March 4, 2021 – To cope with my father going missing, I started drinking nonstop. I couldn’t find any way to maintain happiness. I went on like that for two or three years, and I was let go from my job—I was a bike fitter at a bike shop—for drinking while working.
Once when I was coming off a binge, and I hadn’t had a drink for maybe 18 hours, I started violently convulsing; I had a grand mal seizure. I knew at that point that I was physically addicted and needed medical help. I met with a doctor who diagnosed me with severe depression and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). My family helped check me into a three-month recovery program, and after that, I moved into a sober-living house.
I didn’t have a driver’s license, so I bought a blue fixie to ride to my job washing and waxing boats at Dana Point Harbor in Dana Point, California. I would ride it all the way from the house near Angels Stadium to the train station, and from the station to the harbor, and back again at night. I’d always loved riding bikes, as did my brother and dad, so these rides brought me a sliver of peace while everything else in my life felt out of control.
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