In 1984 I fled my home country of addictions and became a refugee. Officially, a refugee is defined as a “a person who has been forced to leave their home country, typically due to a well-founded fear of persecution.” For fifteen years, I was a hidebound patriot, dogmatic in my beliefs. I proudly waved the flag, saluted it and defended it, hell I even wrapped myself up in it. I adopted its norms, customs, and spoke its language. I was steeped in its culture. I grew up in my home country fresh-faced and believing. I gave it my youth and health, but in the end, it left me staggering and denuded of all material things and my decency. I was bereft, betrayed and desperate, knowing anywhere else would be better.

False Allegiance

For most of my life I’d pledged allegiance to my fellow dealers, bartenders, and the booze and cocaine that we revered, slung, dealt, served, drank, shot up, snorted and smoked. We were a committed crew of patriots, standing shoulder to shoulder, believers in our shared brother and sisterhood and united in our rabid nationalism. We thought of ourselves as committed to each other, but when push came to shove our commitment was to the substances we craved. Addiction demands that kind of fervid belief because it takes over everything else. Some of us lose our money, some our families, some our good health and many of us lose our lives.

Stigma

“Just stop,” people say, “you’re doing it to yourself.” Or, “those people never change.” I felt branded by these societal tags, as nobody could see beyond the surface of my behavior enough to see the complex traumas that lay below and the constant pain they transmitted. My self-esteem, already precarious, withered further. And, was it no less dangerous and damaging that I was persecuting myself? This is where refugees are misunderstood and stigmatized. Others don’t understand that trauma is the vast, teeming breeding ground of addictions. Destruction, by the self or others is still deliterious and deadly.

A Painful Epiphany

After years and years getting deeper and deeper into my addictions, one day I woke up with my head pounding. I ran to the bathroom and dry-heaved for ten minutes but felt no better. I reviewed the night before or at least what I could remember of it. As usual, it wasn’t pretty. I remember screaming at my estranged wife at my daughter’s christening and having to be restrained. Family and friends appalled by yet another one of my shit-shows. For the first time I saw with clarity and conviction that addictions had stolen everything from me: my money, my marriage and many wasted years. Worst of all, my self-respect and dignity vanished in the wind. This was a painful epiphany, but a place to begin

Who Am I?

Driven hard by consequences and stigma-branded, I decided I’d crawl through ten miles of broken glass to be free from the country of addictions. My wonderful country became a prison. My past loyalty only brought me pain, betrayal and alienation. The problem became what country did I belong to? Who was I? What was my identity, and what kind of life did I want to have?

Gaining Freedom

I went to a lot of self-help meetings and found some new countrymen there. They had something I wanted, something I needed: sobriety-recovery-freedom. They could advise me on how to get well and they could see below the surface. I listened and learned new ways of being, the old ways no longer holding up in the bright light of day. I now saw addicted alliances for what they were: Transactional only. Day by day I got better, both physically and emotionally. Best of all, I became a person I could be proud of, dignity and self-respect restored.

Home at Last

What country do I belong to now? I live in a place of freedom where relationships are forged in trust and reciprocity. Recovery is a means to end, the end being a life unconstrained by the soul sucking need for substances. I am free to commit to my family and to my effort to grow as a human being while serving those I care about. I will dwell in this country until my last breaths. Free and full of hope!