Dec. 4, 2021 – On check-in, I was told I have a disease that’s progressive, fatal and incurable, and that I have a one in three chance of dying from it. My life had fallen apart so dramatically over the course of the previous year that I was in desperate need of any solution.
The events that led me to rehab are hazy. There was a painful breakup, a redundancy. Then, in October 2015, I was hit by a truck. Signed off work, with my hand in a cast, and tending to a set of difficult emotions, I turned to a coping mechanism I had discovered when I was 15. I had started drinking, then taking recreational drugs with friends to numb the pain I felt as my parents went through a divorce, and the confusion I experienced around being gay.
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