09: The Rebuild
I wish I could say this chapter started clean.
That I got off the pills, found peace, and slowly got better.
But that’s not what happened.
What followed was a long, messy, brutal stretch of life I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
I had the surgery. I got clean. I was off painkillers for good.
But then I had to face everything I’d been running from.
And I wasn’t ready.
I struggled to cope with what had happened.
Everything I had done. Everything I had become.
How could I let this happen?
I had ruined my life.
There was so much promise, and now I was in my mid-to-late twenties, watching my friends get married, have kids, launch careers.
I felt like I was a mile behind and sinking.
The shame and guilt stuck to me like oil.
Thick. Dark. Impossible to scrub off.
I was depressed. Anxious. I had trouble socializing. Trouble smiling.
Everything felt fake.
How could I go out in the world and do something positive when I didn’t even feel like I deserved life?
And the worst part? The accountability.
This was my fault.
I knew the danger of opiates.
And I still dove in.
Not just to escape the pain in my body—but the pain in my soul.
Because opioids don’t just numb injuries. They numb everything.
For the next 5–6 years, I lived in the quiet wreckage of that choice.
I got a job.
I taught myself digital marketing.
I tried to build a life.
And I had some success.
But when you’re depressed, everything feels hard.
Waking up. Getting to work. Finishing a project. Answering a text.
Just existing took effort.
I kept asking myself:
How much longer can I keep this up?
I thought about Mr. B a lot.
I thought about the abuse, the pills, my parents’ divorce, the NFL that never happened.
I felt so far behind.
So unfinished.
I went to therapy.
Tried prescriptions.
Antidepressants. Anti-anxiety meds. Mood stabilizers.
And I felt like a zombie.
So I started taking Adderall just to offset the fog.
I needed to function.
To get work done.
To stay afloat.
When prescriptions didn’t work fast enough, I got amphetamines illegally.
It was a mess.
But I had a job. I had clients. I had bills.
So I kept trying to make it all work while my brain was barely holding together.
It wasn’t until I moved to El Paso that something shifted.
I started working out.
A lot.
Every day, the gym.
Not for looks.
Not for performance.
Just for survival.
Maybe if I took care of my body, my mind would follow.
That first year, I lost hope more times than I can count.
It felt like it wasn’t working.
I was off all prescriptions, but the withdrawal from that numbness made me feel like I was living in a dark trap.
But I stayed in it.
I started sitting with the pain.
Not avoiding it. Not medicating it.
Just being in it.
It didn’t get better overnight.
But it started to get lighter.
Little moments.
Tiny flickers of happiness.
Not constant.
But just enough to keep me going.
It took 7–8 years to feel a glimpse of real hope.
And around that time—I met her.
My wife.
The beginning of something new.
Something whole.
Something finally worth holding onto.