A Good Mess, Still Standing

365 days.

That’s how long I’ve been sober. One full revolution around the sun without a drop of booze or a chemical crutch. No numbing. No escaping. It’s me—wide-eyed, raw, and still a bit of an asshole.

Not a fucking gold star. Not a “Yay me.”
More like stumbling out of a man-made disaster, coughing on the dust, hair singed off, face smudged, realizing…

I survived that shit.

It took me 30 years to get 1 year, some people call that a slow learner, I call it a fucking miracle. 

Now it’s time to rebuild. Better. Stronger. Starting with the foundation.

I’ve been the mad artist who shredded his own paintings in a fit of rage—and, unfortunately, I applied that same logic to relationships. Rip. Burn. Regret. Repeat.

So what does one year even mean when you’ve spent thirty tearing down everything that ever loved you?

It means I finally stopped pouring fuel on the fire. I started clearing the ashes. And, maybe the hair loss and a few other traits are genetic—but the rest?
That was me.
My choices. My chaos. My shit show.

There was no grand epiphany. No divine clarity. No white light or sky choir.
I ran out of places to hide.

I got tired.
Tired of the shame.
Tired of the anger.
Tired of hating the person I’d become.

I didn’t find the cliche redemption at the bottom of a bottle.
I found the fucking bottom.
And let me tell you—I showed up there with a shovel, ready to keep digging till I hit pay dirt.

My marriage? Torched.
My family? Wasn’t really there to begin with.
My daughter? Keeps her distance. And I respect that.
My self-worth? Left it in the bottle and pissed it away years ago.

What I did have was ego—driven by fear, dressed up as survival.
I wore it like armor. Thought it was strength.
Turns out, it was a cage.

They say alcoholism is a disease. Maybe it is.
But what I had?
Trauma. Fear. A misfiring brain.
A life that trained me to fight or vanish—and I chose both.
Alcohol let me disappear while pretending I was still here.

But this past year, I did something different:

I built structure. Real structure.
Brick-by-brick.
Day-by-day.
Morning meditations. Evening reflections.
A personal code of ethics—written by the version of me that wants to live, not survive.

I didn’t find God. I found fellowship.
I found myself.
And that’s enough.

I’m not cured. I’m not a miracle.
I’m a good mess now.
One that breathes before reacting.
One that drinks coffee instead of vodka sodas.
One that walks instead of rages.
One that laughs—a lot. At the absurdity. At the pain.

Mostly at myself.
Because hyper-focused weirdos?
We do weird shit.
And I’m finally starting to enjoy the show.

Let me say this loud:

I’m not the only problem.

Yes, I’ve owned my shit.
Yes, I’ve made amends.
But I’m not your scapegoat.
Not your villain.
Not your goddamn cautionary tale.

Don’t stigmatize me. Don’t come for me. You will regret it.

Recovery isn’t martyrdom. It’s not only apology—it’s healing.
It’s boundaries.
It’s realizing that sometimes, you weren’t the only wreck in the room— You were the one whose crash was the loudest. AND everyone is looking right at you.

I’ve now studied trauma. Neurodivergence. ACEs—
Those invisible and physical fists that shape your life before you can even spell “survival.”

And guess what?

I wasn’t broken.
I was adapting to a world that never gave me a blueprint.

Even now, in AA rooms, people say,
“I finally found my people.”

And I’m sitting there like,
“Are we in the same meeting?”

Because I still feel like the weirdest one in the room.
But I’ve made peace with that.

I’m not wired wrong. I’m wired different.
I’m 2e—twice exceptional.
Gifted and glitched in equal measure.

It’s not an excuse.
It’s a miracle I’m still alive.

And to anyone out there dismissing neurodivergence as laziness or an excuse—step back.
Neurodivergent humans exist.
We’re not lazy.
We’re not broken.
We’re not your punching bags.
We’re trying to live.

No, I’m not where I want to be.

I’ve got a mediocre job that doesn’t feed my soul.
I’m not building the future I dream about—yet.
But I’ve got:

• A book in the works
• A comic strip I half-ass sometimes
• Art to make
• Stories to tell
• A fire in my gut that burns brighter without the booze

My higher power?

Not your sky daddy.
Not your Easter Bunny.
Not your Santa Claus.

I wish I could live in that blissful ignorance, but I can’t.

My higher power lives in me.
It’s the voice that says, “Keep going,” when everything screams, “Why bother?”

It’s love without condition.
Empathy without rules.
Connection without control.

So yeah. This is one year sober.

Not shiny.
Not polished.
Not easy.
But honest.
And still standing.

To anyone out there in the rubble—don’t give up.
Sit in the mess.
Laugh at the absurd.
Cry when you need to.
Love yourself like your life depends on it—because it does.

You’re not alone. You never were.

And if I can claw my way out of thirty years of chaos, heartbreak, and addiction—
and still stand here today, a good mess at 365 days—

So. Can. You.

Let’s keep going.

Day 365. The Beginning.