My name is Anya, and I’m an alcoholic; I’m also a master in the art of substitution, so I also consider myself to be a recovering addict.

Let me begin by saying that I don’t particularly appreciate talking about the person I was during active addiction. Still, I’ll always come through and speak up when the opportunity arises.

I’ve learned throughout my journey so far that to keep what I have, which is my sobriety, I can’t be selfish and that I need to give it away.

Someone asked me why do I count the days of my sobriety instead of years; I’ll tell you why; when I received my one-year medallion – I had a brief moment of pretentiousness where I thought, 💭 “Well, What Now?”

Starting over isn’t an option; I’m a gamer chick. I had just levelled up to 12 months. No way was I going back to start at the beginning, but I mean, it’s not like they’re giving out 13-month chips.

I had to reevaluate my quality or condition of being humble (where did my humility go?) and bring it back to the basics – One Day At A Time.

Let me dive in because I’m not sure where to start, but I’m going to do my best to focus on my experience, strength and hope.

Here we go:

I’ll start by saying I was a happy kid. I was a spoiled Daddy’s little girl.

Then I turned 3.
Alcohol was an integral part of my life growing up, even though my mother barely drank.
My dad was an abusive drunk, but he never placed a hand on me; well, there was one time when I made the mistake of touching his audio equipment, but I was a curious kid.
Alcohol made him so EVIL to her, and he always called it love.
My mom was his punching bag.
I didn’t know what he was doing was wrong.
I thought 💭 she must’ve been doing something terrible to deserve punishment.
Nobody else said anything about it.
I’ll never forgive myself for thinking this way.

My mom left my dad by escaping him heroically with nothing more than just me and her maiden name.

She never looked back.

She was safe, and she was free; that’s all that mattered. It was just both of us for a while until she met a man. He treated her like gold, bought her flowers, took us to fancy places, and he never raised his voice or fist at her.

My mom was his queen, and I was his little princess.
But then things started to change, let’s say, without the gory details, he began to pay me too much attention.
He told me if I said anything, I would get in trouble, and all the nice things he did for me and my mom would go away.

I believed him; I stayed quiet, and I tried my best to keep silent, but I was deeply disturbed by the time I started talking. When I initially tried to get help, I wasn’t taken seriously. I felt defeated, and I accepted it as my fate.

I’m pretty sure this is when my first addiction, food, manifested. While attending a family function, I was fixing myself a plate-like everyone else was doing when an aunt of mine said, “You need to stop eating so much, sweetie, or you’ll never get a boyfriend” I was nine years old.

I don’t know why she thought to impart that knowledge on a child, but it resonated with me. I thought it would be my ticket to getting away from my mother’s boyfriend.

So I ate, I gorged, and I binged. Food became my salvation; my weight gain did nothing to keep that man away from me, no matter how ugly I tried to make myself look, but at least he always had great food, desserts and treats.

I’m not sure how, but eventually, somebody removed him from my life. I was about 12-13 years old, but by then, he had already done enough damage, my self-worth was nonexistent, and I’d love to be able to say that he was the only person to ever misbehave inappropriately with me, but I can’t.

To say I had a chip on my shoulder would be an understatement.

I was ANGRY

At my mom
At my dad
At my big brother

The world itself desperately disgruntled me.

I started acting out, and with drinking already being such a norm in my everyday life, it was nothing for me to drink and then experiment with recreational drugs; I had to be the life of the party, and I needed reinforcements.

Promiscuity had also entered the equation, I just didn’t care anymore, or so I thought back then.
I became well known for my drinking capabilities. I could drink any man under the table, and I wasn’t afraid to prove it either.

As a grown-up and single mother of two, I found myself very unhappy and, for some reason, figured the answer would be to settle down and get married finally, so I did.

However, marrying another addict because he just happened to be the father of my third child probably wasn’t the most excellent idea.

By the time I became a mother of four, I had dealt with medical complications from diabetes, and I made specific lifestyle changes except for drinking. I still drank; I just picked the spirits with the least amount of carbs to consume. My marriage ended.

It took years to get some semblance of controlled blood sugar, and when my doctor referred me for weight loss surgery, all I heard was a possible cure for diabetes, and right away, I said, “sign me up.”

Being added to the waitlist for a gastric bypass meant I had to attend WLS orientation classes.

No problem, I was at the front of each class being a star pupil because now, since getting married didn’t magically make me happy; I was convinced losing weight would. Yeah, that didn’t work out either.

During one of these classes, the nurse instructor started breaking down the dos and the do nots of life post-surgery.

Consuming alcohol came upon the cautionary list; we were warned about drinking after surgery because tolerance levels are dramatically reduced. The nurse even called having an alcoholic beverage similar to” liquid cocaine.” If she was trying to scare me, she did the exact opposite because my first thought was just how much money I’d be saving if I only had to buy alcohol to get high.

I didn’t take her seriously. After all, I couldn’t get drunk; it was my superpower. I had the surgery. It didn’t take long for me to test that theory, and the nurse was right, and believe me, I was happy she was.

Mostly since I couldn’t eat anymore. At least not the way I was accustomed to eating, without restriction, so I drank; alcoholism went into overdrive, but I had something to prove or a legacy to uphold, so I refused to slow down. I put myself in plenty of unsafe situations to keep the liquor flowing; I’m amazed to this very day that I’m still alive.

The first time someone had their way with my body while I was unconscious, I blamed myself; ashamed of what had obviously happened when I regained consciousness, I grabbed the torn remnants of my clothing and ran all the way home. I never spoke about it to anyone… this is actually the first time I’m even saying this out loud to myself. I was raped.

The second time… it maimed me. This time it wasn’t some random faceless stranger; it was someone I should’ve been able to trust and not hurt me, mostly since my babies were home. After a lot of internal contemplation and convincing from a few people, including eyewitnesses to the assault, I went to the police station to report it.

They didn’t believe me; as a matter of fact, they accused me of having “after sex regrets” because I had one too many. How could I regret what I couldn’t remember?

Two big burly detectives placed me in a windowless room and interrogated me about my claims for hours while they recorded me.

Let that sink in; there’s a video of me in police custody begging them to believe me and my claims of rape. This was just a couple of years ago in 2017.

That “interview” concluded with them telling me they couldn’t do anything.

While I was in custody, one of the detectives called my attacker; the person who was sworn to protect and serve gave the rapist the option to come in and tell his side of the story.

Rapist politely declined.

The detectives told me they did not find enough information to proceed, dropped the case after outing me as a snitch within my own community, and then sent me home.

I drank a full bottle of tequila right there in the parking lot.

I’m pretty sure that’s when I chose to keep drinking until I couldn’t feel or think anymore, which is precisely what I did.

Blackouts became a daily occurrence; although I was losing chunks of time, I quickly learned I wasn’t always passed out but actually still very animated during them. People would tell me stories of my shenanigans from the night before; I would either laugh it off as a funny story or apologize if applicable. Let me tell you that apologies became very relevant.

I tried to stop drinking on my own so many times. I even negotiated different drinking strategies with family and friends, but nothing worked. My health worsened, my liver started failing, I couldn’t digest food anymore, and I was in so much physical pain, but I couldn’t stop despite every disastrous event resulting from drinking.

In my ongoing pursuit of happiness, I convinced myself that getting a new car would be the one-stop solution to making life great again. I’ve always had a car to drive for as long as I could remember, but they were all used vehicles.
During the same year’s holiday season, I was about to turn 40; I treated myself to a brand new SUV with all the bells and whistles.

A few weeks later, I remember being 39 years old, opening gifts with my babies on Christmas day and surrounded with so much love.
The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed, now 40 years old, admitted to the hospital as a patient, and it was a different year.

I tried to kill myself; that’s what they told me. My family and the medical staff told me I wanted to kill myself because no one would let me drink alcohol over the holidays.

They admitted me to the hospital for my own good because they were scared I would succeed in terminating my life, regardless if I drank or not. It was not a voluntary stay.

I’ll joke about it now, especially when anyone questions my sanity; I’ll sarcastically refer to my paperwork that proves they’re not the only ones concerned about my mental faculties either.

Upon my release, I was determined to never drink again. Being forced to detox did something to me; scaring my family like that was my motivator.

I even went and got an addictions counsellor to help me quit; I started meeting with him frequently. We touched on my past during one session, and I remember him asking me if I was fine; I lied and said everything was okay.

As soon as it was over, I went right next door and started drinking anything with an overproof 40% or higher. I started showing up to every session already under the influence; I was somehow convinced that I could manage my drinking by only drinking when I had to meet with the counsellor.

On the eve of my brother’s death anniversary, I almost joined him by wrapping my brand new SUV around a pole.

When I regained consciousness, my only priority was to check if my tequila stash had survived the impact, which I did once I was released from police custody. I was emotionless as I walked past the crushed heap that remained from my barely six months old vehicle, I checked my hiding spots and BINGO, found what I was looking for, and I chugged the whole bottle as if my life depended on it.

I didn’t want to face the circumstances of what was happening around me. I got crafty with sneaking alcohol into my home past my family. For a couple of weeks, I was in and out with blackouts. I saw my mom crying during my second last blackout, which prompted me to call a local detox center.

Things are pretty hazy for me around this time. I know I received a callback saying they found a bed for me at the center. I can recall using that as an excuse to drink excessively and was very defensive about it too. I was determined to make this detox worth it.

My last blackout ended on May 22, 2018; I have no idea when it had started.

I admitted myself into a voluntary program; it felt like I was just starting a lifetime prison sentence.

I spent what felt like an eternity in a windowless room detoxing; it had only been three days. This was worst than the last time. I couldn’t have visitors or treats from a gift shop. It really felt like incarceration.

I thought the DTs (delirium tremens) was going to kill me. I was ready to meet my maker. Through all the seizures and hallucinations, I got down on my knees for the first time in decades and begged my higher power to help me.

Staff from the facility came to me after the third day; if I agreed to sign some document, I would be allowed out of “solitary” and mix with the Centre’s general population.

After spending days trapped in my own head, I would’ve signed anything to get out of there, and I did.

Later that evening, after completing my kitchen duties, I was ordered to go to an AA meeting. I thought I was being pranked and pretended to ignore the staff member. He not so kindly told me to move my ass or get back to the windowless room I had just escaped from; they even had a nickname for it, “The Bubble Room.” Failing to attend the meeting would put me in breach of the agreement I signed earlier that day.

I’m pretty sure at this point, he thought I was batshit crazy because I just started howling with laughter. What he didn’t know was that 12 months before that moment, while I was out bar-hopping with friends, one of them told me that I needed to go to AA – I laughed in his face.

Six months later, my family doctor recommended AA, and it went in one ear and out the other.

Three months after that, the counsellor I was seeing suggested it too, so the irony that I ended up right where I had been dodging for so long due to contractual obligations cracked me right up.

Going back to the “Bubble Room” was not an option; I went to the meeting grudgingly. I planned to take up space in a back corner; I had no interest in participating.

The meeting started; some readings were read; I was mentally comparing them to a cult. The person cheering the session introduced a man as the speaker for the evening. I immediately made a makeshift pillow and got ready to take a nap.

I don’t know when I started paying attention to what the speaker was saying, but I became entranced when I did. This man told his story about when he used to drink, and it felt like he was telling mine.

I was confused; how could this be? I’m a woman; he’s a man; I’m black, and he was white. He was old, and I’m younger than him. How could he possibly be telling my story?

I started listening intently when this feeling came over me; I looked around the room to see if anyone else could see what was wrong with me; I didn’t speak up because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.
I was shaking, tears started streaming down my face, and I felt like shouting out loud but didn’t know what to say. I wouldn’t know until much later that I was having what some would call a spiritual experience.

I had seen or heard about this happening when I attended church as a kid; it didn’t make sense that it happened in such a dismal place like a medically supervised detox facility, but it did. The miracle that was happening was me coming to terms that my life had become intractable and finally accepting that I was powerless to alcohol.

I went into that place, thinking I only needed a break from drinking; I had already mapped out where the closest liquor store was so I could visit as soon as I was discharged.

Now, I was devastatingly coming to the conclusion that I was an alcoholic, which meant that I could never drink again.

After detox, I started hitting a meeting every day, sometimes even 2-3 on the same day. I had met my tribe, like-minded people who understood why I couldn’t stop drinking independently. The fellowship of AA welcomed me with open arms, scratch that it saved me because now I knew I would never be alone again.

As secure as I felt in being a member, I felt just as insecure in myself. I didn’t trust that I would be able to abstain without more help, and I started seeking in-patient treatment; everywhere was full – local or out of town it didn’t matter – there was a waiting list.

One facility stood out to me because of its location; it was walking distance from the biggest dream I had but never accomplished, the university that I aspired to attend since I was a child. I took it as a sign and started calling, emailing and faxing – yes, faxing them every day. I knew the admin staff by their first names because I kept begging them to find me a spot.

Within a couple of weeks, I got the call; a room was available for me. I entered a 28-day rehabilitation program at a place called Homewood Health Centre. I was so scared to be there, the staff there were frightened of me.

Not even one week into my time, after telling a nurse to go fuck himself (I later apologized), I was approached by the medical team overseeing my care.

I received my first lesson in humility; I thought I was favouring them with my presence. They let me know the only reason I had this chance was that the person who was supposed to have my room went back out the day before to use their drug of choice. They wanted to “party” one last time, which did happen; they just didn’t survive.

Instead of kicking me out for verbally abusing a staff member, they let me stay longer to address my anger issues. I was offended by being described as angry – I’m always laughing and cracking jokes to make others laugh, too, so how could I possibly have anger issues.

That extra time actually turned out to be a blessing; Homewood not only specialized in addiction, which I shortly found out. Pretty tough conversations had to be had to find out why I struggled with addiction; events from my past came up, and forgotten memories started to resurface. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I received a new diagnosis. The other specialty is Mental Health.

Upon completion of my now 35-day program, I was sent home. I didn’t want to leave, but it was time. My newfound family gave me the strength and courage I needed to move on with the next chapter of my recovery.

One of the “reasons,” which I now know was an excuse for not getting sober, was no one would like me.

I’m supposed to be the life of the party 🎉 🎈 🎊. How can I do that if I don’t drink?

When this journey started, I first had to change that mindset, and I did. For the most part, my motto became love me or leave me alone.

I stopped caring if anyone liked me.

I just wanted to get better. Surprisingly, the opposite happened because the amount of love and support that I’ve received since May 22, 2018, from all over, whether it be people I just met along the way or someone I’ve known forever, is insurmountable.

People will congratulate me when they find out how long I’ve been sober; it’s a huge accomplishment, but as I’m reminded every day, there is no cure for addiction.

I will never graduate from being an alcoholic, and I still have tons of work left to do.

I didn’t get sober because I was looking for achievement.
I got sober because I was out of options.
I was desperate.
I was in so much pain.
I didn’t want to live anymore.
I wanted to die.

Now… I want to live.

Recovery Is Freedom

Trust The Process