111. The Setback That Won’t Define Me

When I began writing for the Goshen Independent Republican more than two years ago, I made a promise to myself—one that felt small at the time, but has grown into the backbone of every word I’ve published. That promise was simple: Tell the truth. Tell the truth about my recovery—the good, the bad, and the parts I wish I could forget. Tell the truth even when it’s humiliating. Even when it exposes every flaw I’ve tried to hide. Even when it makes my hands shake over the keyboard. I’ve kept that promise every single week. It has not been easy. In fact, some weeks have felt like walking barefoot over broken glass just to hand you, the reader, a piece of my heart. Sugarcoating my story, or skipping the parts that make me uncomfortable, would defeat the entire purpose of why I write these columns at all. My purpose has always been to let you see what addiction and recovery actually look like—not the Hollywood version, not the whispered-around-the-dinner-table version, but the real thing. The raw thing. The thing that too many people are terrified to talk about. Addiction thrives on silence. Shame keeps people sick, and I refuse to be a participant in that silence.

I have done many things in my addiction that I am not proud of. Some that still wake me up at night, but they are part of my story, and pretending otherwise doesn’t erase them—it only buries them deeper, where they grow in the dark. I won’t let that happen anymore. And with that honesty comes this: I owe you an explanation for my absence over the past four weeks.

On November 26th—one day before Thanksgiving—I checked myself into Bon Secours Hospital in Port Jervis for detox and rehab. I had relapsed roughly two or three weeks before that. I wish I could tell you the exact day it happened, but I can’t. The days blur when you’re spiraling, and the calendar becomes something other people use.

I can tell you exactly what triggered it. A couple of weeks earlier, I was cleaning out my closet, trying to declutter. In the back corner—tucked away like a landmine—I found an empty bottle from a past relapse. It was bone-dry. Not a drop inside, but somehow, that empty bottle had more power over me than a full one ever could. It planted a seed that I didn’t notice at first… and then I did. Then I ignored it, and then—I let it grow. That night I went to bed, but the bottle lay awake in my mind. I woke up four, five, six times, and each time the same thought hit me like a hammer: You know what that felt like. You know what that tasted like. By morning, the seed that had been planted the day before had grown into a full-grown oak tree, its roots wrapped around every decision I made.

In recovery, they often say, “An addict relapses before they actually relapse.” I never fully understood that—until that morning. I got dressed. I planned my day. I told myself I was fine, but I knew exactly where I’d end up after running my errands. I knew I was going to drink. At the time, I convinced myself it would only be that day—just one break in the dam, just one moment of escape, but addiction doesn’t bargain. Addiction doesn’t negotiate. Addiction doesn’t say “just once.” Addiction says, “Welcome back.”

I went to the gas station and restocked on the exact same booze as the bottle I had found. Within days, three to four bottles became seven to eight. Within weeks, I was right back where I had left off. They say addiction picks up exactly where it paused, never where it started—and that has never felt more true. Every night during that stretch, I went to sleep promising myself I wouldn’t drink the next day, and every morning, addiction reminded me it was stronger than promises said in a whisper to the dark. Eventually, after nearly a month of spiraling, I found the strength—or maybe the desperation—to admit myself into detox. And thank God I did.

Two days into my detox, I had a seizure. I was standing in the hallway near the nurses’ station when everything went white. I collapsed, splitting my chin on the counter before my head slammed into the floor. When I woke up, dazed and bleeding, the first emotion I felt wasn’t fear—it was shame. Shame that I had let myself get so sick again. Shame that I had put myself in that position. Shame that the people who care about me had to watch me fall—again. I’m lucky it wasn’t worse. Truly lucky.

Now I’m here, working closely with doctors, nurses, and counselors, trying to build my coping skills back up so that when I leave—just before the holidays—I’m not stepping outside defenseless. I’m disappointed in myself. I won’t pretend otherwise. I feel like I’ve let my family down, my friends down, my readers down—you down. And for that, I am deeply sorry.

There are no excuses for my relapse. Only an explanation—and the truth. One small moment of weakness snowballed into something massive, something uncontrollable. Addiction is powerful in a way that’s nearly impossible to put into words. Unless you’ve lived it, you can’t fully understand it—and I pray you never have to. I am starting over. Again, but I believe—more than ever—that I can come back stronger than before. That this setback is not the end of my story, but a painful reminder of why recovery requires vigilance, humility, and honesty every single day.

Just yesterday, I walked out of Bon Secours into a world full of holiday lights, family gatherings, and temptations. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. Fear is normal. Nerves are normal, but hope is normal too, and I have hope once again.

As I prepare to rejoin my family and step back into my life, I want to apologize once more—to the people who love me, to the people who support me, and to the people who read these columns not just for entertainment, but because they see pieces of themselves in my story. I’m sorry, but I’m not giving up. This relapse is a chapter—not the conclusion, and I am gearing up, right now, for the comeback I know I’m capable of.

Thank you for sticking with me. Thank you for still believing in me, even on the days when I struggle to believe in myself. I promise—I’m going to rise from this, and when I do, I’ll tell you the truth about that, too.

Wishing everyone a very Merry Christmas and a safe, happy holiday season!

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.