Starting Your Life Again

When I first got clean, I had to completely relearn how to integrate with society—and it wasn’t easy.

Starting work again felt like stepping into the spotlight with all my scars visible. I was convinced everyone could see right through me. That they knew something was up. That eventually, they’d figure me out, and I’d get fired, and I’d be right back where I started: homeless, broke, buried in debt.

Even though I was clean, I didn’t feel new. I felt like the same person, just without the habit. I figured I had simply removed the crutch but left everything else untouched. And with that mindset, I was waiting for the moment it would all fall apart.

I kept thinking about the time I had lost. Two years spent chasing pills, going to pain clinics, spiraling. I saw my friends getting married, buying homes, starting careers—and I had nothing. I wasn’t just behind in life. I felt behind mentally, emotionally. Like I had skipped the chapters everyone else had read and now I was trying to fake my way through the rest of the book.

And when I got back into the workplace, I brought this naive idea with me: that everyone was working toward the same goal. That, like football, we were all part of the same team. I thought it was going to feel like alignment, cooperation, shared success.

What I got was Game of Thrones.

It was office politics, undermining, side-eyes, silent sabotage. People tried to cut you down—not because you were doing poorly, but because you were doing well. Or maybe just because they could. I didn’t know how to process that. I was already mentally fragile. I didn’t need to constantly look over my shoulder.

But that’s what life required at the time. So I learned.

It took me a long time to understand that not everyone was ahead of me. And even if they were, it didn’t mean I couldn’t catch up.

But the hopelessness was real. I thought everything would end the way it had before. I had to fight through that, every day.

Eventually, hopelessness gave way to a flicker of something else: belief.

Belief that I could learn the skills. That I could make money. That I could hold onto stability. That I could build something real.

And that’s what I want anyone reading this to hear:

You can pull yourself out.

It takes time. It takes pain. It takes a stupid amount of patience.

But it’s possible.

I spent 5 to 7 years trying to find the right meds. Depression, anxiety, PTSD—I ran the gamut. I’d try one for a few months. Then switch. Try again. Rebalance. Repeat.

And the truth? That process was darker than addiction itself.

Because at least during addiction, I didn’t expect anything better.

Recovery comes with the hope of healing—and that makes the waiting hurt more.

I even got accused of being on drugs again during that time. I was off them, trying to level out, and still looked like I wasn’t okay. That kind of gaslighting from the world can eat you alive.

But I stuck with it.

Eventually, I found something that helped. And over time, my mind stopped feeling like a broken trap.

Here’s my advice:

Don’t do what I did and try every single drug on the shelf.

Pick one or two. Give them a real shot. Stay consistent. Let your system adjust.

Balance doesn’t show up like magic—it builds like strength.

Be relentless.

Weather the storm.

It’s hell. But it ends.

And when the clouds start to break, you’ll realize—you’re still here.

And that’s everything.