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The Journey of Becoming Whole Again
On a crisp autumn day much like today, with the sun shining and kids playing, I find myself curled up on a park bench, battling the shakes of alcohol withdrawal and gnawing hunger.
I watch families enjoying their time together. A mother beams with joy as her children chase after a ball thrown for their excited Golden Retriever, laughter echoing as they tumble through the grass. The dog always claims victory. She pulls out snacks and shares juice boxes with her kids while the father chuckles at the mess, shaking his head in amusement.
That will never be my life.
They see me, yet they don’t truly SEE me. I don’t want to be noticed. I’m an uncomfortable reminder of the pain and struggle in the world, a sight most would prefer to shield their children from. I can’t blame them; I wouldn’t want to acknowledge my own reflection either. So I remain an observer.
I’m at my most vulnerable, coming down from a binge, riddled with regret and despair. Nearby, a group of guys is enjoying beers and laughter, but laughter has long left my life. I beg, borrow, and steal for enough cash to buy cheap vodka and maybe a dollar menu item at McDonald’s, my stomach empty for two days.
It’s astounding how my body has adapted to survive on nothing but vodka, weighing only 110 pounds. If I can just make it to a McDonald’s restroom, I can wash my hands and face, if only I can control my trembling for five minutes and keep the children away.
I ache all over; every movement is a reminder of my emptiness. My heart feels heavy, and I can’t afford to feel it for too long, or I might have to confront my reality. Change? No way. I find my escape in walking.
I wander the streets, a ghost among the living, dirty and misplaced. I’m used to the glances that quickly turn away, and I feel the weight of life all around me, yet I remain detached.
Night falls, and I succumb to a drunken stupor, probably blacked out, functioning without memory. I crash under a tree in the park, exposed and unprotected. My body uses sleep as a defense against my relentless drinking, but my mind is always alert.
Despite my need for rest, I find myself walking again, aimlessly through the city at night. Some people engage with me, but most leave me alone. I’m fortunate—I just don’t realize how lucky I am.
As dawn breaks, I’m still walking, driven by an unknown need. I’m searching for a reason to end this cycle of despair. I’m hungry, angry, lonely, and exhausted. Withdrawal creeps back in, and the pattern begins anew—just as it did yesterday and will tomorrow, repeating until I either die or decide enough is enough.
That was twelve years ago.
Today, I’m a mother after overcoming infertility. I have an incredible husband and twin babies who are ten months old. We may be struggling financially, just like many others, but the fact that I have these challenges is a gift. Back then, my only goal was to survive another day; today, I’m still alive. A stroke of luck, right?
Similar to the “walkers” in The Walking Dead, I was lost—both physically and spiritually. I numbed myself, stumbling through life without truly feeling anything. It’s no way to live.
I’m not unique; many wanderers never get their chance. I just grew tired of being sick and tired. I’m a second-chancer, just like so many others still searching for their moment of hope. They’re not finished yet. We shouldn’t write them off so quickly. Kindness in uncomfortable moments might be precisely what they need. You could be their spark.
You might think this can’t happen to you, but I was just like you. I came from a loving home, lost my way, and fell into hopelessness, believing I deserved better. I drowned my pain in alcohol until hope slipped away completely. It’s a dark pit that taunts you until, by chance, a glimmer of hope shines through.
Hope means everything, and it ignites a fierce fight within you. You choose to fight with every ounce of strength you have, understanding the importance of staying above that pit. You begin to heal, and as you do, you help others heal too. When you feel the familiar pull of despair, you reach out for support and claw your way back.
Today, on another crisp autumn Sunday, I find myself on a park bench in a different Chicago park with my family, filled with gratitude and hope. I still can’t return to that old park where I spent so many lost days, but today, I’m in a new place with a fresh perspective. I see both hope and despair around me, and it hits me hard because I’ve been there.
I keep my past close to avoid repeating it. I acknowledge my fears, facing them head-on instead of running away. We are not worthless; we are worthy. We just need to recognize it within ourselves when the time is right. And I see us.
I SEE YOU.
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Summary
This heartfelt narrative follows Jamie, who reflects on her past struggles with addiction and the journey to recovery. From feeling lost and disconnected to finding hope and purpose, Jamie shares her transformation into a mother and the importance of recognizing the struggles of others. Her story emphasizes the significance of kindness and the possibility of change, reminding us all to see the worth in ourselves and others.