94. An Easter I’ll Never Forget
Six years ago, I spent Easter not at a family table filled with laughter and love, but in a freezing, fluorescent-lit jail cell, shivering and shaking my way through a cold-turkey detox from alcohol and Benzodiazepines. The Orange County Jail doesn’t decorate for the holidays. The Easter Bunny doesn’t make pit stops behind bars. There were no hidden eggs or chocolate baskets—just concrete, steel, and the crushing realization that my life had completely unraveled.
I’d been arrested before, plenty of times, but this time was different. The charges I faced weren’t just traffic violations or minor misdemeanors. They were serious felonies that carried the very real possibility of years behind bars. The kind of charges that make you stare at a wall and wonder how you let it get this far.
It was a week before Easter in 2019 when it happened. I pulled into a public lot in Middletown and clipped a parked car without even realizing it. I was high—Xanax and beer buzzing through my system, numbing everything, including my grip on reality. I locked the car and stumbled across the street into a bar to keep the buzz going. It was just another day lost to addiction. I glanced out the window a while later and saw the red and blue lights flashing in the parking lot right beside my car. Instead of slipping out the back or hiding, I marched right up to the officers—belligerent, arrogant, and completely oblivious to how much trouble I was actually in. I asked them what they were doing near my car, even though I knew damn well what I had stashed in there. That’s the insanity of addiction—it doesn’t just rob you of control; it robs you of reason.
The officers informed me I’d been caught on camera hitting the parked car. Then came the question: “Do you have any weapons or drugs on you?” That’s when it hit me. I was cooked. I admitted there were pills in my car, stuffed inside the door panel and center console. They searched, and sure enough, found a sandwich bag full of 520 Xanax bars. That was it. I was arrested on the spot—charged with felony possession with intent to distribute, several misdemeanors, and a laundry list of traffic violations.
When I finally came to, nearly two days later, I had no idea what I’d even been arrested for. Blackouts are a terrifying byproduct of mixing alcohol and benzos. You lose time. You lose memory. You lose yourself. I looked down at the word “INMATE” stamped on my jail-issued jumpsuit and felt my stomach drop into a black hole of shame and fear.
They put me in the medical unit, isolated in a cell for over 23 hours a day for a full week. No books. No TV. No distractions. Just a thin mat on a metal cot, a toilet-sink combo, and the suffocating echo of my own thoughts. Some days I was let out for 30 minutes to shower or make a phone call—other days, not at all. It felt like time itself had stopped, as if the world outside had forgotten me. I counted holes in the cinderblock walls to stay sane. I talked to the ceiling—anything to pass the time, drenched in sweat and regret. Withdrawal isn’t just a physical torment—it’s emotional warfare.
When Easter finally arrived, the pain of being separated from my family hit me like a freight train. I pictured them sitting down together, carving the ham, passing rolls, laughing with full bellies and warm hearts—while I sat on a metal stool in my cell, gagging on dry bread dusted with a packet of sugar. That was the only thing I could stomach. The food smelled like chemicals and rot. The kind of scent that doesn’t leave your nose even after you’re free.
That Easter, I didn’t just detox from drugs—I detoxed from who I had become. I was stripped of everything: my freedom, my health, and my dignity. But in that silence, I began to hear something I hadn’t in a long time—my own soul begging for another chance.
Someone once told me, “If you forget where you came from, you’re bound to end up right back there.” That line lives in my head rent-free. I’ve memorized the pain of that cold jail cell because it reminds me that I never want to go back, not just to jail, but to that lost, broken version of myself.
Today, I’m over eleven months clean and sober. This past Easter, I got to sit down with my family—clear-eyed, grateful, and free. We laughed. We ate, and I held my loved ones close, knowing how easily it all could have slipped through my fingers. Once again, recovery has given me my life back. I refuse to throw it away. Not for a drink. Not for a pill. Not for anything.
I hope everyone had a safe, love-filled holiday. If you’re struggling, know this: no matter how far you’ve fallen, you are not beyond redemption. There is always hope—even if it starts in the darkest, loneliest places.
And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope. If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.
