How One Southern Gent Made a New Sober Life in Los Angeles

I never thought I'd make it out. Truth be told, I didn’t much care if I did. I’m from Greenbough, Alabama—smaller town, quiet if you don’t know where to look, but full of folks running from somethin. I used to be one of 'em. Started out on pills, just a way to take the edge off after work, then one thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was all wrapped up in black tar heroin and eventually made my way into fentanyl. Wild lookin' back. It wasn’t just me—seemed like half the town was in the same boat, but I was the one sinking.

I had a good job workin' for the state with a prevailing wage. Good insurance, benefits, the kind of setup most people back home would kill for. But none of that mattered when I was usin’. I showed up late, if I showed up at all. My foreman tried to cover for me more than once, but I was too far gone. The day they let me go, I can’t even say I was surprised, I had fell off asleep in my Dodge with a needle hanging out of my arm noddin' in and out. Not more than 15 feet away the rest of the boys were just starin' over it me shocked, I was told later. That day my foreman boss happen to be on the job site and buddy let e tell you what. I ain't had that bad a scolding since junior high. I just grabbed my last check and got outta there. As if that wasn't enough, not two days later, my girl packed up my stuff, set it out on the porch, and had her mom text me telling me not to come back. She’d been dealin’ with me for years, hopin’ I’d change, but I suppose I never did. She told me she loved me, but she couldn’t watch me kill myself anymore. I slept in my truck that night, parked down by the Pilot station where nobody’d bother me. That’s when I knew I was out of options.

My folks must've seen it comin’ a mile away because they already had a plan in place. They called me up, said they found a rehab in Los Angeles of all places that’d take me. At the time I had been havin' trouble finding sober living housing near me. So I thought "well why not try." My insurance ended up covering most of it, so it was almost like it was destiny. I was broke, homeless, and outta work. What the hell else was I gonna do?

The first week of detox was hell. Couldn’t sleep more than an hour at a time, stomach felt like it was eatin’ itself, legs hurt like I’d run a marathon barefoot. My skin felt wrong, like I wasn’t even inside my own body. And every day, all I could think about was using—just one time, just to take the edge off. But there wasn’t no way out except through it, so I stuck it out.

Around week three, at that point I had moved over to sober living and transitioned into what they call PHP. House was cozy, people were friendly and there somethin’ shifted. Maybe it was the group of guys, or maybe I was just too tired to keep fightin’ it, maybe I just got honest with myself for the first time in years. Either way, I sat myself down and said, "Alright, one year. I’ll give this one year, all in. If I still hate it, I can go back to what I was doin’." Finished PHP, started outpatient twice a week in the evenings so I could look for work out here in LA, I also decided may as well commit to four AA meetings a week whether I wanted to or not.

It didn’t get easy overnight. I still had days where I wanted to run, nights where I sat in my truck outside a meeting wonderin’ if I should just drive off and never look back. But little by little, life started making sense again. I started eatin’ real meals, sleepin’ through the night, showin’ up on time for things. I even started to remember what it felt like to be a decent person. I got a job, nothin’ fancy, just somethin’ to keep me busy and keep me accountable.

Then the craziest thing happened—I started liking life again. I woke up one day and realized I didn’t think about using first thing in the morning. I didn’t dread every second of bein’ awake. Found a group of sober bikers who run a club up over yonder in the San Fernando valley, good group of guys. And for the first time in a long time, I had hope. Ain’t sayin’ I got it all figured out, but I know this much: Greenbough don’t own me anymore. The needle don’t own me anymore. And as long as I keep doin’ what I’m doin’, I got a shot at somethin’ better. One day at a time. That’s all I got, and for once, that’s good enough for me.