The week before I went to rehab felt like the end of the world, and in many ways, it was. It was the end of that version of me. The one who could still pretend she had it under control. The one who could lie to herself a little longer. That week stripped me down to nothing.
I barely slept. My body was wrecked from the bingeing, the drinking, the meth and coke nights, the constant chaos. I was paranoid, angry, and terrified. Every conversation felt like a threat. Every silence felt like punishment. I remember screaming at people I loved, then crying in the same breath. I was coming undone—and everyone could see it.
I pushed away the people who cared and clung to the ones who enabled me. I lied to my kids. I avoided mirrors. I didn't want to see what I'd become. I started fantasizing about disappearing altogether, not because I wanted to die, but because I couldn’t see a way out.
And then came the moment. The one I couldn’t outrun.
It was a call from someone who still saw a spark in me, even when I couldn’t, my dad. They said words I’ll never forget:
“You don’t have to keep doing this. There’s another way. You just have to say yes.”
I said yes. Not because I was brave but because I had nothing left to lose.
