My Addiction Recovery Story: From Rock Bottom to Rebirth
From youth trauma and drug addiction to rebuilding my life in sobriety—this is my story of hitting bottom, facing truth, and choosing recovery.
From the outside, we looked like a normal, tight-knit family. Mom, Dad, three boys. My parents both worked full-time, we went to school, and I bowled competitively from age 3 to 16—on paper, we were picture-perfect. But behind closed doors, it was a different story. My parents fought often. When things got bad, they’d split up—sometimes for weeks, sometimes longer—and every time they reunited, we’d move. It was a constant cycle. We’d try to pretend we were a happy family, but the cracks always showed.
Things got darker around age 10. My older brother, who already had a temper, started getting physical with me. He’d blame me for things I didn’t do and threaten me if I told anyone. I kept quiet. I learned to live in fear, always watching my back.
When I was 13, I started Grade 9. Life wasn’t perfect, but it felt somewhat normal. My brother could be cruel, but sometimes he still acted like a brother. I had just transitioned from Catholic school to public high school and started making real friends—kids who skateboarded. I joined in. For the first time, I felt like I belonged. I was doing well in school, getting A’s and B’s, and still bowling on weekends. Things felt steady.
Then came the summer before Grade 10. My brother and his friends were smoking something in the backyard shed. It wasn’t cigarettes. I didn’t know what weed smelled like yet, but I knew something was off. My brother panicked and threatened me again. Not long after, he offered me a joint. I remember the feeling vividly—that melting sensation like candle wax sinking into the floor. It was euphoric. I was hooked.
I thought maybe it brought us closer, but really, he just took away my ability to hold anything over him. From then on, he had leverage. And I had an addiction beginning to take root.
By the end of Grade 10, my grades were dropping. I was skipping class, getting into trouble, and using more—weed, hash oil, mushrooms. I hated school. I hated home. My brother’s violence was escalating. I felt alone.
Just before Christmas, at 15, I left home and checked myself into a youth transition center. I couldn’t tell my parents the real reason—I still feared retaliation. They knew I was using, tried to help, but I wasn’t ready. I stayed there until I aged out at 16. Then I ended up living in an abandoned tractor trailer in a rough part of town. It was winter. I was cold. Alone. Slipping deeper.
That’s when I met a new group—mostly older. They introduced me to Gravol, which I’d only known as a motion sickness pill. But this was different. I started with five pills. Eventually, I was taking 40 at a time. I’d trip for days, unsure of what was real. I talked to people I couldn’t confirm existed. I saw things I still can’t explain.
Eventually, I hit my first rock bottom and called home. My parents got me in touch with a counselor, and I was put on a waitlist for Westover Treatment Centre. A few weeks later, a spot opened.
That same day was my great-grandmother’s funeral. After the service, I went straight to Westover with a packed bag. I stayed three weeks, learning about the 12 steps for the first time. It helped. I stayed clean for a bit. My parents were proud. My girlfriend at the time was proud. I got a job, started attending meetings, and tried to live differently.
I even returned to school for Grade 11. The principal let me back in on the condition I followed the rules. I did—for a while. But second semester hit, and I started slipping again. I got close with the wrong crowd. A fight with my best friend landed me suspended and missing two front teeth. Sharing a homeroom with him afterward was unbearable. I dropped out.
My parents were furious. My girlfriend left. Even though I was still clean, everyone assumed I wasn’t. Eventually, that pressure broke me. I thought, “If I’m going to be treated like I’m using… I might as well use.”
From 17 to 19, I was back to numbing myself. Mostly weed and oil. A little drinking. No pills, but I wasn’t sober. I bounced between jobs and girlfriends, always ending up back at my parents’ place with my tail between my legs.
Around 20, I met a woman with three kids. She was kind, serious about life, and wanted stability. I wasn’t ready. I was mostly using her for a place to stay. Through her friends, I tried cocaine for the first time—and loved it instantly. But it wasn’t yet a habit.
When that relationship ended, I started couch surfing again.
That summer was wild—partying, drinking, bouncing between places. That’s when cocaine became a real problem. Around the same time, I reconnected briefly with Tanya—my now-wife. We had a short summer fling, but I ghosted her.
I’d met another girl. She invited me to move to Fort McMurray with her and her friend. I tagged along. It was a chance at a new life.
In Alberta, I tried to clean up. I got a decent job, tried to settle down. But cocaine wasn’t done with me. The relationship fell apart after I found out about all her lies. In the midst of that chaos, I started reconnecting with Tanya again. We talked more and more.
My best friend Johnny noticed. He saw me changing, trying to build something with Tanya. He decided to return to Ontario—he figured I didn’t need him anymore.
Eventually, Tanya and I made it official. We built a life. Had kids. Got married. But my drinking escalated. I got in trouble at work for smoking weed, so I switched to booze. At first, it was just a beer after work. Within five years, that turned into several beers and a bottle of hard liquor each night.
I isolated myself. I didn’t want to go out. I was bitter, resentful. All I wanted was my wife, my kids, and my booze.
Then came May 2016. I was at the rec center with my son for swimming lessons when Fort McMurray was ordered to evacuate due to wildfires. I rushed home with my son and a neighbour’s kid—fires burned on both sides of the road. My wife had already picked up our daughter. She was frantically packing essentials. Me? I packed three pairs of boxers and as many beers as I could carry.
That day was traumatic—but I was more focused on getting drunk than getting my family to safety. I embarrassed myself. Some friends have never looked at me the same since. We weren’t allowed back for nearly two months. When we returned, it was just to pack and leave for a fresh start in Calgary.
But Calgary wasn’t the fix. I was drinking more than ever. My wife worked nights and went to school during the day. I worked landscaping and stopped daily for a 15-pack and a bottle of vodka.
Then one night, I crossed a line. I got so drunk I asked someone in the neighbourhood where I could buy crack. I’d been clean from it for 10 years—but once I had that number, I was done. I got high alone while my kids slept upstairs. I got away with it. For a little while.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I started missing work. Then one weekend, I relapsed again—spent our last dollars getting high. That night, something clicked. I knew I couldn’t keep doing this. I knew I’d lose everything.
So I told my wife. I wrote a note and locked myself in the basement. I expected her to leave. But instead, she got on the phone and found me help. That night I was in the hospital on suicide watch. By morning, I was headed to Renfrew Detox.
After five days, I was given a list of rehab options. One stood out: Claresholm. Science-based. Structured. After a quick interview, I was accepted—on the condition I went straight from detox.
I said goodbye to my wife and kids and began a three-month stay.
Claresholm was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Not just because of the coursework—but because I’d never been away from my family that long. I was sad. Angry. Ashamed. But I knew I was in the right place.
I graduated in January 2017. Tanya and the kids came to pick me up. Leaving the center was harder than entering. Inside, you’re protected from triggers. Outside, it’s real life again.
But I had help. Outpatient care, government programs, and recovery groups. I went to SMART Recovery, Refuge Recovery, and even 12-step meetings when friends invited me. I joined a gym. Tried to keep a routine. That summer, we moved back to Ontario to be near family and rebuild.
Not a day goes by that I forget what I learned at Claresholm. I hold it close. And now, nine years later—I’m happy. I have a career. We’re homeowners. My family is stronger than ever.
Recovery looks different these days, but the basics are still the same. Every morning, I remember where I was before. I think of my time at Claresholm. And I focus on where I’m headed because of it.
Why I Created This Website
I built this website for people like me—those in recovery, those still struggling, and those who love someone in the fight. It’s not about having the answers. It’s about truth, connection, and reminding each other we’re not alone.
For years, I carried shame. Now, I know that sharing my story might help someone else find their way out. Whether you’re starting your journey or years into it, I hope this space gives you something real to hold on to.
This isn’t just a website. It’s a rebellion against addiction. A place for hope, healing, and honesty.
If you’re looking for support or resources to start your own journey, check out the Resources page I’ve put together.
Welcome to the Rebellion
