Vulnerability Looks Like Broken

I grew up thinking everything in my house was pretty normal. Spoiler: it wasn’t.

We didn’t have a car — or a driver’s license, for that matter. My dad had a bicycle with child seats duct-taped to it, and that was our family minivan. We’d cruise through town like a low-budget circus act. Hand-me-downs were our fashion line. Picture a garbage bag full of random clothes and us digging through like it was Project Runway: Survival Edition.

My mom was the breadwinner — the fourth of fourteen kids — which meant she had a PhD in “there’s never enough.” We weren’t poor exactly, but abundance wasn’t our thing either.

There were ten of us kids, but I never thought that was a big family. It was just Tuesday. Still, I always felt like I was missing something — like everyone else had gotten a manual for life, and mine got lost in the mail.

Mom would say, “You were my best baby… until your sister was born. Then you started biting me.” Apparently, I also had to be put on a leash because I kept running into the street. I don’t remember any of it — but my therapist says my subconscious definitely does.

Then, just to spice things up, my parents started taking in extra kids. Three at first, and then when I was six, another one — she was fourteen. It was like the Brady Bunch, but without the theme song or the happiness.

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School, God, and Garbage Toys

I went to an ultra-religious school where God was basically the mafia boss of heaven. You didn’t question Him — unless you wanted divine “consequences.” Good day? That was your reward from heaven. Bad day? You must’ve screwed up.

We got toys from donation boxes meant for families “less fortunate.” My mom would bleach the life out of them until they looked like radioactive Happy Meal rejects. Her cardio routine? Sprinting after garbage trucks with a shopping list.

At a young age, I discovered lying, stealing, and chaos were great ways to get attention. I was that kid who’d blow stuff up — literally. My reputation was: “Don’t invite Moshe unless you want the cops called.” At nine, one friend’s mom banned me because we made too many fires. Fair.

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Camp and the Ninja Turtle Glove

Sleepaway camp? Total disaster. My mom bought me a baseball glove from a flea market — bright green, Ninja Turtle-themed, and roughly the size of a sandwich bag. I didn’t realize it was weird until I got there and the ball didn’t fit.

Also, I wet the bed. (Yeah, that’s in the public record now.) But my counselor handled it like a saint. He’d wake me early to change the sheets, no judgment. That small act of kindness stuck with me — proof that not everyone kicked you when you were down.

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The Family Winery and My First Beer (Age 5)

My dad was an artist — of alcohol. Wine, beer, 96% pure grain ethanol. Dinner wasn’t complete without a sip or three. He’d proudly force guests to try his home-brewed jet fuel and laugh when it burned their faces off.

My first real drink was at five. A family party. Miller Lite. Everyone thought it was adorable that a kindergartner could chug a beer. No one said, “Hey, maybe don’t?”

By twelve, I was drinking like a frat pledge. By sixteen, I was going through cases a week. Walmart clerks knew me by face (and probably suspected nothing good). I even imported Molson XXX from Canada — because higher alcohol content obviously meant higher status.

We had this holiday, Purim — part Halloween, part St. Patrick’s Day — and my dad bought me handles of Southern Comfort and vodka. At sixteen. That’s love, right?

I didn’t have to sneak or lie to drink. It was just… life. And on the surface, I was fine — good business, good kids, good everything. Inside? Dumpster fire.

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My Not-So-Dramatic “Bottom”

Everyone in recovery talks about “hitting bottom.” I didn’t hit anything. I just slowly sank.

My friend used to say, “Moshe, don’t fool yourself. You’ve got another run in you.” I hated how right he was.

There’s this line in the rooms: “I know I’ve got another drink in me, but I don’t know if I’ve got another recovery.” That one got me.

Today, I haven’t picked up a drink in over four years. I don’t know about forever — I just know about today.

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Sobriety, Ego, and Humility (Sort Of)

When I first got sober, I tried to win recovery. Like, “Watch me be the best at humility!” I was so busy pretending to be spiritual, I forgot to actually be it. Turns out, no one’s impressed by a guy trying to out-humble everyone.

Then I found a God I could live with — not the old scary one, but one who loves unconditionally and doesn’t carry a lightning bolt.

Someone once said, “I’ve worked on humility for twenty years — who do you think you are, trying to be humble after six months?” That’s when I realized: yeah, I’m the problem. Always have been.

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Thinking Is the Real Addiction

Drinking wasn’t my main issue. Thinking was. I wake up every morning with my brain ready to self-destruct before coffee. I need God to get me out of my own way. The liquor was just the symptom.

If I don’t feed my spirit daily, I starve. I pray every day now — badly, but sincerely. I used to ask for yachts and islands. Now I just ask for “Thy will.” (Though, if a yacht shows up, I won’t complain.)

I listen more, talk less. I try to find connections instead of differences. Someone once told me, “Addiction is the absence of connection.” That one stuck.

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Today

I’m learning to be okay with being okay. To look in the mirror and not flinch. Life isn’t perfect, but it’s simpler. I’ve got people who know my name, who care about me with no agenda. And I finally care about me, too.

As the saying goes: “Before you can be an expert in anything, you have to become an expert on yourself.”

I don’t do recovery perfectly. But I show up perfectly — and that’s enough.

Moshe