On January 20, 2017, after being on the run, chained once again to this disease, I was arrested.
The charges? A warrant for paraphernalia I didn’t even know I had, possession of a controlled substance, and three more counts of paraphernalia.

Being on the run wasn’t glamorous or rebellious—it was exhausting, terrifying, and empty. I barely slept, if I slept at all. I begged or panhandled for money to maintain my $100-a-day habit. When begging wasn’t enough, I stole—sometimes from family, sometimes from friends, sometimes from stores, anywhere I could—to make sure I had money in my pocket. The so-called “friends” around me stole from me too, just to stay high, have a car to drive, or simply because that’s what addicts do.

I did whatever needed to be done—whatever that looked like—to avoid another day of being sick. That included putting myself in extremely dangerous situations, ones I might not have walked away from. Every knock at the door, every set of headlights behind me sent my heart racing. I was chasing drugs, hiding from the law, but mostly I was running from myself. By the time they arrested me, I was already broken—it just took the handcuffs to finally stop this run. Just another closed door, to my using, temporarily.

That was one of my many bottoms. Looking back now, it’s clear this disease had me cornered long before those handcuffs. That day was just the consequence catching up.

This disease is unlike anything else. Cunning, baffling, and powerful doesn’t even begin to cover it. Since my relapse had already been in motion for months, I had done nothing but struggle to get back on my feet. And the truth is, relapse doesn’t start with the moment you use—it starts long before.

Relapse has been part of my story from the very beginning. Countless rehabs. Trips to jail. Rebuilding, only to lose it all again. The trauma, the PTSD, the wreckage left behind. Denial, dishonesty, untrustworthiness—it’s all part of the disease, and it was all part of me.

At the time, the relapse that landed me in jail felt like it came out of nowhere. Like it appeared from thin air. But looking back, I know relapse doesn’t just appear. It builds slowly and quietly. First comes the emotional relapse: the isolation, the resentment, the pretending I’m fine. Then the mental relapse: the bargaining, the lies I tell myself, the fantasy that I can pick up just once and still be okay. By the time I physically used, I was already deep in relapse—it had been happening inside me for weeks, maybe months.

The truth is, I hadn’t hit my bottom yet. And it showed—I clearly had another run in me.

At that point, I had nearly two years clean. My life looked stable on the outside. I thought I was happy. But then came two back surgeries, and that’s where the cracks really began to show.

The first surgery, I made it through clean. I even recovered narcotic-free, and at the time I was proud of that. I thought it proved I was strong, that I had the disease under control. But the truth was, the relapse was already building underneath. Between the first and second surgeries, fear and anxiety crept in. I pulled away from my support group, and I started lying—little things at first, but enough to give the disease a foothold. When the doctor told me I needed another surgery, I can’t tell you if he offered me pain meds or if I manipulated him into prescribing them. All I know is that I told myself, “I’ll take them as prescribed.”

And just like that, I slowly slipped further into the disease. Denial. Hiding the truth from those around me, eventually spiraling out of control.

The isolation grew. The fights with my fiancé got worse. He worked out of town, which made it even easier for me to hide what was happening. By the time the second surgery came, I wasn’t just slipping—I had already jumped headfirst off the wagon.

And then the freefall began. Within months, everything unraveled. My relationship became toxic. My family was done with me again. I lost my home. I was back on the streets, loaded, and running from the law.

When I fall, I don’t just stumble—I crash hard.

Those years are fuzzy now, blurred by drug use. But I remember what it felt like after a binder that nearly killed me, surrounded by people I hardly knew, ending up in treatment. My fiancé left me, but the truth is, he had already been gone for a while. The distance, the fighting, the dishonesty—I had pushed him away long before he walked out.

Treatment didn’t magically fix me. I sat in those groups selfish, dishonest, and unwilling to see how much wreckage I had created. I wore the mask, saying the right words, but inside I was still running. I stole from family. I lied to friends. I manipulated everyone who got close enough to care. Looking back, I can see how deep in the disease I really was—selfish, self-centered, self-seeking. I was a wrecking ball of destruction, leaving damage wherever I went.

Between October 2016 and February 2017, I used with the full intention of it taking me out. I wanted to be clean so badly, but I hadn’t yet learned how to stay clean. My arrest in January forced me into sobriety, and for a time, I did get clean again.

It sounds simple, but it’s not easy. I needed to change everything. And in recovery, “everything” really does mean everything—people, places, and things. The people I ran with, the places I used, the routines that kept me stuck—I had to let it all go. Because nothing changes if nothing changes, and for me, changing everything was the only way I had a chance at staying alive.

Although my story of addiction doesn’t end here, at this point…eventually I found freedom from the disease, and I have a beautiful life beyond my wildest dreams today—a life built on recovery, my son, school, and the stability I once thought was impossible.