Friends Who I Call Family - My Lifeline in the Darkest Times

This past year, I’ve relied on my friends more than ever. And then came the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do—handing over my most precious possession. My son. Even now, it makes me sick to my stomach.

Letting my guard down has always been a struggle, and that hasn’t changed. Now, 41 days later, I am sober—no more drugs, no more alcohol. But I’m still withdrawing from my meds, still battling my attacks. And he, my son, is still not by my side.

In my mind, everything moves too slowly. Over the past weeks, I’ve felt an explosion of emotions—so extreme that I barely recognize myself. It’s as if 16 years of numbing myself with medication have burst out all at once. Anger, rage, frustration, grief—it all comes crashing down with every attack, every setback. The smallest things triggers me. A short phone call. A quick visit. The sound of my neighbors. Each one sends me spiraling. The thoughts racing through my mind terrifies me, and I struggle to hold on. I can’t filter them—I don’t know how. Years of unprocessed emotions are flooding in, and I can’t keep up. It feels like I’m a prisoner—not just in my own body, but in my own home. The things that once gave me joy, the little escapes that used to help me breathe, no longer work.

Something fun? A distraction? It doesn’t do the trick anymore. Even stepping outside for a walk with my dog, something that used to clear my mind, now brings no relief. The calm I used to find in those moments is gone, leaving me stuck in a cycle I'm determent to break.

It almost pushed me to a breaking point. The urge to destroy everything in my path was overwhelming. I tried to push my friends away because right now, I am not a good person to be around. I am difficult, hard to handle and I know it. But I also know I am blessed to have them. And yet, I don’t want them to carry a burden that was never theirs to bear.

One friend, along with their partner, has taken on the full care of my son. When it becomes too much for them, another friend and their family step in without hesitation.

Then there’s the one who makes sure I take my medication every day, keeping me from overdosing or giving in to temptation. They organize my days, fight my battles, and call out so-called “professionals” who have failed me—something I may open up about later.

Another friend is my lifeline in the darkest hours. When my attacks hit in the middle of the night, they rush over, no questions asked, and take me to the hospital.

And my mother—despite everything—has been sleeping on my couch ever since. Just in case.

I feel isolated. I feel alone in this journey. But they are here. And when I think of those who don’t have what I have, I understand why they choose the easy way out. The one way out. It breaks me to even think about it. It brings tears to my eyes.

Break a leg—hell, break your whole body. Get cancer or some other illness, and you’ll receive understanding, solutions, choices. People will tell you what to expect. It’s hard to hear, but it’s the truth.