103. Rewinding the Tape: Remembering the Truth That Saves Me

In the rooms of recovery, there's a phrase we hear often: “rewind the tape.”  It’s a simple concept, but for those of us in the thick of addiction, it’s a lifesaving tool.  It's the act of mentally playing out the full story of what would happen if we picked up again—the bitter truth that lives on the other side of our disease.  We rewind the tape not just to remember our lowest moments, but to feel them, to sit in them long enough that we don’t make the mistake of going back out into active addiction.  I’ve had to rewind that tape more times than I can count, and each time I do, I remember a version of myself I never want to meet again.

There was a time in my life when I didn’t even know a tape existed.  I lived minute to minute, driven by obsession and compulsion.  When the urge to use came, I gave in—again and again—without hesitation or thought.  Recovery has taught me to pause, to reflect, to remember, and when I remember, I see the pain, the wreckage, and I see myself at my worst.

I rewind the tape, and I see a morning where I woke up in a place I didn’t recognize, next to people I didn’t know, my body trembling, soaked in sweat, my heart racing with the kind of anxiety that makes you want to crawl out of your skin.  I see myself scrambling for a fix, not because I wanted to get high, but because I needed to stop feeling. Withdrawal wasn’t just physical for me—it was emotional.  It was shame, self-loathing, and hopelessness.  I rewind the tape, and I remember lying to people I loved, stealing from those who trusted me, and disappearing into the night with a phone full of missed calls from my mother.  Her voice on the other end, crying, begging me to come home—I can still hear it.

That’s what rewinding the tape means for me.  It means remembering the part that comes after the high.  The part where the fun dies and the consequences come rushing in like a tidal wave—unforgiving and absolute.  For a long time, I would only remember the first few seconds of that tape. The part where the drug goes in, the drink goes down, and everything feels okay for a fleeting moment.  That moment of relief, of escape… that moment was my seduction.  But that moment always passed.  ALWAYS.

The rest of the tape—the part I refused to look at—was where the truth lived.  The destruction.  The broken promises.  The emptiness.  That’s why I need to play the tape all the way through now. Because my addiction is a liar.  It has a soft voice and a strong grip.  It tells me, “This time will be different.”  It says, “You’ve been clean for a while. You deserve it.”  It whispers things that sound like freedom, but always lead back to the same prison.  And the only way I know how to fight back is by remembering.

Recovery has given me many gifts, but one of the greatest is the ability to tell myself the truth.  And the truth is, no matter how much time passes, I am still one bad decision away from being right back in hell.  I don’t say that to scare myself—I say it because I’ve been there.  I know the way back far too well.  I know what it feels like to lose everything.  I know what it feels like to wish I were dead, and I know that if I don’t stay vigilant, if I don’t keep rewinding the tape, I could end up there again.

There was a time not long ago when I thought I had it beat.  I had a few months clean, I was feeling good, and I let my guard down.  I stopped going to meetings.  I stopped praying.  I stopped rewinding the tape. And I relapsed, just like that.  One drink became two, then ten.  One high became a month-long bender.  And the shame that followed?  It nearly killed me.  I had to claw my way back out of that darkness.  I had to look people in the eye again, people I had promised I’d never hurt again.  I had to start over.  But that’s what recovery teaches us, too—that starting over is okay, so long as we start.

Now, when I feel that pull—that quiet whisper that says, “Just one won’t hurt”—I hit rewind.  I close my eyes and I see it all.  The lying.  The trembling hands.  The look on my family’s face when they realized I was using again.  I see the way I turned into a stranger.  The way I let down the people who loved me.  And then, I press play on the life I have today.  I see the people I’ve made amends to.  I see the kids I coach on the soccer field, the way they look up to me.  I see my family smiling, trusting me again.  I see my reflection in the mirror, and I don’t hate the person staring back.  I see hope.

“Rewind the tape” isn’t just a phrase—it’s a survival skill.  It’s a roadmap back to gratitude.  It’s how I remind myself that I’ve come too far to go back now.  That no matter how strong the craving, no matter how loud the disease screams, I know where it leads.  I’ve walked that road.  I’ve bled on it. And I have the scars to prove it.

If you’re new to recovery, let me tell you this: your mind will lie to you.  It will glamorize the past.  It will make you forget the worst of it.  That’s why you have to remember it on purpose.  You have to play the whole tape through.  The moment you feel that temptation rise, don’t fight it with willpower—fight it with truth.  Go back.  Rewind.  Watch yourself stumble. Watch yourself fall.  Watch the people you love cry.  Watch yourself beg for another chance, and then open your eyes and realize you have that chance, right now, as long as you don’t pick up.

Today, I live with a quiet kind of strength. Not because I’m invincible, but because I’ve learned to look back—not to punish myself, but to protect myself. I can’t erase the past, but I can use it. I can use it to stay sober. I can use it to stay humble. I can use it to keep moving forward. And when the day comes—because it always does—when the disease whispers again, I’ll be ready. I’ll take a breath, close my eyes, and press rewind.

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.