I am an addict named Bill.

Author: Anonymous

Dear Reader,

This blog has content for a mature audience and addresses the real story, struggles and in this case redemption of an addict. If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction we recommend: https://abundantrecovery.org or to connect with this author please email me directly at Kalen@weareforthecity.com your request will be confidential between myself and the author.

By His Grace,

Pastor Kalen Brown

I am an addict named Bill. Let me rephrase that; I am a hopeful, grateful, redeemed recovering addict named Bill, but that was not always the case. I am here to tell you about two days that changed my life. 

First, I would like to talk about addiction. Let’s define it. Addiction is a biopsychosocial disorder characterized by repetitive engagement in a rewarding behavior despite negative consequences of harming self or others. Millions of Americans are addicts. Many, many millions more are affected by addiction. Chances are you are one or the other; an addict, or a victim of an addict. It’s not easy to write about and I pray this article brings you understanding. 

The first day of this story starts when I was 43. I had moved to Billings to find recovery and was failing miserably. I had been here 6 months. I had been attending meetings, and could not stay clean for more than a couple weeks. I was an IV drug user and getting clean was hard. The morning that day started like any other had for a couple decades. I was sick and need to “get well.” Only one thing can cure the sickness of withdrawal and that’s use. On this morning I had a Fentanyl patch. Fentynal patches are tricky and dangerous. You have to break the patch down and you can control the dosage by the time you let it soak. I was just starting to soak it when my mom yelled down the stairs. Saying she needed some help. I put it in the medicine cabinet and went upstairs thinking I would be back in a few minuets. It was nearly an hour later when I got back. My mom had left for the day and I was getting sicker by the minute. I remember opening the medicine cabinet looking at it and thinking “if you do all that, you’re going to die.” I came up with a plan. If I added as much meth as I could to dissolve in it, it would keep me awake, breathing and alive. So that’s what I did. I sat down and injected it all. I realized I had done way too much and the next few seconds I did something I hadn’t done ever before. I prayed a heartfelt prayer. I was agnostic and searching for atheism. I did not believe in God, but I cried out “Dear God, please don’t let my mother find me dead with a needle in my arm.” I don’t know how many hours I laid on that floor. I don’t know how close to death I was. I came to pain of near overdose, covered in my own filth. Every part of me touching the floor was bruised from my blood pooling inside me. I would not let my mom find dead and I did the only thing I could to stop that. I cleaned up my mess, packed a bag and left. 

They say insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results. From that point on, I went beyond insanity to a place called hopelessness. I knew I was going to die from addiction, that death would be my bottom. I had a sinking feeling it was going to take years to find that release. For the rest of my active addiction, isolation became a way of life and I sought out a different place where I could reach that bottom of death alone. It took me a year to reach that bottom. That year saw me drive away anyone who cared about me. I absolutely despised the man in the mirror. I did unspeakable things to feed a $300.00 a day heroin habit and jail became the closest thing I had to a home. 

The second day I am going to tell you about is the day death became my bottom. It started in the same place, the basement of my moms house. It started the same way, me being sick and wanting to get well. On that morning, I had no way to get well and I was dreading the day and what I would have to do to feed my disease. I heard voices upstairs, crying voices. In my moms kitchen, sat my mom, my cousin, and a man I did not know. My cousin was hysterically crying and my mom was sobbing. My cousins brother had passed away from an overdose and the news brought me to tears as well. As we talked, the man came over and introduced himself as Kalen, my moms Pastor. He told me my mother and him and had been talking about me and had been praying for me. We talked about my addiction for a bit and then he asked if I’d like to ask Christ into my life. I said yes, and he lead me through the sinners prayer. I don’t remember what we said in that prayer. I just remember crying out to a God I didn’t really believe in. One that if I was sure that if he did exist,  he had damned me to Hell. I remember crying out “God, either kill me or help me, because I can’t live this way anymore.” 

Turns out Jesus did both. The Word tells us we are dead to sin and resurrected as new. You see, death was my bottom, just not how I thought. I am going to star this next part by saying, in the words of the Apostle Paul, “I have nothing to boast of in myself, except for Christ and Him crucified.” I have not used a drug of any kind from that day to now and to be honest, that in itself would have made me a happy man. “But, God!” as Kalen says often has put a calling on my life. My life now is a gift, not as much for me, as it is for others. God uses me in the lives of others. I am called to love some of God’s most broken people, and sometimes that  doesn’t feel like a gift. But when I look in the mirror, I no longer despise the man see. 

Signed,

Bill-The grateful, redeemed, recovering addict.

P.S. If you need to talk about yourself or a loved one. Come find me.