Getting sober is my way of preventing the disease from spreading. But I leave that up to my Higher Power for now. All I know is that today, I am clean one day at a time.
MANILA, Philippines — I have vivid memories of being in a pool, early evening, with my brother while Mom was sitting with some friends in a circle close by. They would talk for what felt like eternity — laugh, cry, hug, and always ended with this line, “Keep coming back. It works if you work it.”
Those were good times, but when I turned 12, Mom wanted Dad out of the house and I couldn’t understand why. Dad was a good man, but mostly MIA. He would show up after days away “working,” sometimes with bandages from motorcycle accidents or fights. Him leaving was painful and very confusing. But Mom took us to a place where we were allowed to talk about our feelings, cry and draw. I remember drawing a flower with one petal fallen on the ground. That was my dad... and that was how I felt.
It was only years later that Mom told us that Dad was sick, that he had a drug problem. It was called shabby and I swore I would never touch it because it ripped my family apart.
I went through high school telling my friends “one is too many, a thousand never enough” and “alcohol is a drug!” I was happy and could be out with friends who were high and drunk, and feel totally comfortable with my choices, not needing anything to alter my natural high.
Then I took my first drink.
I wanted this guy to mind me and he was only minding my friends who were drinking his shots. So I said, “Mind me! Get me a drink!” My drink was a Slammer, a mix of everything with one goal — to get you f@cked in the shortest time possible and that was what I wanted (also because I was kuripot).
Alcohol led to pot, then A and E and K, and everything else in the alphabet. And then one night, we couldn’t find E, so someone suggested shabs. I was nervous yet excited at the same time and told myself this would be the first and never again — because this was the drug that destroyed us.
Then I took my first slide, and in an instant, I knew: Now I knew why my dad couldn’t put this down. Why he allowed it to break our family.
You all know how the next part goes — the parties and adventures, the crazies and fights, the lies and relationships you tear apart. The insanity.
When I was using, there was always this voice inside that knew I would live clean...one day. I just didn’t want it to happen so soon.
My drugging life was short-lived. In less than two years, I was in the emergency room, almost dead from mixing stuff, not eating or sleeping for a few days. My “friends” said I was overacting and just having a “bad trip.” While unconscious, I travelled to a place of peace and utter bliss where I saw God and I told Him that I wanted to stay there because it was soon peaceful, so perfect. But the answer was no, you have to go back and help others like you.
When I woke up, I knew I needed help. I found myself in the same garden with the pool in the beginning of my story; in circles with people talking, laughing, crying and hugging.
Recovery wasn’t easy. I was around 18 only and with people who lost everything — their wives, cars, homes and families. I lost nothing — except my mind, maybe.
The next years were followed by short-lived insanities and a brief recovery.
I guess the good thing about knowing the program at an early age made me get unmanageable right away.
After five years of sobriety, I met the love of my life.
Only problem was he was “normal.” By normal, I mean he drank, smoked pot every day. Liked A and E, and everything to get him f@cked.
We were apples and oranges. How was this going to work? He was going down his path and me mine. Although trying to take him to my side, he didn’t get it and so I consciously decided I was “cured” and I could be normal, too.
So I did that for 12 years. Got married, started businesses in the wellness industry, had two kids but there was always this voice in my head, telling me to go back to my meetings, but how and why? Medicine, religion, psychiatry — I tried ‘em all; and they worked for a while, but there was always something off. Because I was still using and drinking “manageably.” I even went to Codependents Anonymous, convinced it was my marriage that was the problem, not my using.
But do codependents need to stay sober?
This question haunted me and by some stroke of luck, Higher Power as we call it, I found myself moving a street away from the infamous New Manila meetings.
I’d bike past the house, too scared to enter, until I was desperate to surrender.
Today, I am 10 months clean and sober, and here to share my story.
Life is not perfect, but I’ve got two brilliant boys who mean the world to me. And if they’ve got genes like mine (and their daddy’s), addiction runs deep in their veins. Getting sober is my way of preventing the disease from spreading. But I leave that up to my Higher Power for now. All I know is that today, I am clean one day at a time.
They say to stay until the miracle happens. Today, it is #everydaymiracles with this new perspective on life.
And so, as the saying goes, and as my mom would always add: Keep coming back. It works if you work it. So work it, because you are worth it!