing at my mom’s, sick and sad, pushing everyone away from me and destroying everything I possibly could.

I slowly started considering sobriety in June 2019. One day I woke up and realized it was time to go to treatment. That was September 17, 2019. I was in treatment by the end of the day.

That was my first time at treatment, and I had a very hard time with the higher power concept. A lot of things about alcoholics anonymous were confusing to me. What does it mean to keep it simple? How do I know I need a meeting? I never even realized what a craving for alcohol was until I sobered up for a few weeks. I relapsed within days of leaving the 30 day program, and I let myself go for a few weeks.

I went back to the same treatment center 4 times and each was an amazing experience. I wish relapse wasn’t a part of my recovery story, but it is completely normal and every recovery journey is different. I never let it keep me from attaining the ultimate goal of sobriety. I would get 30 days here and there, once got to 43 days. It was always the same thoughts- I can drink this and it will be perfectly okay, I don’t have to tell my sponsor or any of the many people In my support group.

I stayed in a few sober homes and they were great, but I still relapsed. I was passed out drunk on the couch in one home and the cops dragged me out, I am lucky I didn’t go to jail. I was honest with the house manager the second time, and moved out the following day.

I tried a free treatment center in early February that didn’t work out too well for me, and I relapsed pretty much as soon as I walked out the doors.

From about February 20th through April 25, I was basically blacked out. The girl I had wanted to marry, MJ, had been trying to give me chances and I kept blowing them. On the 21st of February she came to tell me we were over for good. I was drunk, I didn’t want to let her leave. A man stepped in to help her and he broke my eye socket and ribs. I had a serious concussion and I just kept drinking.

In early March 2020 I lost work due to the covid 19 shutdowns. That was a perfect excuse for me to spiral even further. I would be sober a few times a week but never really stopped. I found out MJ moved from Texas to California with someone else and I DRANK. I was still in touch with my sobriety support group but without in person meetings, my community that I relied on so heavily was suddenly taken from me. I felt I had no reason to stop drinking, no reason to pick myself up and be the person I’m meant to be.

April 25th I decided I was done. I gave it up. I quit. I was in pain for a few days and then, MJ got me a plane ticket to California, she and I were going to drive back to Texas together.

I knew this was it, my higher power gave me the strength to realize I was done and would never drink again and then placed MJ back in my life. I had a brand new bottle, and I poured it out before I got on the plane April 26th.

Today I am 83 days sober, I am close to 90 days for the first time. I attend virtual meetings 3-4 times a week. I haven’t worked my steps yet, but my sober community is necessary for me to stay sober. Communicating with MJ about my honest cravings and confusions has been a bit of a struggle but completely worth it. Her and my mother don’t like hearing some of my ridiculous alcoholic thoughts, but they’re learning to understand me. I don’t like hearing that they might have trouble trusting me, but I’m learning to understand them.

This is my first time living life as a sober adult. Everything I thought I knew about myself was so watered down. All the bad things were accentuated. I’ve learned I’m compassionate, creative, inspiring, active, health conscious, easy to talk to, helpful, and so many other good qualities that I never would have attributed to myself. When I think of all the dirty, rotten, terrible things I’ve done I know that person is long gone.

Since sobering up, things have been difficult. My Nana passed away and she was one of my heroes, I wanted to be just like her. I loved her so much. But my spirit is okay, I worked through those emotions like a real human being. Now that I’m sober I am going to learn how to play the piano just like she would play it. In her obituary it said she didn’t learn piano until she was 32, so I will follow in her footsteps.

My dog also ended up with bladder stones, which can be lethal if left untreated. I wasn’t working so I had no money, I was stressed and scared and sad but I knew it was going to be okay and let go of wanting to have control. I let god take care of it and everything turned out well, oreo is perfectly fine and healing up from surgery.

Today I live my life with a clear conscience, with a healthy body, with healthy thoughts. I don’t lie, I rest my head every night knowing things are right. MJ and I are married and happy self quarantined with our dog and my mom. I have a job that I don’t love but I go to work and I do it happily and extremely well.

The future has never looked brighter. Everything is happening, slowly but surely. The baby steps are the worst, but once you get your footing, you’ll be running in no time.

Another Alcoholics Anonymous one liner that I never quite understood was “trust the process.” But until you let everything happen, until you let go absolutely and allow your life to take shape in front of you, you won’t be able to understand that phrase. I want to encourage everyone to allow their lives and their true selves to flourish away from the influence of the darkness that wishes to suck you dry.

Don’t give up two minutes before the miracle happens.

This is a reader story. We believe in providing our readers with a space for them to share their story however they see fit. The thoughts and views expressed are that of the author and should be treated as such. If you wish to share your own stories please see here for more information.

The author wished to remain anonymous.

I remember it clearly: he was slumped on the hallway floor; an empty bottle beside him. He stank of lager. I bent down and put my finger under his nose – like I always did – to check if he was still breathing. I positioned his body and head the way you’re meant to, and sat beside him, praying he’d make it through the night.

He hadn’t always been like that. When I was younger, he would tuck me into bed and tell me stories, all kinds of fairy tales. He’d read them from the book his mother gave him, which was passed down by her mother. I remember always asking him to turn to page 23, because on page 23 was a beautiful illustration of Jack climbing the beanstalk into the sky. All the way up into a new world, my father would say, one day we’ll go together.

He taught me how to fly a kite, and we’d spend days outside in the nearby park under the summer sun. The park itself was small and the grass unkempt, but none of that mattered. There were no high-rise buildings blocking the sky. I could see the clouds, and as my kite flew through the air, I’d imagine that kite was our magical beanstalk, and one day it’d take us high above into the clouds, and we’d be witness to the marvellous world hidden above.

He wasn’t a good baker, mind you. He tried his best to teach me, but no matter what we attempted – cookies, cupcakes, bread – they’d always end up burnt. He’d blame the oven; an outdated thing that needed fixing. But I didn’t care if they were burnt. He was by my side.

It changed when his mother (my grandmother) died. It was unexpected: a heart attack. When it happened, we’d been down at the beach. She was out cold on the sofa for twelve hours before her neighbour noticed she hadn’t left to go on her usual walk.

I remember my father answering that phone call, and within moments, his smile was gone. He fell to his knees. He said nothing, he just stared at the sea and watched the waves.

After that, he stopped telling me fairy tales. I never saw the book again.

My mother tried her best to comfort him. She cooked all his favourite meals like toad in the hole, and we’d watch all his favourite movies together. When I was meant to be asleep, sometimes I would peek into their bedroom, and I’d see her holding him tightly, and she’d whisper into his ear, but he’d stay silent.

He started going out by himself. He’d be in the living room with us, stare distantly, fiddle with his watch, then get his car keys and leave. My mother would chase after him, and they’d argue, but it would always end with him slamming the car door and driving off.

He would come back in the evening, and at first, he would come back laughing – cheerful almost. I’d be welcomed by open arms, and it was like he was his old self again. But he would hug me, and then I’d smell it on his clothes and his lips. I’d notice the strange way his words would change.

Initially, I didn’t realise what the smell was or why he sounded strange. But I didn’t question it. I pushed those thoughts away because it felt good to have him holding me again.

Soon my mother stopped welcoming him home. She’d stay in her bedroom, door shut. I knocked on her door once and told her he was back; he was finally back. But she didn’t open the door. Instead, she turned the TV up louder.

He started coming back later. My mother and I would have meals by ourselves. I remember I’d always be adamant that we needed to set the table for three, not two – just in case.

As time went on, I continued to wait for him, but eventually, he no longer returned with a smile on his face and he never welcomed me with open arms. He began drinking more and more, and he would stumble through the door mumbling under his breath. He would stagger straight past me and tell me to go to bed. If I persisted and tried to speak to him, he’d snap and say harsh words which today still linger in my memory.

Sometimes, I guess when he remembered it, he would apologise in the morning and tell me it was just a rough day, and he loved me dearly.

I became desperate to save him. I convinced myself every little action I did would either push him further away or bring him back. Setting the table for three would bring him back. Waiting for him every night would bring him back. Kissing him goodnight, even when he was knocked out cold, would bring him back.

One day I forgot to lay the table with his plate and cutlery, and after I realised, I completely broke down. I thought I’d lost him forever, and he wouldn’t come home again.

There were days when he wouldn’t come home. We’d find him asleep in his car at the pub, or on a bench in some barely lit street.

Soon, every time he left, I was overwhelmed with fear. Sometimes I would scream at him not to go, and that if he cared about my mother or me, he wouldn’t leave us ever again, he would stay and eat with us, he would go out and fly kites with me, he would watch movies, go to the beach like we used to – like who he used to be.

At times, I hated myself: I wasn’t enough to save him. I thought I wasn’t loving him enough and some God above could tell and was punishing me. Just like the fairy tales he read to me, I thought if I proved my love, I’d get the happily ever after and it would all be okay again.

My mother had tried to intervene countless times. She would beg him to get therapy and support. She would even try to trick him into going to AA meetings. She’d tell his friends of his struggles (many of which he cut contact with) and would ask them to talk to him and encourage him to get help.

He denied everything; he wasn’t a heavy drinker – we were overreacting. He barely drank. It wasn’t every single night so he couldn’t be an addict.

My mother told me if he didn’t change, we wouldn’t be able to see him for a while, a long while.

So I started cleaning up after him. I wanted to help him hide it. I felt like my mother was trying to break our family apart, like she was giving up on all of us. I would throw away the empty cans and bottles, mop up any spilt drink or vomit.

But of course, I never could truly hide it.

He started hiding half-empty bottles and cans around the house; under the sink, buried under piles of clothes in the laundry basket. When my mother would confront him about it, he would tell her he loved us both, and that he wouldn’t do it again.

And when she confronted him again, he told her the same. That it wasn’t a problem, and that was definitely the last of it.

He started drinking in the mornings. Or perhaps I started noticing it more. I would see him in the kitchen pulling out a flask from his jacket and downing it. He would then shake the flask to make sure he’d gotten every last drop. Every time it made me sick, and I’d struggle to breathe. Each sip he took stabbed me in the chest.

It was a constant battle: if my mother wasn’t screaming at my father she’d be crying, exhausted, worried that the man she loved would one day be gone completely. There’d even be days where she couldn’t look at me directly because I looked more like him than I did her, and my likeness was a too painful reminder. His drinking was a disease which spread to everything.

The last straw for my mother was when she found a flask hidden in my bedroom. We’d been collecting spare toys, clothes and other goods to donate. It was under my bed in a box filled with old VHS tapes. I remember her pulling out the box, opening it, then shutting the lid abruptly. Then she wept. We both wept. I wanted it to be some lucid nightmare, hoping that
if I closed my eyes for long enough, I’d “wake up” and it would no longer be there.

My mother confronted him and told him if he wasn’t willing to change and get help, he wasn’t going to bring us down with him any longer. Again, he told us he loved us, would always treasure us, then he denied and said he didn’t have a problem – we were the problem. He asked us why we couldn’t just trust him.

We left the house and moved in with my grandparents (my mother’s side). But I still packed the old kite. I packed all the family photos.

Even though he was no longer with us, I could never stop thinking about him. I questioned why I wasn’t enough, why my love wasn’t enough. I felt I was to blame, like I didn’t do all I could’ve done to help him, and I couldn’t compete with whatever happiness the bottle gave him, and many, many times, I resented him.

Whenever someone would bring him up, or a friend would talk about their own father, I would snap, because he wasn’t here, and he wouldn’t change for me, and he denied and denied and denied. I didn’t grow up having the childhood I deserved – he took that away from me. I had to be the one to mop up after him. I had to come up with excuses for him when he would go out and start yelling drunkenly at the neighbours. He hurt me in so many ways.

But I also resented that I missed him and still loved him to death. That I still hoped one day he’d turn up at our door back to who he was.

When I became strong enough, I went to therapy, joined support groups and opened up to my friends, all of which helped me process those feelings I had and helped me understand alcohol use disorder better. I now know that it’s a debilitating illness; my father wasn’t making a choice between the alcohol and me.

With time, I forgave my father. But most importantly, I forgave myself. I hadn’t failed my father. I was not to blame. He was a victim of the drink, and so was I.

For many years, I didn’t hear from him. None of us did. But two years ago, he reached out to me. He told me he was now sober; he’d gotten the help he needed and was on the path to recovery. He wanted to meet me and make up for time lost. He told me how sorry he was that he wasn’t there for my mother and I, that he was sorry for all the pain he caused. He said he would understand if I didn’t want him back in my life.

He’s been sober for three years now, and we’re making amends. We make sure to call every week. It’s a slow process, and there’s a part of me deep down that will always be paranoid he’s going to turn to the bottle again. But he tells me about the trips we can go on together in the future; hiking in Peak District, exploring the sites in Edinburgh, having a picnic in Richmond.

I know he’s finally looking forward. We’re both looking forward.

This is a reader story. We believe in providing our readers with a space for them to share their story however they see fit. The thoughts and views expressed are that of the author and should be treated as such. If you wish to share your own stories please see here for more information.

The author wished to remain anonymous.

This article covers my experience with polyaddiction in adolescence, from how family was impacted to when I finally saw legal consequences.

My name is not so important, but my tale is.. Among every other tale everyone else has to tell. Everyone has their own unique, sometimes rocky roads and this was mine.

As an oddball, unique in ways some came to appreciate although unique in some ways that led me down the wrong path. I hold a sense of secrecy, stubbornness, impulse and recklessness that forms who I am. Everybody has traits that can be seen as both positive and negative depending on context, and all it takes to tumble down the wrong road is a few wrong contexts.

This can happen to anyone – Every therapist I visited that didn’t work expressed shock at how high my grades were and I always managed to be a teacher’s favorite, perhaps due to my goofy attitude and my attitude pushing away my peers leading to me never being a distractment.

For foresight, I was a lonely child – An odd child. I was homeschooled until grade 9, although I fought it tooth and nail and later on my parents shed the same amount of tears I could’ve drank in a day realizing the depth I had gotten myself into. Although they never comprehended anything past the tip of the iceberg, never dipped a toe into the murky waters surrounding that were to blame for my behaviour. Denial is a comfort, it was for me as well.

At the age of 10 or 11 was my first experience,my mom going out to the dollar store- As I was speaking with an online friend,Rigby,who was 16 at the time －I claimed to be the same age.He was in New York, always popping off about his mischief and smoking weed/getting drunk.Being homeschooled and having a very rough relationship with my mother and undiagnosed ADHD, loneliness..It all built up and I was looking for an escape. A door opened much too early for me, and it was the wrong one. I pulled the chair over to the closet and hopped up, drinking unknown amounts and feeling the burn down my throat. The same burn I’d feel many more times, within my nostrils..My throat..And deeper within my soul,a burning fire I was always trying to numb. “What happens if an 11 year old gets drunk?” I searched up on Yahoo Answers..And I suppose my life today answers the question. From my highs, my first few days in high school- Getting drunk with a bunch of grade 10s and an 18 year old at 14, drinking with my coke dealer at 15..To my lows,drinking mouthwash..Drinking hand sanitizer.. Highest in alcohol content,although repulsive.

I’ll never forget the aftertaste of codeine/acetaminophen and alcohol-An impulsive move to end my life whilst I was 13.Perhaps if I had real alcohol it wouldve done it, perhaps that burn from the hand sanitizer I forced myself to drink along with gatorade and 20 pills kept my fire going..I threw up the undigested pills and went on,never sharing the tale of the experience with my family. As addiction thrives in secrecy,lurking in dark depths.

I drank at school, as I smoked and indulged in cocaine – Having a routine of swapping marijuana for expensive alcohol a rich girl would steal from her mother’s locked away cabinets. It’d make me feel sick, save for the coolers I rarely obtained. Cream rum, cherry brandy, bottles of vodka, tucked within my backpack. It felt like a flex, something cool, a few certain classmates I’d smirk at and point within my bag. “What is that?” They’d ask, already probably being quite aware.

And as the liquor made me feel, I truly was sick – Chasing away anyone that was a good person with my behaviour, combined with a cry for help I’d ignored any responses to.

Later along the line, words my father said to me that I always felt rung true deeper in my soul – “No good person would want to be your friend until you fix yourself”. But I didnt want a good person to be my friend, in my cycle of self hate and harm I willingly only attracted a crowd that could only bring me down with them.

It ended one day, when my mother and father – After arguing about how my behaviour grew increasingly violent, speculating whether or not I was on drugs, installed a monitoring app on the new phone they bought me after I had smashed my old one in a fit of rage over something minor.

On the final day before my parents figured out my addiction issues, I went all in. Drinking a bottle of cherry brandy within my first two classes, then half a bottle of Smirnoff ice on the way back to my pals house at lunch break. I didn’t make it back to my next class – Head spinning and gut wrenching; vision blurring.. I laid in her shed whilst she and her sister returned to school. I think I reflected truly on my life choices then, heaving into empty cups and laying in her house on the brink of consciousness.

How do peers effect it? Smoking weed has begun to be a much more commonplace among adolescence, but I recall niches such as teenage boys always opting for beer and uppity girls always getting wasted on weekends, sharing images of eachother in drunken stupors and even as far as sharing images of eachother at toilets.

“What should I do I’m too drunk?” I asked a friend, “drink more” she said back to me. I knew it was wrong but didnt comprehend a thing in actuality.

I made it to my fourth class, present although not there mentally.

When I drank a bottle of jagermeister to myself along with purchasing cocaine three times the first time my parents let me stay for lunch break at school after discovering my addiction to cocaine, that was the first time I saw consequences in the eyes of the law. I was on my way out of the class, ‘Headed to the washroom’ to get my 3rd bag that day. I had been clean long enough but alcohol felt incomplete without it- A common problem with alcoholic users who combine it with cocaine. It forms a chemical called Cocaethylene in the liver which heightens toxicity and addiction potential.

My vice principal sat me down, searched me – And nothing was found on me as I had already finished the bottle and bag. “I figured I had the wrong person,” She stated before letting me out. I ran straight to the lot to meet my dealer, a friend of mine in his early twenties – To tell him the tale, laugh it off, and go back to class. Before I could do so, my vice principal ushered up to me with a teacher that wasnt my own.

Undoubtedly, it was me who was accused. I was brought back to the office, more nervous than last time but still self assured because what are the odds? And searched more thoroughly – Nothing was found except my juul, which warranted a call from my dad.

She remarked my pupils being large and confirmed that I did smell of alcohol as my peers had always noticed, and I denied it further pleading with her to not call my dad – My mind running rampant with excuses.

She did indeed follow through with calling my dad, who had much more prior context to confirm the tale in his mind. I pleaded with him again to not tell my mother, making up tall tales and blaming it on other kids, but he did. Alas, I was breathalyzed and tested for drugs. I was able to fake the test using water and heavy stalling, although not the breathalyzer.

I got into heavy trouble for the alcohol, my parents treated it as a sin. Due to alcoholism running through my family, breeding fear, and increasing prohibition perhaps later on in youth I was more compelled to it. Although I still walked the grey line on the cocaine, I convinced them it was a mistake I drank the alcohol (Same excuse I used when I ended up hospitalized for alcohol poisoning after throwing up blood), and that kids were bullying me for my past addiction claiming I had cocaine.

As it’s easier to believe a loved one innocent than guilty for matters that pull at the heart strings, my parents ruled out the cocaine part.

A week later, my actions were forgiven and I was out drinking yet again with my peers. “Come home now,” My mother demanded over text. After a brief argument I accepted defeat and my father came to pick me up.

He gave me a talk, just as he usually would in these periods of my addiction coming to light, which I brushed off. However, it was different than any other time. I was sat down in the family room, a pit in my stomach – The gathering that would always lead to my punishment. It was revealed my mother found the baggie of cocaine I never finished, taped behind a poster in my room. It was beyond me how anyone wouldve thought to check there but she certainly did. After being bombarded with words of shame and guilt, I went back to my room, phone taken away and defeated. The very next day, things escalated.

I would threaten to run away from home plenty in these times, in which my mother would always respond to me saying she’d call the police – I was a 15 year old girl and the legal age to disregard parents wishes and emancipate yourself in my state was 16. A screaming match escalated, perhaps hitting deeper this was the very first time my parents had found any substance on me . Only paraphernalia was ever found, a coke straw the first time I was confronted.

I dashed towards the door during one of these fits, and my father, who had always been a role model and aspiration to me and a very gentle man took physical aggression on me for the first time. His hands around my neck comprehending me against the wall so I couldn’t dash out, I screamed so loud my mom called the cops.

They spoke with me and my parents, ignoring my side of the story and settling that I could get by without a charge if I spoke to a rehab specialist at my school. I agreed.

Of course – This was the same rehab specialist my parents had fruitlessly sent me to speak to multiple times before. She greeted me cheerily, asking if I had finally found it in me to visit her. I informed her that no, the police made me go here. She swiftly made me sign a forum confirming we talked (falsely) and let me go.

That was the last time I touched cocaine and alcohol until the next year, in which I grasped moderation. Will it stick? I’m not sure, but uncertainty can be a promise for better rather than worse.

In conclusion, I learned that you cant stay on top of the world forever and looking back at it I was just chasing a dragon – Itll be the same as the first time this time, it’ll make me happy this time, it’ll be even better this time.. But was it ever? When you normalize poor behaviour having no prior concept of normalcy you push yourself into a deep hole, and digging yourself out isnt a single leap or linear but a mindset and a willingness you choose every day. I chose life over death after choosing a path of death.

Was it truly my choice? I can’t answer that. Choice is a concept and we are all living among concepts and stressors every day, everybody had different coping mechanisms and vices and not all of them are good ones.. I’ve since found joy in simplicity, I’ve let go of the deep angers within me and let go of the blame.

Although it strikes me sometimes to think of the disappointment I put my family through, and the fact that nothing was ever quite the same or clicked back into place I’m still living and breathing, I’ll continue to make mistakes and I’ll continue to learn how to live. If it didn’t matter either way, I chose to stay. I’ll live with myself for today even if I cry another day.

This is a reader story. We believe in providing our readers with a space for them to share their story however they see fit. The thoughts and views expressed are that of the author and should be treated as such. If you wish to share your own stories please see here for more information.

The author who sent this story to us is Bildad Shiundu

 My drinking journey began in 2010 when I joined campus. I was 19. I joined campus an innocent young man whose closest interaction with alcohol was testing the priest’s wine after mass. I was an altar boy and 13 then. That little sip I took made me feel really awful and guilty. I kept praying to the Almighty to cleanse my body and have mercy on me for having messed with the temple of the Holy Spirit. I didn’t tell anyone about it until much later when I started drinking publicly. My parents were the non-nonsense type. That little sip would have gotten me a thorough beating. I am sure I would have been denied food too for a couple of days. That was my father’s way of dealing with indiscipline.  Let’s get back to how I started drinking in campus.

Like everyone else, I was happy to join campus. From the onset, I knew campus life would give me freedom.  Campus gave me an opportunity to be away from my strict parents.  The university was located 100 km away from home. It’s all I wanted. 

During my first days, I was focused.  I sometimes look back and imagine it’s because I didn’t have much money. All my parents could afford at that time was my tuition fees and little pocket money for upkeep. I didn’t get government support too. I worked hard. I didn’t miss any classes and submitted all my assignments on time.

Soon, hell broke loose.  I became friends with the ‘who is who’ in campus. These friends had no financial difficulties. They knew all the drinking clubs in town and its neighborhood.  Their conversations revolved around parties, girls and drinking.  

Questions like “Where will we be cruising this weekend? Did you arrive home safely? How did we part? “ dotted their conversation every other day. I am sorry to say this, but I fell for this lifestyle.

Two months after joining campus, I went with a friend to watch a football game in a night club. I had never been to a club before. I liked the ambiance. I liked the music and AHEM!! I liked the drink I was bought too. It was a lite beer.  I really danced that night, albeit my team- the great Manchester United, won. From that day I didn’t watch a football match in any other place.

I soon knew all the alcohol drinks and choose a brand. Guinness. I liked it cold.  How times change.  It’s now me who was asking, “hey, how did we part?” and so forth. My academic performance weren’t that bad until I reached third year. I was now known as the “Rave Maniac” I would drink at any time of the day. I can’t count the number of times I went to class drunk. 

 Somehow, the friends who taught me drinking seemed focused. As much as they drunk, none of them missed classes or if they did, it wasn’t that much.  I even missed the end of semester exams. All this while, my parents did not suspect a thing.  I avoided home as much as possible.

The first Mistake

I couldn’t proceed to the second semester of the third year because of the missed exam. I didn’t tell anyone home. I decided to call school off for a while. It also happened that my parents had trust in me and gave me money to pay as school fees.

 I thought I was wise and decided to start a business with the school fees. Not the whole of it though. I drank ¾ of it. I used the rest to start an eggs and sausage business. It was a brilliant business for a student. I used to make at least $15 every day. But as you can guess, I ‘drank’ the business.  Drinking and partying was the norm of the day. 

My friends circle grew.  I lived a reckless life. I couldn’t cook so I had to eat in hotels and restaurants. It is like I only had time for drinking. 

I didn’t sit for exams again. The circle repeated itself. Friends graduated and left. My parents knew I was in internship yet I was not. I became homeless, I had sold everything I owned including my bed. I slept in verandahs, unfinished houses or at a few of my friends places if they let me. Bathing was a problem. I used to smell. I depended on hand outs from my friends who cared.

The year is now 2013. A friend gave me a job to manage his pool table business. He used to pay me around $2 per day.  I diligently worked for him for almost five years albeit with suspensions for over indulgence. This money was not enough for any of my needs.  I still couldn’t save to pay for rent. I was living from hand to mouth.  I wasn’t buying food though. You guessed it right; I was drinking cheap liquor and betting football matches.  I never won anything big but I would win something every other day.  I was smoking cigarettes too. It’s now five months since I last smoked a cigarette. Cold turkey worked for me. 

Back to our story a friend I schooled with took me in. He was an academic writer helping students. He was not earning much, but he was more organized. He paid 90% of all our bills. Around that time – 2014, I started looking for freelance jobs online. I didn’t have a computer, I didn’t even have a library card to use the school library. They imagined I was still a student. I would go to cyber cafés and do online tasks that were not involving. This too was not encouraging. On most occasions, I would pay the cyber guy all the money I had earned. Poor me.

At this time, my parents had discovered, through a lecturer that I was not going to school. To make matters worse, my class had graduated. Both my parents were really depressed. They didn’t know I dropped out because of alcoholism. I told them I lost the money through money laundering and that I was afraid to tell them. They stopped supporting me financially. 

The friend I was living with got a job in the city. I knew the end times were near. Who will pay my rent? I wondered. My friend left for the city and left me with most of his belongings including a Television set, a bed and a gas cooker.  He also left me with half the rent and told me to work very hard so as to pay the remainder.

Second Mistake

As you can again make a guess, I didn’t pay the rent. I drank half of it and convinced my silly self that I would recover the money through betting. I lost the bet too. I can’t remember the games though. Trouble set in. The landlord was on my case.  I made another mistake that I still regret to this day.

I took my friend’s telly and gas cooker to a local shylock. The plan was to place a sure bet to recover the belongings plus the rent. Mission failed again. I think this was one of my lowest moments. I told my friend that I could not raise the rent. “ Don’t worry, I will send someone to pick my stuff up. Meanwhile, go home and talk to your parents.’’ He replied.  To say the least, I was depressed.  Here is a guy coming for his belongings yet they are not there.

 I had only one option: To run. “Where to?” I wondered.  East or West home is the best. I decided to go home. To my parent’s home. As much as I had wronged them, they were happy to see me. The prodigal son was back. I apologized and told them that I needed a laptop to continue with the online job I had started. This was encouraging. My mother had heard heartbreaking stories about my lifestyle and decided to buy me a laptop, a modem and a flash disk. My siblings felt bad. “How can you buy him a laptop yet he messed with his school fees,” one of my sisters complained.

To add salt to injury, my friend called my mother and informed him that I had left with his belonging. I had blocked him. He couldn’t get me on any medium. My mum almost collapsed. She even wanted to take the new laptop away.  Anyway, she asked for the shylocks details and paid the amount owed. I am really great full for her. My friend got his belongings back. He really quarreled me. We didn’t talk for over a year. We are close now.

A life line

Armed with my laptop, I started working online. It was a fresh breadth of life.  Within a few months I was making good money. I wasn’t buying food, I wasn’t paying rent or anything. I only needed internet connection. Life was merry. My alcoholism ghost returned. I started drinking heavily. 

One day, I was so drunk that I peed in the living room. My mum was so mad.  She threw me out. I rented a small apartment near her place. I was still drinking while working as a freelance writer online.  After three months, I was unable to pay rent again.  I was in debt. At that time all my drinking partners had good jobs. There was a big hospital and school around. Most of the people I drank with were either teachers, nurses or doctors. I was drinking to impress them I think. I never drank anything cheap. 

Because of lack of self-discipline, I was always the first to arrive in the bar and the last to leave. I was now referred to as the daily drinking officer. My mum didn’t know much about my drinking because she was always at work. She thought I had changed. I used to creep into her house and steal food. I am really ashamed.  I would pretend I was picking something or wanted to help her in some task yet all I wanted was food.

 Another Mistake

They say fools make the same mistake. I wouldn’t want to call myself a fool but once again I took my laptop to a shylock after having trouble with my landlord. Someone had promised me money. I couldn’t wait. I promised the shylock to pay back the laptop when the guy that promised me pays. I never got to take it back.

“Somebody broke into my house and stole my laptop.” I announced to my mum. She was really mad. I don’t know whether she believed it but she is always understanding. 

 She called her sister, who lived in Mombasa. Kenya’s second capital city and asked her to help me get a job there.  I had promised her that I would change if I land a new job.

Within a week, I was in Mombasa. Mombasa is a coastal town full of life. I had always dreamed of living there. I got employed in a garments factory as a production clerk. My job was to record hourly productions in specific departments. The job wasn’t paying much. It paid the minimum basic salary.  The basic minimum salary here at that time was $70 per month.  I didn’t like it at all. Besides, most of the employees were semi illiterate. They were very comfortable with the pay.

To earn more money, you had to work for extra ours. It could get your salary to around $110. Nevertheless, I put in my best. I disliked it because to get enough money, I had to work late and on weekends too. It was during the world in Russia. I even missed a couple of games including the final because I was working.

When I went to Mombasa I lived with a cousin but spend most of my time at my aunt’s place. I had to pretend that I didn’t drink. She didn’t know me too well and we didn’t share personal stories. We worked in the same company. Nepotism I think. But unlike me, she loved her job.

When I earned my first salary, I moved out and started living alone.  I could now drink as much as I wanted. I had money to buy house hold commodities but for some reason I did not. I lived in a single room and only owned a mattress, a very small one for that matter. It wasn’t even mine. My cousin had lent it to me, Because I wasn’t cooking in my house, I talked to some lady who owned a hotel to allow me to be picking food and paying at the end of the month.

Every of my colleagues did that.  My colleagues soon introduced me to the local drinks. Alcohol harvested from coconut trees. Its white and tasty. It became my favorite because it was also cheap.  I started drinking even during lunch breaks. It was my only motivation of going home after work. I started drinking late and borrowing friends for money to cater for my drinking needs. 

I was so reckless that I never added any valuable item in that house apart from beer and alcohol bottles that served as trophies. I would call friends back home and pretend that eveything was okay. 

 I couldn’t control my drinking at all. I started arriving late for work. I was given a warning letter but I didn’t care.  I started feigning sickness so as to go and drink. My health deteriorated.  I lost weight.

Everybody knew the pay day. We use to receive our hard earned money in cash stapled in brown envelops. The debt collectors – people that lend others money at an interest – were always at the gate to receive you after you got paid. It was a lucrative business for them. . My debts became so much that there is a day I earned but I was still being owed.

 I couldn’t pay rent. It was only $20.  I couldn’t ask for help from home because everyone knew that I was working.  My landlord was crazy. He was always verbally abusing me. One night, after spending time drinking I found  he had placed new padlock on my door.

I had stayed in that house for three months without paying. I had nowhere to go to. The drinking den I was from was already closed. As usual, we were the last customers to leave. To make it worse, it was so cold and raining. All the people I knew, were either married or lived in a small house to fit the two of us. I had nowhere to go to. I slept seated at my door step.

I must have sobered up because of the rain and cold. I couldn’t go to work. I was very dirty. I had lost my phone during one of my drinking sprees so I couldn’t call my supervisor to inform her that I was sick or something.

I met the landlord that day. He could not hear any of my stories. He opened my door and threw my little belongings out. The only valuable thing in that house was my modem. I later traded it for a drink that day. I packed my belongings and put my mattress in a sack. Sorry, my cousin’s and headed to the local drinking den –where we used to drink the coconut drink.

I explained my predicament to our ‘bar attendant” .She was very understanding.  She had a store where she kept the drink after harvesting. She gave it to me and asked me to use it as my house for the moment. Not for free though. I was to be paying her $5 every month. That was very little money but I could not raise it.

I owed everyone including the ‘ bar attendant’. She never bothered me much though.

The store I was using as my house was like a cave. I competed with rats for air. It was a tiny mud-house with holes everywhere. It could become muddy when it rained. The nearest toilet and water point was 200 meters away. Anyway, she really helped me. I am still planning how to repay her. Given life, I will bail her or her family out of poverty. She is a widow.

The sacking

I didn’t show up to work until after three days.  I expected to be sacked, so I arrived late. I knew that even that month’s salary wouldn’t have saved me.  On arrival at my work station, I was sent to the HR office. I was dismissed on arrival by a Chinese who run the company.  His English was bad“ boyi you are many many lazy. Yesterday no come. Go home for good.”  He said. I left with my head held high. I never liked that place anyway. I used to call it a mini prison.

News of my dismissal spread like bush fire. All the people I owed money were looking for me. Luckily, not many people knew where I was living. I never got to meet many of them. 

I was back in my shanty knowing fully that I dint have a job. I personally never informed anyone that I had lost my job. Back at home everyone knew I was okay. My aunt didn’t even inform my mum. She assumed she already knew about it. I didn’t have a mobile phone so there was no communication at all.

 I started helping the ‘ bar attendant’ in her errands. In return she gave me free food and free alcohol. I did this for like two months. I think that is when I really lost weight.

Recovery

One day, I decided to call my mum. I informed her that I didn’t have a phone. She was so happy to hear my voice. She had not heard from me in the last six months. She knew at once that I must have been drinking and in trouble. She wanted to help me. She sent to me some little money and a phone. Later, she sent me a ticket to go back home. She couldn’t send me the money to buy for the ticket by myself. Both of us knew that I might not board the bus.

When I arrived home, everyone was surprised to see me. I was thin. It’s the thinnest, I have ever been. That was in Sept, 2018.  I weighed 65kgs. I am now at 87kgs. My family took good care of me. I started seeing a counselor who has helped me to recover from alcohol dependency. 

This is Part 1 of a 2 part story. See Part 2 here.