75. The Storm of Detox
Detoxing from alcohol and drugs is not just a process—it’s a battle waged in both body and soul. As I sit here reflecting on my last stay in rehab, I am struck by the sheer intensity of those first days. Detox is raw. It’s unrelenting. And yet, somewhere amidst the chaos, there is the faintest whisper of hope.
When I checked myself into Bon Secours, I was teetering on the edge of something dangerous. I had relapsed after months of sobriety, a stretch that felt like a lifetime achievement. The shame that washed over me in those moments of relapse was suffocating. I felt like I had let down my family, my friends, and everyone who had rooted for me. Most of all, I had let myself down.
By the time I arrived at Bon Secours, I was exhausted—not just physically but emotionally, and spiritually. The decision to stay beyond detox and commit to rehab came reluctantly at first. I wanted to believe I could fix this quickly, shake off the physical withdrawal, and get back to life. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t the truth. I needed more than a bandage. I needed to face the wreckage I had created and the storm raging inside me.
The physical toll of detox hit almost immediately. My body, deprived of the substances it had grown dependent on, rebelled in full force. The nausea was relentless, twisting my stomach into knots that no amount of water or small bites of food could soothe. Sleep became a distant memory, replaced by restless tossing and turning on the stiff rehab mattress. My muscles ached, my head pounded and sweat poured from my skin as though trying to expel every ounce of poison I’d ever consumed.
But it wasn’t just the physical agony—it was the mind games. Every moment stretched endlessly, filled with a gnawing emptiness and an ache for the substances I knew had been killing me. There were flashes of regret so intense that they brought me to tears. I thought about my family, about Bumpy—my loyal, four-legged friend—about the kids I coach, and even about the readers who still supported my writing. I’d convinced myself I’d failed them all. Guilt and shame were my constant companions, whispering in my ear that I’d never get it right, that I’d never be worthy of the life I’d once dreamed of.
Then there were the moments of panic—the realization that I was completely out of control, my future hanging in the balance. This wasn’t just a physical detox; it was an emotional purging of every painful memory and decision that had led me here. I thought of my counselor, David, and how he always reminded me to take one step at a time. But in those moments, even the smallest step felt insurmountable.
Despite the chaos, I pushed myself to attend group sessions. I was determined not to let my exhaustion and pain become excuses to disengage. I’d learned the hard way that isolation was my enemy. Listening to others share their stories reminded me that I wasn’t alone in this fight. We were all battling our demons, trying to make sense of the messes we’d made. There was a strange comfort in the shared vulnerability of those rooms, even when I could barely muster the strength to speak.
Detox also forced me to confront my fears head-on. I was terrified of failing again, of rebuilding my life only to watch it crumble under the weight of addiction. For the first time, I started to realize that fear could be a motivator instead of a deterrent. The thought of losing everything—my family, my job, my passions—kept me grounded in the present moment, however painful it was.
What kept me going through those dark days was the smallest glimmer of hope, the belief that this pain would not last forever. I began to see detox not just as an ordeal but as a necessary first step. The withdrawal symptoms, the sleepless nights, the relentless hunger for something I could no longer have—they were all part of the process of healing. Every bead of sweat, every tear shed, was evidence that I was still fighting.
I also clung to the memories of what sobriety felt like, however brief it had been. I thought about my work coaching youth soccer and the sense of purpose it gave me. I thought about the columns I wrote for the Independent Republican and the readers who reached out with words of encouragement. I thought about Wendy, who continued to believe in me even when I struggled to believe in myself. These were the pieces of my life I wanted to rebuild, the reasons I needed to keep going.
By the time the worst of the physical symptoms began to ease, I felt like I had been through a war. Detox stripped me bare, exposing every wound and every flaw, but it also left me with a deeper understanding of my own strength. It’s not the kind of strength that roars or charges forward. It’s quieter, more resilient—the kind that simply refuses to give up, even when every part of you wants to.
Looking back now, I realize that detox wasn’t just about removing alcohol and drugs from my system; it was about facing myself. It was about sitting with the discomfort, the pain, the regrets, and choosing to keep going anyway. It was about finding hope in the smallest moments and holding onto it with everything I had.
I’m still a work in progress, but I’m learning to embrace that. Sobriety isn’t a destination; it’s a journey, one that begins with the storm of detox and continues with each step forward. And even on the hardest days, I remind myself that I am worth the fight.
And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope. If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.
