The First Layer

It hasn’t been easy getting here.

Today, I’m 350 days sober from an addiction that owned me for the better part of a decade.

Before I got sober, alcohol ran every part of my life. It wasn’t always that way — but for all of my 30s and into the early years of my 40s, it had a brutal grip on me.

There was a time when drinking wasn’t a problem. When life looked good — at least on the surface.

I was a Correctional Sergeant at one of the largest prisons in Washington. Married. Two young sons. A nice home in a great neighborhood. I was happy.

And being a dad? That was the greatest thing I’d ever done. My boys were everything to me. My entire identity was wrapped up in them.

But twelve years ago, everything changed.

I experienced a loss I wasn’t ready for — not even close. A loss that shattered me, pulled the ground out from under me, and knocked me off the good path I’d fought so damn hard to stay on.

My dad died unexpectedly. Sixty-four years old.

I was thirty-one — and as a new father myself, I was still very much a man who needed his own.

When he passed, I went into a spin I couldn’t stop. I was in complete shock. It took me a long time to fully process that he was gone. The weight of that loss hit our whole family hard — and the hole he left behind was massive. Loud. Like a silence that swallowed everything.

After his funeral, I remember being home with my boys — my oldest was three at the time — and he stuck to me like glue. He could sense when I was hurting. Whenever I’d start to cry, he’d gently say, “Daddy misses Papa.” And every time he said it, I’d break. He’d rest his little head on my shoulder and just sit with me in that sadness. I’ll never forget that. He was a talkative little boy, but in those moments, he would just sit with me, in the quiet, without expecting anything.

Even the simple things became hard. I used to love mowing the lawn — but after my dad died, I had to force myself to do it. I’d think back to when I was twelve, and he taught me how. Once I got the hang of it, he’d sit on the porch bench with a Diet Pepsi in hand, watching me with pride.

I always knew losing a parent would hurt, but I never expected the depth of the darkness that followed. I mean, people lose their parents — it’s part of life, right? They’re not supposed to outlive us. But no one gives you a playbook for what to do when they’re gone. There’s no manual for that kind of pain.

Grief is a hell of a thing.

I didn’t know what to do with that pain. I didn’t talk about it. I just carried it — until it started carrying me.

Eventually, I started self-medicating. I reached for alcohol to chase the sadness away.

At first, it wasn’t excessive. A few beers here and there. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Before my dad passed, my relationship with alcohol was pretty standard. I’d throw a few back with my prison buddies, barbecue with our families once a month or so. Sure, I overdid it now and then — but it wasn’t a regular thing. It wasn’t a problem.

But after he died, that changed fast.

The drinks came more often — a few times a week, then more.

Then came the nights I’d put my boys to bed, powering through the pain the best I could. I’d read them books, tell them stories, and lay beside them until they drifted off to sleep. I tried to keep showing up for them — even when I felt like I was falling apart.

And once the coast was clear — once I knew they were out — I’d go downstairs. Alone.

Straight to the fridge. Straight to the beers.

It became second nature.

Sitting in the silence. In the dark. Just me and the bottle. Trying to numb the ache. Trying to outrun the weight in my chest. Trying not to feel anything at all.

Chasing that buzz became my way of breathing. That blur gave me just enough distance from the pain I couldn’t carry. Just enough escape from the sadness I didn’t know how to survive.

Looking back on those memories now, I wish I had known then what I know today — that alcohol was never the answer.

But at the time, it didn’t feel so obvious. Back then, I saw alcohol as a social thing. Something you cracked open with friends. Something that helped you relax after a long shift. It wasn’t dangerous. It wasn’t a threat.

It sure as hell wasn’t supposed to become my escape.

What I didn’t realize was that the moment I started using it to avoid the pain — instead of facing it head on — everything started to unravel. That’s when it grabbed me by the throat and didn’t let go.

And it cost me everything.

Alcohol wielded a sword and tore through every good thing in my life — my career, my marriage, time with my kids. It destroyed relationships. It shattered trust. It wrecked my reputation. It hijacked my decision-making.

It brought legal trouble. Financial fallout. It obliterated my spiritual, mental, and physical health.

It robbed me of myself.

It stole years — years I’ll never get back. Time I can’t rewind. It promised relief but delivered chaos. Promised peace and brought devastation.

Alcohol?

It tried to save me.

But in the end, it did the exact opposite.

And as the years went on, I finally realized the hardest truth of all:

It wasn’t the disease.

I was.

***

I’m here to share my story — layer by layer.

I do this for myself. For my kids. And for anyone else out there who needs to hear it. For the souls who feel alone in this world, fighting demons no one else could ever begin to understand.

I’m still early in my sobriety. And if I’m being brutally honest with myself… I don’t know if I’ve even entered recovery yet.

Because here’s the truth:

Being sober?
That’s not the hard part.

I know in my mind I never have to touch alcohol again — because I’ve seen exactly what it has to offer me. And I want no part of that hell ever again.

But recovery?

Recovery:
A return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength.
The action or process of regaining possession or control of something stolen or lost.

What was lost was me.

Sobriety has been amazing in so many ways — and most days, I love it. But I’m still a long way from finding the man I used to be — or maybe, from becoming the man I was always meant to be.

Sobriety gave me the chance to start looking.

Recovery?
That’s the real journey.
That’s the battle.
And I’m here to chronicle it — the best way I know how.

One layer at a time.