The Metanoia Memoir : From Fentanyl to Freedom

Nick Warnke
Nov 23
45 min read

For over a decade, I wandered in the shadow of addiction, teetering on the precipice of death more times than I care to remember, only to be pulled back from the abyss by the hands of first responders after each harrowing overdose. It took years of painful reflection to uncover the deeper roots of my affliction. Countless in-patient stays, out-patient programs, methadone and suboxone treatments, and twelve-step groups became familiar territories in my relentless struggle to break free. Despite my efforts, sobriety seemed an elusive dream.

November 23rd, 2019, that is when I started my new life. I can say that I have learned much from the journey—about resilience, the depths of human suffering, and the possibility of transformation. With the perspective that time and distance afford, I turn to the journals I kept throughout those years—testaments to my battle with addiction. Through these writings, I hope to unravel the emotional turmoil, the relentless cravings, and the gradual awakening that led me, finally, to a life unshackled from opiate dependence. It is my sincerest hope that, in reflecting on these dark chapters, I can offe r insights into the long and painful road to recovery.

The opioid crisis has been silently ravaging our society, transcending social, economic, and cultural barriers. Fentanyl, a powerful synthetic opioid, has made its way into the United States in alarming quantities, primarily due to lax border policies. As a result, the supply of illegal drugs has skyrocketed, and communities across the country have been left to grapple with the devastating consequences.

From the struggling and the prosperous to the renowned, heroin has inflicted widespread suffering across the nation, leaving behind a trail of pain and devastation. Heroin and Fentanyl are relentless adversaries, showing no regard for age, race, or gender. Over the past 50 years, some of the most celebrated figures have fallen victim to opioid abuse: Michael Jackson, Elvis, Prince, Heath Ledger, Marilyn Monroe, John Belushi, River Phoenix, Chris Farley, and Janis Joplin. These individuals are just a few of the many who have been lost to opioid and heroin overdoses, each representing a life cut tragically short.

In the year 2023, the United States witnessed a grim tally of 107,543 lives lost to drug overdoses, with a large portion of these deaths linked to fentanyl, a powerful and deadly synthetic opioid. Though this crisis shows a slight respite from the previous year, it remains a relentless public health emergency, claiming a life every 4.5 minutes (CDC).

"The Metanoia Memoir: From Fentanyl to Freedom", a personal chronicle woven into the fabric of this broader epidemic. It is a narrative of despair turned to hope, of plunging into the abyss of addiction and clawing my way back through faith and resilience. As we journey through the darkest recesses of my past, you will witness how I navigated some of the most difficult trials of my life and how I was guided to the light of truth.

Learn how I emerged with new eyes to see all of the deceptions and the lies that are slowly rotting our society from the inside out. Transformed by a profound spiritual awakening, filled with a renewed sense of purpose. God truly was the only way, for years I could quote bible verses, show up to church and look the part, but I never truly had the faith and trust in God to give him anything more than the right words at the right time to the right people. Little did I know he was calling me in to a deeper and more intimate truth than I could have ever imagined possible. Insights I could have never dreamed of 5 years ago.

Chapter 1 : The Journey Begins

A Glimpse into My Childhood

Growing up in a loving, middle-class family, my childhood was filled with laughter, sports, and unforgettable memories. Our home, situated on a beautiful lake, served as the perfect playground for a young and adventurous spirit like mine. From sunrise to sunset, my days were spent exploring the outdoors, swimming, fishing, and boating. My parents provided me with every opportunity to develop my interests and pursue my passions, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

As a child, I was eager to try out every sport available in my hometown. From football to baseball, karate, and hockey, I was determined to find my true passion. Eventually, it was hockey that captured my heart, and it became my sole focus throughout my childhood years.

The most pivotal person in my life during those formative years was undoubtedly my mother, Robyn. She was my biggest supporter, always standing up for me, even when she knew I was in the wrong. I recall one particular instance when I was caught playing with matches in the woods near our house. When confronted by a neighbor kid, my mother swiftly came to my defense, imparting a valuable lesson about loyalty and trust. This is just one of the countless examples of her unwavering love and support.

My mother was also instrumental in instilling a strong sense of faith and spirituality in our lives. She ensured that my brother and I attended our Catholic faith formation classes and ultimately received the sacrament of Confirmation. To me, my mother is nothing short of a saint – the best woman I have ever known.

As I reflect on my childhood, I realize how these early experiences have shaped the person I am today. The love and guidance of my family, my passion for sports, and my strong sense of faith have all played a significant role in my journey. In the chapters that follow, I will delve deeper into my story, exploring the challenges and triumphs that have led me to where I am today. Join me as I share my experiences, insights, and lessons learned along the way.

One of my earliest childhood memories dates back to when I was just three years old, and it’s a memory that has stayed with me throughout my life. At that time, I had developed a peculiar habit of shoplifting – specifically, stealing packs of gum from the local grocery store. My first transgression was met with a firm spanking from my dad, which, to my surprise, didn’t have the intended effect on me. Instead of learning my lesson, I found myself caught in the act again just a week later.

Recognizing that a different approach was needed, my mom took matters into her own hands. With tears streaming down my face and cries of “I don’t want to go to jail,” she drove me to the police station. My heart raced as we entered the building, unsure of what lay ahead.

Inside the station, I was led to a police officer who took the time to sit down with me and discuss the importance of honesty and the consequences of stealing. He explained why stealing was wrong and the potential repercussions of continuing down that path. As a young child, this experience was both humbling and frightening. It was a stark reminder of the potential consequences of my actions.

Remarkably, that visit to the police station marked the end of my brief foray into kleptomania. The lesson I learned that day, coupled with my mother’s unwavering support and guidance, left an indelible mark on me. Looking back, I can appreciate how this early childhood memory helped shape my character and instill a strong sense of right and wrong in me.

Among those earliest memories of my childhood, there is one that stands out as vividly as a dream that lingers long after waking. I was but three years old, and already the stirrings of rebellion had taken root within me. My peculiar misdeed at the time was shoplifting—an innocent yet mischievous act of stealing packs of gum from the local grocery store. My first crime was met with swift justice in the form of a spanking from my father, though the sting of his discipline did not have the desired effect. Within a week, I found myself once again succumbing to the temptation, stealing yet another pack of gum.

It was then that my mother, in her wisdom, took matters into her own hands. With tears streaming down my face and the terrified cry of “I don’t want to go to jail” upon my lips, she drove me to the police station. My heart pounded as we stepped into that place of authority, the weight of my small transgressions suddenly feeling enormous.

Inside, I was brought before a police officer who, with patience and kindness, took the time to sit with me. He spoke of honesty, of the gravity of stealing, and the consequences that might follow if I continued down such a path. For my young soul, it was both a humbling and terrifying encounter, one that impressed upon me the reality of consequence and the importance of walking a righteous path.

From that moment forward, my brief dalliance with theft came to an abrupt end. The lesson I learned that day, coupled with my mother’s unwavering love and guidance, left a mark upon my heart that would never fade. In looking back, I see how this early experience helped shape my moral compass, grounding me in a sense of right and wrong that would guide me through the stormy seas of life.

In the early years of my life, I came to believe that anger and raised voices were simply the language of the world. Yelling seemed to me as natural as the wind through the trees, and I accepted it as a common thread woven into the fabric of existence. This belief seeped into the corners of my childhood, shaping my behavior and coloring my relationships with others. It was only much later, with the clarity that time and reflection bring, that I began to see how deeply these patterns had affected me.

As I delve further into the tapestry of my past, I feel compelled to introduce you to my father, a man of contrasts—a soul with a sharp sense of humor and a caring heart, though his love was often concealed behind a veil of frustration. He was a man of complexities, one who seemed to carry the weight of unseen burdens, often manifesting as anger and yelling, sometimes without apparent cause. My mother, steadfast and enduring, bore the brunt of these tempests. I have no doubt that, on many occasions, she stepped into the storm to shield my brother and me from its full force, sacrificing her own peace to preserve ours.

In my father's world, affection and validation were currencies traded for achievement. Good grades, triumphs in sports, or any form of success became the tokens by which we earned his approval. For my brother and me, this dynamic forged a competitive spirit, a relentless drive to excel, for it was through accomplishment that we sought his love. Yet, this pursuit of perfection, born of a desire to feel valued, carried with it a weight—a burden that sometimes left us chasing shadows, striving endlessly for a sense of worth that seemed always just beyond reach.

In those formative years, the need for validation shaped us, pushing us toward aggressive ambition and the belief that only through success could we find the affection we longed for. It is a legacy I would carry with me for many years before I would finally begin to unravel its deeper meanings.

In the golden days of my youth, my father would lead my older brother and me into the wilds for hunting trips, a tradition woven into the very fabric of our family. Each November, we would escape the confines of school for a few precious days, venturing north to a stretch of land he owned, about an hour’s drive from home. These trips were not just excursions into the woods, but rites of passage—filled with the camaraderie and quiet competition that only brothers can share. My brother, ever eager and a touch quick on the trigger, was often the subject of good-natured teasing for his missed shots, and our laughter echoed long after the hunts had ended.

There was one year, however, that remains etched in my memory, a moment suspended in time when fortune smiled upon me. We were out hunting with my father, and I took down a magnificent 10-point white-tail buck—worthy of any wall. The stand I sat in was nestled along old railroad tracks that bordered a forgotten pasture, a relic of a farmer’s labor now abandoned. To one side, a patch of woods; to the other, a sprawling soybean field stretched toward the horizon.

As the evening light began to fade, casting a soft glow across the landscape, I caught sight of the buck—a majestic creature emerging from the trees, its massive frame moving steadily into the open field, about 200 yards from where I sat. Though it wandered onto land not our own, it was a weekday, and no other hunters roamed these parts. My father had already given me his blessing to take the shot if a worthy buck appeared, and this one, with its regal antlers, was surely that.

With a mixture of excitement and nerves, I readied my .308 pump-action Winchester, propping the rifle on my knee and lifting my leg onto the bench for stability. Through the scope, I saw the full glory of the buck’s rack, and my heart raced in anticipation. In my eagerness, I almost missed my chance—forgetting to flick off the safety. Yet this small mistake proved a blessing, forcing me to pause, breathe, and steady myself. I aimed carefully behind the buck’s shoulder, adjusting for the distance as it stood broadside, unaware of the fate about to unfold.

As I exhaled, I squeezed the trigger. In that fleeting moment, I was not the shaky, excitable boy perched in a deer stand but a figure in a grand, cinematic tableau—perhaps like a sniper in Saving Private Ryan, cool and composed. The reality, of course, was far more chaotic, my heart pounding as the shot rang out and smoke clouded the air. Yet when the smoke cleared, there it was—the buck, fallen where it had stood.

In the thrill of the moment, I couldn’t contain myself. I shouted into the evening air, my voice carrying a mix of joy and disbelief, punctuated by a few colorful exclamations. It remains one of the most cherished memories of my youth, a moment when the hunt and all it symbolized came to fruition, wrapped in the bond of father, brother, and the wild.

I called my father from the deer stand, unable to contain the thrill of the moment. He was positioned across the railroad tracks, immersed in his own hunt. Normally, I would have waited until dusk to break the silence, but my exuberant shouts had already reached him. We agreed to end the day’s pursuit early. My father’s excitement mirrored, and even exceeded, my own, and to this day, that moment remains one of my most cherished memories from childhood.

In reflecting upon those days, I now see how my father’s ways of communication and behavior shaped me in both light and shadow. He instilled within me a relentless drive to succeed, a tireless work ethic that carried me far, yet beneath this drive lay the seed of doubt—the haunting sense that no matter how great the achievement, it was never quite enough. As I journey deeper into the recesses of my past, peeling back the layers that surround my struggle with addiction, I hope to illuminate how these early influences set the stage for the challenges I would later face. By sharing these reflections, I seek to offer a window into how childhood experiences shape and mold the essence of who we become, and how, through recognition and confrontation of these influences, we may finally break free from the chains that bind us.

My relationship with my brother, Junior, was fraught with tension and misunderstanding from the very beginning. Four years my senior, Junior possessed a quiet, serious demeanor, a stark contrast to my lively and outgoing nature. Our differences created a subtle dissonance between us, and the atmosphere at home was often charged with unspoken rivalries.

I have long believed that Junior harbored a certain resentment toward me, a feeling that simmered beneath the surface. I was the younger son, showered with attention for my achievements in sports and academics, and I often wondered if, in his eyes, I had somehow siphoned away some of the love and admiration that was once his alone. My successes, though celebrated, may have deepened the distance between us, casting long shadows over our bond.

Though we bickered and argued incessantly, there existed an unspoken code—one that forbade striking each other in the face. Our fights, when they flared, were confined to blows to the arm or leg. And since Junior, with his larger frame, had the upper hand, I often relied on stealth and speed to make my stand. For the most part, we could barely stand the sight of each other, and Junior’s disdain was particularly sharp when I attempted to insert myself into his world.

He despised it when I tried to mingle with his friends, and I was rarely, if ever, allowed to join him when he spent time with his buddies.

Despite the undercurrents of rivalry and conflict, our relationship, like so many others, was shaped by forces we could not yet name. Looking back, I see the tension, but also the bond that lay hidden beneath, shaped as much by competition as by love, the silent and complex threads that wove our lives together.

I believe that, at times, Junior carried a quiet resentment toward me, a bitterness that subtly threaded through our childhood. Much of the attention in our family seemed to fall upon me, with my achievements in sports and academics drawing frequent praise from our parents. I often wondered if Junior felt, from the moment of my birth, that I had taken from him a portion of the love and admiration that was once solely his.

Despite the constant bickering that filled our days, there was an unspoken code of honor between us: never strike the other in the face. Our skirmishes were limited to punches on the arm or leg, and since Junior was always larger and stronger, I had to rely on my quickness and cunning to hold my ground. Most of the time, we could hardly stand to be in the same room, and Junior especially despised it when I tried to follow him into his social circles. Rarely was I permitted to join him and his friends, an exclusion that deepened the chasm between us.

It seemed that no matter how much effort my parents poured into keeping me in line, I was perpetually in trouble—whether for getting into fights at school, clashing with Junior, or stubbornly refusing to complete my homework. I was a source of endless mischief, a force of rebellion that my parents struggled to contain.

In hindsight, it’s clear that the turbulent relationship between my brother and me was a formative one. As the years passed, we gradually learned to navigate our differences, coming to appreciate the distinct qualities that each of us possessed. Though our bond was strained in our early years, time has softened the edges, and we have come to understand that family, with all its complexities, remains an irreplaceable treasure.

One particular incident that remains etched in my memory is a prank gone awry—my attempt at vengeance against Junior. I had devised a plan to place a thumbtack on the toilet seat, fully expecting my brother to fall victim to it. But, as fate would have it, it was my father who bore the brunt of my mischief. The scheme backfired, earning me a swift scolding and grounding, but over the years, the memory has transformed into one of those humorous stories my family loves to retell—an amusing relic of my youthful defiance.

My rebellious nature, it seems, was ingrained in me from an early age, woven into the very essence of who I was. My childhood was marked by such acts of mischief and defiance, small rebellions against the world around me. Yet, looking back, I see how these moments, while challenging for my parents, also offered invaluable lessons that helped shape the person I would one day become. As I continue to recount my journey, I hope to explore how these experiences not only influenced my formative years but also laid the groundwork for the struggles I would face later in life—struggles with addiction, and the long, winding path toward recovery.

As I stepped into the threshold of junior high, it marked a pivotal chapter in my life—a period of transformation and profound self-discovery. Junior high school unfolded before me like a vast, uncharted world, where I navigated the trials of adolescence while striving to carve out my own identity. It was during this time that I began to explore the deeper currents of my strengths and vulnerabilities, unearthing within myself a newfound passion: boxing. At the age of twelve, after much persistence, I persuaded my parents to allow me to join a local boxing gym. Inspired by the indomitable spirit of the Rocky films, I carried within me the dream of one day rising to the ranks of a world champion.

As a child, I had always harbored a natural inclination toward aggression, and boxing became the perfect outlet through which I could channel that restless energy and untamed spirit. It was in the ring that I discovered a powerful link between the affection and attention I received from others and my performance—both in life and in sport. The more I succeeded, the more validation I felt, and this desire to prove myself drove me forward.

In the gym, I honed my skills with relentless dedication, my passion for the sport deepening with every punch, every bout. As I trained and began to enter competitive matches, I saw my abilities sharpen and my confidence soar. This passion for boxing not only shaped my identity but also profoundly impacted my relationship with my father. Wherever we went, he would introduce me with pride swelling in his voice, “This is my son—the boxer.” His pride in my accomplishments filled me with a deep sense of validation, a confirmation that my efforts, both inside and outside the ring, were not only seen but celebrated.

In those moments, as I stood in the ring or under the approving gaze of my father, I felt a sense of achievement that went beyond the physical—it was a recognition of who I was becoming, shaped by my struggles and fueled by my desire to succeed.

As I continued through junior high, the lessons I learned from boxing began to shape other aspects of my life. It taught me discipline, perseverance, and the importance of setting goals. These lessons not only helped me excel in boxing but also contributed to my personal growth during those critical years of adolescence. The boxing ring became my sanctuary, where I learned to face my fears and push beyond my limits.

Looking through the lens of all that I know now, it becomes clear how vital that period was in shaping the path that would lead to both the trials that awaited me and the strength to endure them. It was during those formative years that I discovered my passion for boxing and competition, and in doing so, I tasted the sweet joy of earning the pride and affection of those around me—family and friends who stood by me as I pursued my dreams. Their support in the heat of my battles, both inside and outside the ring, became a source of strength, a beacon that guided me through the tumult of my youth.

As the years passed and I grew older, I carried those early lessons with me, both the light and the shadow of them. They shaped my character, becoming the framework through which I faced the challenges that life still throws upon my path. The joy of accomplishment, the hunger for validation, and the darker undercurrents of perfectionism all intertwined, guiding me—sometimes toward greatness, and other times, into the depths of struggle.

Yet in both, I found the elements that forged who I am today, a soul still journeying, still learning, but ever grounded in the echoes of those early days.

It’s worth noting that boxing runs deep in my blood, a thread woven through the history of my father’s side of the family. My great-great-grandmother, on his side, immigrated to the United States in the early 1900s from Catanzaro, Calabria, at the southernmost tip of Italy. One of my uncles used to joke about the region, saying it was “the tip of the boot that kicks the Sicilians in the ass.” Four of my great-uncles were boxers, each of them carrying the family’s fighting spirit into the ring, and one among them stood out—he became the Upper Midwest Golden Gloves Champion in 1939, a title that echoed through the family’s history like a badge of honor.

For me, life as a boxer brought with it a profound sense of accomplishment, a thrill in mastering a craft that felt as much a part of me as the blood in my veins. Every grueling training session, every bruise and bead of sweat, was a step forward in my growth as a fighter. The boxing gym became my second home, and the fellow fighters within it, my extended family.

The rhythm of my life became entwined with the tournaments I entered, the weekends turning into small family vacations as we traveled to competitions. I remember one year, in particular, when we all stayed at a resort near one of the Native American reservations, close to where I was competing for the Minnesota State Junior Olympic Championship in 2001.

There is one memory, vivid and etched in my mind, from not long after my father first began bringing me to the gym. One day, he challenged me in a way I hadn’t expected: he told me to make the other boy cry in the ring. It struck me as an unusual request, but the reward—Dairy Queen ice cream every day for a week—was too tempting for a boy like me to resist.

That evening, when I stepped into the ring to face my opponent, something inside me stirred. I summoned every ounce of strength, every drop of determination I had. With each punch, I pushed myself harder, driven by both the promise of victory and the unspoken desire to prove myself. Relentless in my attack, I felt the thrill of power coursing through me, and in that moment, the ring became a crucible, shaping me into something more.

In the second round, the other boy’s defenses began to falter, and, at last, he crumbled, tears streaming down his face. I still recall the triumphant look on my father’s face, the way his laughter rang out as he cheered for me, proud of what I had accomplished. That night, as we sat in Dairy Queen, his laughter continued to echo in my ears—a sound that would linger long after the ice cream had melted.

As the years passed, that story became one of my father’s favorites, something he would recount with great amusement at family gatherings or to anyone willing to listen. Yet, for me, it was more than just a tale of childhood mischief; it marked a turning point in my journey as a boxer. It was the moment I realized, with startling clarity, that I was truly good at something—that the hours of training, the sweat and struggle, had forged a skill within me.

The powerful sense of accomplishment that surged through me that summer fueled my passion to keep pushing, to keep improving. It became the fire that drove me to compete with some of the greatest teenage athletes in the country, as I set my sights on new heights, determined to rise through the ranks of the sport that had become my life.

By the time I reached eighth grade, I had claimed the Junior Olympic State title two years in a row, a triumph that earned a proud place in the local newspaper. My victories in the ring not only filled me with confidence but also cast a certain reputation over me, even beyond the walls of school.

I became known as the tough kid who had won the State Championship at the Minnesota Junior Olympics—the one no one dared to cross. I soaked in the admiration, reveling in the image I had built. But, as life so often has a way of doing, it wasn’t long before I was taught one of its most valuable lessons—the humbling power of a good ass whooping.

This newfound status, forged in the crucible of victory, drew me toward what I then perceived as “the cool crowd.” These were the kids who seemed to possess an effortless confidence, a magnetic charisma that placed them at the center of our small suburban world. They were the gatekeepers of social belonging, and being included in their plans—invited to their parties—was a thrill that stirred something deep within me. It was as though I had gained entry to an exclusive realm, one that held the promise of acceptance, validation, and significance.

In hindsight, through the lens of Jungian thought, I can now see that this desire to be included among the popular and admired reflected a deeper psychological yearning—the need to reconcile the opposing forces within myself. My identification with this group, many of whom would later drift into the archetypal role of the "Stoner," was a manifestation of the shadow aspect of my psyche. The shadow, that dark, unconscious part of the self, often seeks expression through the very behaviors or groups we find alluring yet dangerous. The "cool crowd," with its nonchalance and budding rebellion, represented the forbidden, the unspoken desires within me, the part of myself that sought freedom from the rigid structures of competition and achievement.

During those formative years—grades 7 through 9, a period marked by the duality of adolescence—I straddled two worlds. On one hand, I continued to pursue hockey and boxing with fervor, disciplines that gave structure to my life and nurtured my desire for excellence. On the other hand, I was drawn toward the subtle rebellion of this social group, the nascent “Stoners,” who hadn’t yet fully embraced their future identities but already embodied an undercurrent of defiance. This tension, between the world of athletic discipline and the allure of a more carefree existence, mirrored the inner conflict of my own developing psyche.

The unconscious pull toward the "cool crowd" was, in essence, a reflection of the individuation process—the deep and often turbulent journey toward integrating all parts of the self. My athletic pursuits, particularly hockey, which brought me both camaraderie and success, symbolized the conscious aspect of my persona—the side of me that was seen, validated, and rewarded by society. It was within the rigid, goal-driven framework of sports that I found purpose and direction, yet it was the allure of the rebellious, more carefree group that beckoned the deeper, unacknowledged desires of my soul.

One of my fondest memories from this time was a hockey tournament where I played some of the best games of my life. In that moment of peak performance, I felt fully aligned with my conscious self—the hero archetype, striving for victory, seeking recognition, and basking in the approval of those around me. Yet, beneath the surface, another narrative was unfolding.

The desire to belong to the "cool crowd" was an attempt to integrate the shadow—to explore the parts of myself that longed for acceptance beyond the rink and the ring, to be seen not only as an athlete but as a whole person, with flaws, vulnerabilities, and desires that did not fit neatly into the persona I had cultivated.

It was a time of both joy and tension, a dance between the light of recognition and the darkness of self-doubt, where the archetypes of the hero and the shadow clashed and intertwined. Looking back, I now see how these early dynamics set the stage for the struggles to come, as I would later confront the deeper forces within myself that had been left unintegrated, waiting to surface in more destructive ways.

That weekend, I felt as though I stood at the summit of the world. We claimed the first-place championship, and I managed to achieve two shutouts—two entire games without allowing the opposing team to score a single goal. As captain of my team, a sense of pride swelled within me as I skated out to collect the trophy, the embodiment of our collective victory.

The memory remains vivid, etched in my mind like a scene from a dream. We Are the Champions by Queen echoed across the rink, courtesy of a hockey mom who had brought a boombox to the event. Her enthusiasm swept through the crowd like wildfire, and as we stepped off the ice, I was met with a standing ovation—the first of my life—from the people in our section. Their applause, their smiles, all seemed to solidify my belief that success equaled admiration.

In that moment, I basked in the warmth of their approval. The attention I received that day fed into a growing conviction—that as long as I performed well, I would be liked, accepted, even celebrated. My identity began to fuse with this notion, a belief that my worth was tied to my ability to excel. Yet, looking back through the lens of experience, I now recognize the subtle danger in that mindset. It led me to place a crushing weight of expectation upon myself, as though failure would strip me of the very acceptance I craved. It was the beginning of a pattern, one that would take years to fully unravel.

Despite the challenges this mindset posed, I am grateful for the memories and experiences my junior high years provided. Those formative years, though fraught with trials, planted the seeds of lessons that have stayed with me throughout my life—lessons in perseverance, hard work, and self-belief. Yet, it was also during this time that I first encountered alcohol, a discovery that seemed innocent enough then, but which I now realize marked the beginning of habits that would later grow into far more dangerous patterns.

In the haze of adolescence, alcohol became a way to navigate the complexities of dating, relationships, and the insecurities that came with them. What began as simple teenage experimentation soon evolved into a means of escape—a way to silence the pressures that weighed on me. Looking back, I wish I had recognized the warning signs earlier, the subtle shifts in my behavior that signaled something deeper stirring beneath the surface. But in the moment, I was too consumed by the desire to fit in, to maintain my place among my peers, to see what was happening to me.

One memory stands out vividly from that time, the summer after eighth grade when my friend Benny and I decided to test the limits of alcohol. I had stolen a liter of Windsor Canadian whiskey from my parents' liquor cabinet, and after they went to sleep, we poured ourselves two large glasses with just a splash of soda. We were naive, unaware of the storm we had unleashed. Within minutes, the alcohol hit us, and we sat down to watch a movie, blissfully ignorant of the consequences soon to come.

When my brother came home half an hour later, he immediately knew something was wrong. As I stumbled through weak denials, Benny began to vomit uncontrollably, slurring his words and fading in and out of consciousness. Panic gripped the room as my brother rushed to wake our parents. The scene that unfolded was one I will never forget—my dad, wide-eyed with horror as he saw the nearly empty whiskey bottle, and my mom, frantically calling 9-1-1. Paramedics, first responders, and police officers filled the house, drawn by the dangerous situation we had created for ourselves.

I was escorted to the bathroom, where I sat by the toilet as EMTs fought to stabilize Benny in the living room. His screams as they tried to insert a breathing tube still echo in my mind. We were both rushed to the hospital in separate ambulances. Benny had his stomach pumped, and that night became a harsh lesson in the dangerous allure of alcohol.

For the rest of that summer, I was confined to the house, and it was months before Benny and I could hang out again. Just weeks after the incident, I developed shingles on half of my face—a painful manifestation of the trauma and stress from that night. At the time, I believed I was being punished by God, that I deserved the suffering for my reckless behavior. In hindsight, I no longer see it that way. I think it was a warning, a glimpse of the darker path that alcohol and substances could lead me down. But the lesson, hard-earned though it was, would not be one I fully heeded.

As I reflect on those years, I often wonder how different my life might have been had I never touched alcohol. It’s a question that lingers in the background of my mind, haunting yet unanswerable.

Around the same time, I also began to feel the physical and emotional toll of boxing. Multiple head injuries and concussions left their mark, each one adding to the growing strain on my body and mind. My father, ever the disciplinarian, continued to push me to go to the gym every day, but the constant beatings and the migraines that followed started to erode both my passion for the sport and my confidence in myself. I began to wonder who I was without boxing—what would remain of me if I could no longer fight? Would my friends still be there? Would my identity crumble if I stepped away from the ring?

One match, in particular, changed everything. Brody, a skilled and experienced boxer, had always made sparring with him a daunting experience. One day, I landed a hard punch, and it enraged him. What followed was a brutal onslaught. I can’t remember if I left the ring before the bell or if the coaches intervened, but I stumbled to the back of the gym, my head throbbing and my vision blurred.

My dad quickly realized that something was seriously wrong and rushed me to the ER. Sitting in the waiting room, I felt nauseous, heaving into a garbage can as waves of pain radiated through my skull. My vision was distorted, with spots clouding my focus, and as I tried to read the paperwork before me, the words swam on the page, familiar yet incomprehensible. It was a terrifying moment, not knowing whether these symptoms would be permanent or if I would fully recover.

The doctors confirmed my worst fears: I had contusions on my brain—bruises and scar tissue from the repeated trauma I had endured. It was a sobering diagnosis. My mother, who had always supported my boxing, finally put her foot down, insisting that my father could no longer force me to train. That moment was a turning point. I walked away from boxing, at least for a time, and turned my attention toward popularity, partying, and the fleeting thrill of high school life.

For a while, the ring was behind me. But the lessons, the scars, and the temptations that had begun to take root during those formative years would continue to shape my path in ways I could never have anticipated.

My confidence was utterly shattered after that last beating at the boxing gym. I felt humiliated every time someone asked me when my next boxing match would be, as if I had completely lost my identity. I struggled to regain my sense of self during the last years of junior high, trying to find a new passion that could fill the void left by boxing.

When I turned 16, my parents helped me buy my first car, a 1989 Lincoln Town Car. With its leather seats and blue rag top, I thought I was the epitome of cool. Being one of the few people in my group of friends with their own vehicle, I found myself gravitating towards a new crowd – the “stoners.” Smoking weed became a daily habit for me, as I sought to fit in and regain the sense of identity that I had lost.

I’d pick up my friends, and we’d drive around for hours, smoking and feeling a sense of freedom from the pressures of our teenage lives. At the time, I didn’t realize that this new lifestyle wouldn’t replace the confidence and self-worth I had gained from boxing. Instead, it would lead me into its own set of challenges and struggles, ones I hadn’t anticipated.

As I reflect on these pivotal moments in my life, I realize the importance of finding a healthy and sustainable way to build one’s identity and self-worth. While boxing brought me recognition and popularity, it also took a toll on my physical and emotional health. On the other hand, my newfound lifestyle of chasing popularity through partying and substance use only served to further erode my sense of self. In the end, I learned that true identity and confidence come from within, and that it’s crucial to find a balance between our passions and the desire for external validation.

As I entered into High School I found myself meeting new people and building a new social circle where I wanted to feel accepted and valued. As I began my sophomore year, I was eager to make new friends and create new experiences, and I had a very ambitious and energetic outlook about my life. I got along well with most groups of people around school, never getting into may fights, mostly my boxing reputation from Junior High helped keep people wary of starting fights with me. Smoking Weed became more and more common in my daily life as I began to become friends with others that also smoked and like to party.

It was during this time that a group of four men, three in their mid-twenties and one in his thirties, moved into my neighborhood, right across the street from my parents’ house. Their names were Randall, Kevin, Fred, and Mitch; Randall owned a Window and Door Installation Company, and the rest of the guys all lived with him in the house across the street and worked for his construction company. They worked together, lived together, and partied together. It was the ultimate bachelor lifestyle to my adolescent eyes.

One night, they threw a huge party, and I decided to go over and introduce myself. To my delight, I discovered that they all smoked weed too. They welcomed me with open arms, and before long, I found myself hanging out at their house, smoking weed every day after school. They treated me like an adult, and I reveled in the sense of acceptance and camaraderie that I found among them and their friends.

There were many nights where I would walk across the street to go hang out and gamble in one of the Cash Poker games that we used to have every weekend; it was a good feeling to feel accepted by an older group of Men that had what I perceived to be “Cool” qualities at the time.

Every weekend seemed to be filled with parties, attractive girls, and good times. This new social circle provided me with the sense of belonging and validation that I had been craving since leaving boxing behind. It felt like I had finally found my place, a group of people who accepted me for who I was, and with whom I could enjoy life without the pressures of being a young, competitive athlete.

However, as I continued to spend more time with this new crowd, I soon realized that there were risks and consequences to this new lifestyle. But for the moment, I was just grateful to have found a place where I felt like I belonged.

Dancing with addiction

As I grew closer to my neighbors, I felt a sense of pride in being accepted as an adult among them. Over time, I earned their trust, and our bond grew stronger. They began to share some of their hidden workings with me, and I felt increasingly involved in their lives.

Pretty soon, I discovered that they were drug dealers, primarily dealing in weed. Surprisingly, this revelation didn’t deter me; instead, it piqued my interest. As I continued to hang out with them, they began to give me weed on the front, which I would then take to school and sell to my group of friends.

Before I knew it, I had gained a reputation as “The Plug.” I reveled in my newfound status as a teenage drug dealer, in hindsight I was not smuggling kilos across the border and I was not as one might say a “Big Fish”. But to me, it was a thrill all the same. The attention I would get from people seeking me out to buy a bag of weed seemed to help me cope with my own Ego and the Shame in hanging up the gloves and feeling like I let everyone down.

The first thing I became addicted to was that excitement and the idea of still having a reputation and being able to continue feeling like I was “Popular” . This also came along with a small sense of power and importance that was a form of intoxication of itself. I thought that often the only reason people wanted to hang out with me was to party because I had connections, and this further fed my low self-esteem as well as my pride and ego.

As I continued to sell bags of weed and associate with my neighbors, I became more and more entrenched in this dangerous lifestyle; selling higher quantities, getting product on the “Front” before it was fully paid for and therefore leaving me responsible. Back then I didn’t think about the different things that could happen, I didnt ever stop to question if what I was doing was wrong. I knew it was wrong but its clear that even at an early age, my ability to justify, excuse and pursue illegal activity despite knowing the consequences was a cause for concern that would not be seen fully until the years progressed.

In the end, my pursuit of acceptance and validation would lead me down a path fraught with risks and challenges. My life had taken an unexpected turn after leaving boxing, and now I was navigating uncharted territory. The choices I made during this time would shape the person I would become and ultimately determine the course of my future.

As my reputation selling weed and being a tough guy not to mess with Me grew, I felt the pressure to maintain this facade.

I became more aggressive, getting involved in street fights to assert my dominance and gain even more attention. I had already been in several fist fights during childhood and late teens, it was something that I grew up doing mostly when someone else threw the first punch but unfortunately that was not always the case. I had a twisted sense of entitlement and my Ego was displayed itself in certain circumstances as aggressive, Like it was my job to teach someone a lesson if they Disrespect me.

I’ve often admitted openly, I used to watch Goodfella’s too much ; but before I get into the next section of my Blog with all humor aside, as I go into some of these further accounts, I must warn you that there will be violence and subject matter and content not suitable for young children or those otherwise easily distressed by graphic descriptions of violence, drugs, sex and dark, heart breaking confessions from some of the worst things that I have ever done.

I was so caught up in the image I had created for myself that I couldn’t see the danger I was putting myself in.

One particular fight stands out in my memory, and I’m incredibly lucky that it didn’t land me in legal trouble. At the time, I was pursuing a girl named Ashley, whom I had known since junior high and had been crushing on for years. We rode the school bus together, and our friendship had grown over time to the point where we would were talking to each other daily.

This was before the time of social media and teenagers with camera phones and facetime. When a boy liked a girl he had to do more than creep on her social media and like a certain amount of pictures or send witty messages to a DM in hopes of a reply. It was hours talking on the phone and sitting together on the school bus, it was notes passed in between classes and at the end of the day.

Things were a lot simpler then…Sigh.

However, one of her ex-boyfriends and his friend didn’t take kindly to my interest in Ashley. Her Ex-boyfriend’s friend was at a party in front of a bunch of people and was drunk saying that I was a punk, and he wasn’t scared of me.

He proceeded to pull out his phone and put it on speaker and called my phone number and left me a very colorful message insulting my sexuality, manliness, manhood all of the above, but the words that stuck out in my mind and rung in my ears was the phrase “You’re just a little Bitch”.

This occurred in front of a large crowd of people, some of which I sold drugs to and wanted to maintain my popularity with.

I eventually tracked him down to a dairy queen that incidentally Ashley worked at and was there that night. I hopped in Titanic (My car) with a couple of my friends and a few cars following. In my mind I had a reputation to maintain, and I could not suffer this affront to my name, and I was fighting to maintain respect from everyone around me.

In Hindsight, I was accustomed to allowing other people to put a steering wheel on my back because it was how I got attention and what I perceived as respect. It wasn’t really respect though, it was adolescent excitement and lack of care for the consequences because after all, they were not the ones throwing the punches. I would learn a hard lesson later on in life the seriousness of assaulting another person as well as the risks but that’s going to probably be in part 3 of this series.

It is not my intention by any means to glorify street fighting or violence in general so please do not mistake the account of my past as a reflection on my tolerance of violence or harm to others because I do not promote or encourage assault or other criminal behavior in any way.

In the aftermath of that brawl, I continued to bask in my tough-guy image, unaware of the potential consequences of my actions. The incident only served to fuel my ego and solidify my reputation among my peers. Little did I know, these dangerous behaviors would only lead me further down a path of destruction and heartache.

“It was clear from the very beginning that the other kid did not want to fight me. He apologized and said that he was just kidding around, and He never meant for things to turn into a fight. I told him that he could not expect me to just forget about the things that he said.

After I explained that to him, I just started punching him, and before I knew it, he was covered in blood, and I was kneeing him in the face and finally people pulled me off of him. I was able to construct a very craft lie that placed me there before the other kid and as the story went, I was attacked first and defending myself against the older boy that was in his twenties, and I was only 16.

I got a few of my friends to back up my story and say that they all saw him start the fight and me defend myself. The charges were dropped within a couple of weeks, and I went on with my life feeling like I was invincible."

Nicholas Patrick - April 11th 2005

As I continued to navigate the world of selling weed, Partying, occasionally fighting for the rush and adrenaline. Its clear as I look back now I can see the early roots of low self-esteem despite the facade of confidence I always wore in my youth. I cared too much about what other people thought of me and their opinions mattered too much. I began to lose sight of who I truly was.

My identity had become so wrapped up in this persona that I had forgotten the person I used to be – the teenage boxer who once dreamt of greatness. And as I moved further away from that person, I found myself facing a life filled with uncertainty and regret.

A Downward Spiral

As the weeks turned into months, I became more deeply entrenched in the world of drugs and partying with my neighbors. Our weekends were a blur of booze, weed, and an ever-expanding variety of substances. I began experimenting with ecstasy and cocaine, finding new ways to chase the high I craved. My drug dealing operation grew as well, reaching more people at school and around my hometown.

One fateful day, I found myself with a prescription for Vicodin from a doctor. I had seen my neighbors popping painkillers to enhance their buzz, so I decided to give it a try. The high I experienced from opiates was unlike anything I had ever felt before. It was a warm, happy sensation that made everything in life enjoyable. I quickly became enamored with this new drug and started to abuse my prescription.

Life without the pills just wasn’t the same anymore. I craved the feeling of euphoria and contentment they provided, and it wasn’t long before my prescription ran out.

Desperate for more, I turned to my neighbors for help. They had a contact who worked at a pharmacy and could supply almost any prescription pill I wanted.

Life without the pills just wasn’t the same anymore. I craved the feeling of euphoria and contentment they provided, and it wasn’t long before my prescription ran out.

Desperate for more, I turned to my neighbors for help. They had a contact who worked at a pharmacy and could supply almost any prescription pill I wanted.

My addiction to opiates spiraled out of control. I became increasingly dependent on the pills, and my life began to revolve around them. I was willing to do whatever it took to get my hands on more – even if it meant engaging in risky behaviors or associating with dangerous people.

As I continued down this dark path, I lost sight of the person I once was. The teenage boxer with dreams of greatness was long gone, replaced by a drug-addled, desperate version of myself. My priorities shifted from friends, family, and school to scoring my next fix and maintaining my drug-fueled lifestyle.

This was a turning point in my life – a moment where I could have chosen to seek help and change my ways. But instead, I continued to chase the high, blind to the consequences that awaited me. And as my addiction grew stronger, so too did the darkness that threatened to consume me entirely.

Introduction to Oxycontin

Just when I thought I had experienced the full extent of my addiction, I was introduced to Oxycontin. My friends would crush the pills, turning them into lines that they would snort. Intrigued by their enthusiasm, I decided to give it a try.

The effects were unlike anything I had experienced before. Snorting Oxycontin delivered a faster, more intense high that left me wanting more. It wasn’t long before I was spending sixty to a hundred dollars a day on the pills, with my expenses only increasing over time.

In those early years of my addiction, I managed to keep my drug use a complete secret. No one, aside from my neighbors, knew that I was using and abusing prescription pills on a daily basis. I continued attending school and maintained a semblance of a normal life, but deep down, I knew that I was losing control.

My days became consumed by the pursuit of my next high. Every decision I made revolved around my addiction, and I grew increasingly detached from my former life. My relationships with friends and family suffered as I prioritized my drug use above all else.

As my addiction to Oxycontin deepened, the consequences began to manifest. My once-promising academic performance declined, and my dreams for the future faded into the background. I became a shadow of my former self, lost in the haze of addiction.

But even as I spiraled further into the darkness, I couldn’t see the full extent of the damage I was causing. I refused to acknowledge the reality of my situation and convinced myself that I was in control. It would take a wake-up call of the highest magnitude to break through the fog of denial and force me to confront the truth about my addiction.

Despite my growing addiction, I managed to maintain a low profile throughout my senior year. I kept up appearances with my teachers and stayed out of trouble with law enforcement. I even graduated early with a 3.4 GPA, which seemed like a victory considering the extent of my drug use.

After graduating, I started working with my neighbors as a laborer for their window installation company. The job provided me with a steady income, which only served to fuel my addiction further.

First Love

Around six months before graduation, I started dating Ashley. We were inseparable, and she effortlessly slipped into the rhythm of my life—partying, smoking weed, and popping pills. She was the perfect companion, yet oblivious to the darker layers beneath the surface. I was careful to keep her unaware of the depth of my Oxycontin abuse, constructing a wall of secrecy between us. It was a silent pact I made with myself—never let her see the truth.

I became a master of deception, not just with her, but with everyone around me. I would sneak away to feed my addiction, carefully orchestrating my disappearances and always covering my tracks. I maintained the illusion of control, wearing the mask of normalcy. As our relationship deepened, so did the shadow of my deceit. It clung to me, silent but ever-present, a constant reminder of the truth I was too afraid to reveal.

But over time, the weight of that hidden life began to erode my sense of self. Maintaining the facade became exhausting, as I juggled the demands of my addiction alongside the responsibilities of life and love. The pressure mounted, and I felt the cracks widening in the carefully crafted illusion I had built. The more I tried to control it, the more I felt it slipping through my fingers.

I knew, deep down, that I couldn’t keep this charade going forever. The truth—dark and insistent—was pushing closer to the surface, threatening to unravel everything. But the thought of exposing my addiction, of admitting my weakness to those I loved, was too terrifying to confront. The fear of judgment, of losing everything, kept me trapped in a prison of my own making.

In the end, the weight of my secrets and the relentless pull of my addiction would inevitably drive me to a breaking point. I was moving toward disaster, blinded by denial but aware, somewhere in the depths of my being, that the collision was coming. The truth would not stay buried for long, and when it finally emerged, it would tear apart the fragile world I had built. It was only a matter of time before everything came crashing down around me.

Success and Deception

The summer after my high school graduation, I turned 18 and started working at a collection agency as a debt collector. It didn’t take long to realize that my natural ability to persuade and communicate made me a perfect fit for the job. I excelled quickly, finding a strange satisfaction in convincing people to pay up. Success came easily in this new role, feeding a sense of accomplishment that masked the chaos brewing just beneath the surface.

Within four months, I was promoted to assistant manager, and with that came a new closeness to my supervisor—a man who, as it turned out, shared my taste for weed. His casual approach to drug use made it easier for me to slip further into my routine of smoking and snorting pills without drawing attention. I told myself I was managing it well, that I could balance my responsibilities at work and my growing addiction. It was a lie, but one I was willing to believe.

As I started earning more money, my addiction began to solidify its grip. Weed and Oxycontin had become constants in my life, woven into the fabric of my day-to-day existence. I convinced myself that I was sharper, more effective when I was high, as if the drugs somehow enhanced my ability to perform. It became an unspoken rule: stay high, stay productive. For a long time, I maintained this illusion of control, walking a thin line between my professional life and the darkness creeping into every other part of me.

But deep down, I knew I was on borrowed time. The feeling of teetering on the edge grew stronger as success in my career pushed me to conceal my addiction even further. No one knew—not my colleagues, not even Ashley. I became a master of disguise, building a life that looked perfectly put together on the outside while keeping my drug use hidden behind a carefully crafted facade.

The more successful I became, the more fragile that facade felt. I was constantly juggling the appearance of being a driven young professional with the reality of a growing dependence on Oxycontin. Every lie, every hidden pill, every moment of pretending added weight to a precarious structure that I knew, deep down, couldn’t hold up forever. I was walking a tightrope, and the ground below felt closer with every step.

I was living a double life—a successful young professional by day and a drug addict by night. On the surface, I was building a career, making moves, and checking off milestones, but beneath that, I was spiraling deeper into addiction. I knew I couldn’t keep up this duality forever, but the fear of losing everything I had worked so hard for kept me trapped in a cycle of deception. Every lie, every hidden pill, felt like a small betrayal that chipped away at me.

As the months passed, the strain of maintaining the facade grew heavier. The more success I achieved, the harder it became to keep my two worlds from colliding. The cracks were forming, and I knew it was only a matter of time before my carefully constructed illusion would fall apart. I was trapped in a life that looked perfect on the outside, but inside, I was unraveling. The day of reckoning was approaching, and no matter how much I tried to outrun it, I could feel it getting closer.

The Illusion of Stability

As Ashley and I grew closer, we began to build a life together. After she graduated from high school, she joined me at the collection agency, quickly proving herself just as skilled in the job as I was. We were a strong team—both in the office and in our personal lives. From the outside, it must have seemed like everything was falling perfectly into place.

In 2007, we made a big decision: we bought a home together. Along with my brother Junior, we purchased a spacious four-bedroom house, and even had a tenant renting one of the rooms. I couldn’t believe how quickly life seemed to be falling into place. I was paying only $500 a month for my share of the mortgage and was the first among my friends to own a home. To anyone looking in, it must have seemed like I had it all—success, stability, and a future full of promise. But beneath this illusion of stability, the truth was much darker.

On the surface, it seemed like everything was falling into place. I had a solid job, a loving relationship, and a home that symbolized success and stability. It was the kind of life others looked at with admiration, yet beneath that polished exterior, a darker truth was taking root. My addiction to Oxycontin and weed grew in the shadows, a secret I kept hidden from Ashley and everyone else in my life. I wore the mask of achievement while slowly succumbing to the forces that controlled me.

As we settled into our new home, I clung to the belief that I could continue living this double life—navigating my addiction and my responsibilities without either colliding. But even then, a part of me sensed the fragile balance was bound to crumble. I was living in two worlds, and each step forward in my career and relationship felt like a step closer to the edge of a collapse I couldn’t avoid. The pressure of maintaining the illusion grew heavier, a constant tension between who I was pretending to be and the truth lurking within.

It became a delicate dance, one I knew couldn’t last forever. The tightrope I walked was growing thinner, and with every secret pill swallowed, I could feel the ground beneath me tremble. I couldn’t shake the fear that it was only a matter of time before everything unraveled—before the facade I had built so carefully would come crashing down, revealing the darkness I had kept hidden.

New Season – Old Demons

Moving out of my parents' house and into our own home should have been a moment of triumph, a new chapter in my life. But instead, it became the catalyst for my deeper descent. The external move mirrored an internal shift—the weight of adulthood and responsibility brought with it a growing awareness that I was losing control. By the time I was able to admit to myself that I had a drug problem, it felt too late. Shame wrapped around me like chains, tightening with every passing day. I couldn’t bear the thought of exposing my truth to anyone. So, I turned inward, to my journals, pouring out the secrets that I couldn’t share. The pages became my confessional, my only outlet for the growing turmoil inside.

At first, life with Ashley felt like a step into something real and solid. We were building a life together, and I convinced myself that this was adulthood—moving forward, planning a future. I proposed to her, and we settled into a long engagement, giving ourselves time to create the life we envisioned. For a while, everything appeared perfect. I started working at a financial firm, handling personal loans and mortgages. Our house became the place where friends gathered on weekends, and I took pride in the admiration I saw in their eyes. I was only 19 and had already built what many people twice my age hadn’t. But beneath that image, the dark undercurrent of my addiction remained, pulling me further into its grip.

Old demons never stay buried for long. My addiction, while hidden, had never loosened its hold. It crept in the shadows, feeding on my need for control and the growing dissonance between who I pretended to be and who I truly was. I believed I could keep the two worlds separate, that I could manage my addiction without it bleeding into the rest of my life. But as time passed, the illusion of balance began to shatter. The deeper I sank into my addiction, the more it began to corrode every aspect of my existence. I had thought I could build a life of success and security, but I was constructing it on foundations already cracking beneath the weight of my secrets.

My job performance started to slip, and the weight of homeownership, along with the looming wedding plans, began to press down on me. The mounting stress felt unbearable, and I found myself turning to drugs more and more as an escape. Ashley, still unaware of the true depths of my addiction, could sense something was wrong, but she didn’t know how to help. She was concerned, but I kept my secret life locked away behind walls of denial and deceit.

As our relationship continued, the cracks in the carefully constructed facade of our perfect life began to show. The parties that once filled our house with laughter and friends became less frequent. People around us began to notice the subtle shifts in my behavior. I was becoming more withdrawn, more distant, as the weight of my addiction pulled me further away from reality. My relationship with Ashley grew strained, and the connection that had once seemed unbreakable started to weaken.

Behind closed doors, I was using Oxys daily. It was a constant struggle to maintain the different masks I wore, hiding the truth from everyone around me. With each pill I took, I retreated further into myself, drifting away from the life I had worked so hard to build. The more I used, the less important everything else became. Reality was fading, replaced by the fog of my addiction.

Ashley and I began to struggle more, though she had a small sense that I was still using pills. She didn’t realize just how deeply I was consumed by them. Occasionally, she would take pills with me, and in those moments, it didn’t feel like a big deal. But we were both blind to the depth of the damage it was causing. One day, I came home from work, and I could feel something was off. I pressed her, asking why she seemed so distant. After relentless questioning, I learned the truth—she had been having lunch with one of the managers at her job and was cheating on me with him during their breaks.

The anger that surged through me was uncontrollable. I started throwing things across the room, smashing up the living room in a blind rage. The betrayal hit me like a punch to the gut, but it wasn’t just her actions that fueled my outburst—it was everything I had been trying to suppress. All the emotions, the stress, the lies, and the addiction came crashing down in that moment.

We broke up for a few days after the fight, and she stayed at a friend’s house. But eventually, I asked her to come back. The truth was, I couldn’t imagine life without her. I was trapped—emotionally, financially, and mentally. We had a mortgage together, and I couldn’t pay the bills on my own. She was my first great love, and at that point in my life, I didn’t know how to exist without her. I was too dependent on her, and I let her betrayal fade into the background, numbing my feelings with more pills. It was easier to stay together and stay high than to face the reality of the situation.

It was around this time that I turned to journaling as a way to process my emotions. Writing became my only outlet, the place where I could confront the things I was going through. My journals from this period are where the real story of my addiction begins to take shape. In hindsight, I see how clueless and ignorant I was about life back then, how unaware I was of the storm I was caught in. It’s all there in those pages—the denial, the pain, the slow descent into a life I had no idea how to control. Writing gave me clarity, even when I couldn’t face the truth out loud.