The Truth That Set Me Free

It’s often said, “The truth will set you free.”

But what people don’t tell you is that before the truth frees you, it shatters you. It breaks apart the illusions you’ve spent years building to survive — illusions meant to protect you from the very reality you couldn’t bear to face.

Sharing my truth now means dismantling the image I worked so hard to create — the image of someone who had it all together. That image became my shield. For years, I feared that if people really knew me, they’d only see the sum of my worst mistakes — a path littered with pain, secrets, and regrets I once tried to forget.

If you knew me back then, maybe you saw the cracks. Moments where the mask slipped. But I kept things looking good from the outside. I had a family. A career. I made people laugh. I was the life of the party. I convinced myself that as long as I wasn’t falling apart publicly, I was still in control.

The truth? I was a high-functioning drug addict for years.

Caught in a cycle of desperation and denial, I’d wake up swearing this time would be the last — only to cave again, haunted by shame and paralyzed by fear of being exposed. I was stuck in the exact insanity that Step 1 describes: my life had become unmanageable, and I was completely powerless.

Anxiety. Despair. Rock bottom. Grief. Fear.

Missed birthdays. Missed moments with my children. Looking backward in guilt, too afraid to look forward with hope. I kept telling myself others had it worse, that I was strong enough to handle it. But the truth is, I wasn’t living — I was surviving. My self-hatred became unbearable.

And still, I chased relief —

Even when it came with destruction.

I first used drugs at fifteen. I didn’t have the tools to process the pain I was carrying. That first high wrapped around me like a warm hug — like all the love and security I never knew I needed. It didn’t just dull the noise in my head; it made me feel sharp, confident, and in control. But that illusion came at a cost.

What I didn’t understand then — but I do now — is that I stepped onto the devil’s dance floor. And once he knows your name, he never stops the music.

For years, I danced with addiction. Every time I tried to step off, the music would start again, pulling me right back in. It didn’t matter that I had a beautiful family, financial success, and a place in my community. I was living a double life. One people praised — and one I was quietly dying in.

Then the drugs stopped working.

The world went dark.

I couldn’t see light in anything — not even my children’s laughter, not even my wife’s eyes. And still, no one knew. That was the most dangerous part. I had built a prison out of pride and ego, and it was killing me slowly.

Eventually, the pain became greater than the fear.

After 15 years of addiction — the last three breaking me completely — I hit the spiritual bottom. I finally stopped letting my ego call the shots. And I did something radical:

I asked for help.

That was my first surrender. The first real admission that I couldn’t do this alone. Within days, I was in detox. Shortly after, I entered residential treatment — terrified, broken, and unsure of who I even was anymore.

The first lesson I learned in recovery?

I am not special.

That might sound harsh, but it saved my life. My ego had convinced me that I was too smart, too successful, too “functional” to be a real addict. But Step 1 doesn’t discriminate. Neither does addiction.

In rehab, I began to understand the freedom that comes from Step 2 — coming to believe that a Power greater than myself could restore me to sanity. I had no idea what that Power was yet, but I was desperate enough to believe something might exist beyond the darkness.

Then came the hardest part: Step 3 — turning my will and my life over.

Letting go of control. Letting go of the illusion that I could out-think, out-hustle, or out-hide my way out of addiction. I had to surrender — not just once, but daily.

Today, I live differently. Not perfectly — but honestly.

Recovery has given me humility. It’s shown me that I don’t have to carry the weight of this alone anymore. I need God. I need my sponsor. I need the fellowship and the structure of the 12 Steps. And above all, I need truth.

I don’t share my story to shock or burden anyone.

I share it because I’m done hiding.

Because the only way to stay free is to keep walking in truth — no matter how messy, raw, or imperfect that truth is.

Instead of escaping my life, I’m learning to live it — one day at a time.

Instead of numbing my feelings, I’m learning to feel them.

Instead of wearing a mask, I’m learning to be seen.

This is my truth.

This is my freedom.

And for the first time in a long time — this is me.