The Lost & Found

I still hear it. The ringing in my ears; that which has been an intangible scar of mine for a few years now. They tell you when you’re a child that life tends to fit you into it like a puzzle piece. You find your “knack”, a skill set that makes you a valuable member of society, but I guess I am that corner piece that fits nowhere, until now. My name is Zach, and I am going to tell you how my life changed; not in a single night, but by many excruciating, inspiring and unimaginable ones. This, is my story.

Like most people, I grew up with loving parents. We weren’t rich, but we were not poor either. We were comfortable as one would say. I was not considered a spoiled child, but I did have some of my friends throwing jealous darts at me for what I had that they didn’t. Toys, gadgets and all the other stuff the marketing geniuses splattered across household televisions were in my possession throughout childhood. I wasn’t a straight “A-plus” student in school. I was proud of my B’s and C’s, because I passed the same tests that the other kids did, only I didn’t study nearly as much, or try to get the highest grade. I never saw the value in a letter grade, besides when it comes to a service, or your food. It isn’t until you’re a mature adult that you realize it was all simply conditioning for the real world. Just as you train a dog to speak, so do you train a person to work. When it came to obeying, I was already on a bad path by fifth grade. I remember one time I got five days of In School Suspension (ISS) for throwing a notebook out of the window of a moving bus. I would have gotten away with it if the wind had not sucked it back in, and struck a girl in the head who was sitting a few rows behind me. That day I learned a little bit about physics, and also that I was either stupid, impulsive, or both. I’ll give myself a little credit, and I’ll settle on being impulsive; which is just as dangerous as being stupid. I really can’t explain why I did those dumb things in grammer school other than trying to be “cool” in the eyes of my friends (the one’s with the jealous darts). I was not that interested in sports, but my athletic abilities were average enough for me to see that a career in anything involving throwing a ball was out for sure; my focus was more on the arts, as well as, alternative activities. Karate/martial arts was something I, till this day, am fascinated with. I joined Yoshukai Karate at age six, and I loved it. I started after my parents noticed my fandom for Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I may not have been good at running, jumping, or throwing, but I am left-handed, and can deliver quite a haymaker. When I started karate, I remember how nervous I was. Everyone was kicking, punching and yelling “Kee-Yaa!” when I entered the dojo for the first time. I remember our dojo very well considering that I spent every Tuesday and Thursday night there from first through fifth grade. The building was split down the middle. One side was a gym for normal people. The other side was our Dojo where we practiced the art of kicking butt. It smelled like you would imagine; a bunch of people stuffed in a room exercising with little to no ventilation. Basically take an onion, some rubber bands, and some salt water in your cupped hands, and give it a big whiff… Yeah, not appealing to anyone. I didn’t mind the smell though. I was so infatuated with the sport that all my other thoughts left my brain for a few hours. It was my first therapy. When I turned ten, I spent six months training for what was, at the time, the most important event of my little life; my black-belt test. My dad and I went over my “katas”, which are choreographed martial art routines daily. I even had to learn one-hundred karate terms in Japanese, as well as write them in Japanese letters. My dad bought a cassette tape that had a single track of an instructor saying the terminology; once in English, then once in Japanese. I slept with that tape playing through some headphones every night leading up to the big day. The test was three full hours, and was more stressful to me than taking my G.E.D exam. I recall in the final stretch where every student had to spar with a line of adult black-belts all the way until the end. I had guzzled some ice cold water right before, and I got sick. I had to walk away to get some air in order to continue. I was so upset that I would not pass, because of me not finishing the “line of fighters”, but I guess being ten years old, and going through a physical and mental test fitted for an adult was enough to prove my honor. After a grueling three hours, I earned my First Degree Shodan black belt, and still keep it in a safe place today. I guess other kids saw their letter grades in school the same way. My initiative just wasn’t in the right place.

When I hit my teenage years, I already felt that I’d been through Hell and back by achieving my black-belt, but little did I know, I hadn’t made it to the mailbox yet. Like other teens, I drank. Wasn’t really into the whole pot scene, because I already think too much as it is. I didn’t need help in that department. Pot also never smelled good to me. I never understood seeing my friends envelop it into their nostrils, and acting like it was Heaven-flavored ice cream ( Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream…take notes). I was a drinker, plain and simple. I went on drinking every weekend until I started mixing it into my daily schedule. I knew there was something going on inside of me a long time ago, but when you’re young, you’re naive. I didn’t have the knowledge, or the wisdom I do now to know that I was trotting down a grimy, dark and cold alleyway in a colossal city known as addiction, and it had then only made its infamously quiet entrance into my subconscious mind. I carried on the cliche habits of smoking cigarettes and drinking alcohol as a teenager. It was so easy to get too. I had a lot of older friends who would get us, the youngsters, booze and tobacco whenever they were available. I can’t tell you how many weekends I spent either intoxicated, high or passed out at some older “buddy’s” house. I also can’t tell you about most weekends in those days, because where there’s substance abuse, there’s memory loss, and sadly enough, there’s an abundance of it. I was not happy if I wasn’t buzzed off of something, anything at all.

I never mentioned earlier that I was expelled from junior high. That is a whole can of worms I don’t feel like getting into right now. Long story short, I had an allergy pill in my pocket. It looked like cocaine, since I emptied the powder from the capsule into a transparent one to give to a fellow student as a joke. My plan was for him to think it was a “party drug” , take it during class, and fall asleep at his desk; pretty funny right? I believed he’d deserved it for ripping me off earlier that week; later I was arrested in school right when the bell rang. I guess to prevent embarrassment on their part, after finding out I was telling the truth, the school punished me as though I actually had narcotics on school property by expelling me, or offering me to repeat a grade. Besides repeating the eighth grade, and watching my friends graduate without me, I finished eighth through tenth grade in homeschool. I took and passed my G.E.D with flying colors, and had college in my sights. While all this happened, I never really quit abusing alcohol, or other substances I could get my hands on. I got to where I was lying and deceiving people all the time. I could not put my substances down for anyone.

After a few more times in handcuffs, I spent my introduction to my twenties meditating on what I wanted to do with my life. Apparently the naive trait doesn’t wear off that quickly in my family, because I thought the world would pause itself for me, and let me pick back up where I left off once I got done partying. I tried, and failed at my first attempt in two things between nineteen and twenty-one years old; college and a relationship. I met “her” at a friend-of-a-friend's house when I was nineteen. She was not without a personality, but we were on two different wavelengths, that is for sure. I wanted to be a rock star, whereas she was mentally more mature, and never had a pipe dream to begin with. I followed her to a University, that shall remain nameless, to start our lives together. Jt was in the matter of a year living together that our plans were put together with scotch tape, and fell apart. In the midst of my disastrous living situation, I was doing terrible in school. I still could not put down my substance habits; it seemed like the only thing that couldn’t hurt me at the time. After we separated with a verbal fight so brutal that the landlords of the apartment had to kick her out, I was living alone. I kept going to classes for a degree I saw no future in, wasting my dad’s hard earned money, and drinking every spare dollar I had. On my way home from the campus cafeteria where I had dinner, I got my butt handed to me behind some bushes in a shaded area that was from view of the public. They surprised me with what seemed like a skateboard, or just a log of some sort, straight to the face. I laid there as they rummaged through my satchel looking for a laptop, or money I assume and ran away. I picked myself up, walked back to my empty apartment, called my parents and told them I was done. I came home with my tail between my legs yet again. Life just seemed like I was a character in a video game, and a mean little ten year old boy with the controller was throwing me off of a cliff over and over for his twisted entertainment.

I decided that I was not going to do the whole college degree thing after that debacle. I was going to be a good ole “working man”. I worked on an automobile assembly line for a year and a half until the carpal tunnel did my hands in. Throughout this endeavor, I drank more than I breathed. I was truly broken inside, and my attitude about life was bleak, and meaningless. I thought I was just going to work to eat, and support my habits until I die. My loving parents tried time and time again to lead me into a path of success, but nothing was good enough. If I wasn’t a rock star, or an astronaut, or a rock star-astronaut by twenty-three, then I was a failure as a man. I was getting my running shoes nice and tight for the hill I thought I was about to run down into my lonely grave. Something sparked in me after the monotony of the “working man” lifestyle; I wanted to return to school and get a degree. I finished up my Associates at the local community college so getting an Undergraduate degree would be less stressful. It was just better to get all the basic classes out of the way so when I did find a major, I could really absorb as much of it as possible. I scanned my options, but nothing jumped at me. It wasn’t until a musician/drinking partner of mine at that day in age wanted to go to the University of Montevallo. I did not want to be left alone in my hometown, so I immediately found a major, and followed him there. I guess you don’t realize you’re a follower, and not a leader until a pattern arises. The major I so boldly chose was Mass Communication with a concentration in Broadcasting. I know right, most of what I learned, an air-headed sixteen year old can achieve right on their smartphone now; what a waste. I did what I set out to do; I was in college again. It was really something to share the college experience, and have a buddy there to enjoy it with. Of course, the thing that we did more than anything was hit up the local drinking holes, and show our rear ends to the public. Time went along until one night I was late for my job at a grocery store where I was an overnight stocker. I had drank a few after my classes that day, and was still buzzing. I did what every person does when they’re late for something, I sped. It was a long night for sure; in that cell. I don’t remember much, but I do remember the nice, giant gentlemen in an orange jumpsuit that matched mine, giving me the address to the county jail I found myself in that night whilst calling my father to bail me out. This was D.U.I charge numero uno. I quit my job as a stocker, because I couldn’t fit it in with my probation on top of senior semester at UM. It was the second hardest thing I’d ever done next to my black belt. That thing is my Nobel Prize and I’m not changing my mind. Months went by, I kept myself in line, and I was focused. I had to graduate college this time, no matter what. I could not let my family down again. I studied late at night; I would go take a drug test right before taking a midterm. I am not going to lie, it was challenging, but I did it. I graduated cum laude in my class of 2015. I did it! I walked on graduation day with about a half a liter of whiskey in my stomach. My dad had to drive me to and from the campus; sad I know, but that’s where I was in my addiction. It was out of hiding, and starting to socialize with other parts of my life.

The next day, I moved back home. I had gotten a job I never thought I would get. I was hired as a pharmacy technician at a local pharmacy in my home town. This seems like the worst job to have being an addict in denial, but here is my God’s honest truth, I never took a single thing. No pill, nor liquid was taken by me while I worked there. I am still proud of myself for that. About a year goes by and I get D.U.I charge numero dos. It was no surprise to my parents, or to me. I was not only drinking now, but also taking other stuff as well. I was a full blown addict, and I knew it. I kept my addiction for the next few years a secret, but nothing can be kept under wraps forever; Egyptian mummies even become unraveled from time to time. After the second run in with Johnny law, life began to normalize once again. All my family and friends had careers, children, houses, etc. I had my job counting pills, and my addiction. One night after work I decided to go for a drive. It was on a dark, cold highway in the middle of nowhere. There were no streetlights, and I was alone on the asphalt. I remember going around seventy mph when a deer ran out in front of me. I swerved across the median, and slammed into a tree. Once I gained consciousness I could not feel my left leg. I was very cold, and it being winter was not the only reason; I was bleeding out. Luckly, I had one percent left on my trusty iphone that just so happened to lay right where it was before a seventy mile an hour impact into a full grown hardwood tree (on a side note: that tree did not move an inch from getting hit by a 1999 Pontiac Grand Prix; isn’t nature amazing). I was rescued by the fire department, and paramedics within minutes. The last thing I remember is seeing my left foot being completely turned upside down facing me; basically I could see the bottom of my sneaker. That night, I got my first helicopter ride to UAB hospital; it only cost $52,000. After a week in ICU, I was filled with bolts, stitches, a terrible ringing in my ears and a huge bottle of painkillers. This is where my addiction truly showed its ugly head. I could see it… peaking around the corner, plotting.

My life was in shambles. I was stuck at home, no car, I couldn’t walk, and hospital bills were out of this world. I had the nerve to feel sorry for myself at this point. What a schmuck I was. To feel sorry for myself. I was the one drinking all the time. I was the jerk who thought of himself, and himself only. I believed the world was out to get me, and that society owed me something. Anyways, I spent months sitting, healing and getting high as much as possible; I was finally what I never wanted to be, a loser. I was now in my late twenties, I was all healed up, and was on track to find a new job. It just so happened that an old friend of my dad’s had a position available at his place of work for twenty five years. I was so excited. To get to follow in my father’s footsteps, and finally feel like I belong. To get to talk to my dad about stuff at work; to relate to things; to “josh” around about situations, and people that he experienced on the job too. It all lasted but a moment when my hips began hurting terribly. They hurt so bad that it would make me sick. I was spotted by multiple superiors limping, and was approached about my condition. Eventually I had to resign, because I was in no condition to work. That was the best job I’d ever had, and it wasn’t even special. I simply counted parts for the business, but I couldn’t have been happier. It was where my dad worked. Now that I had free time, I got opinions from some doctors, and it turned out I had osteonecrosis; which in a nutshell means my hip joints were dying from all the alcohol consumption, and they needed to be replaced. This meant a whole year of surgeries and recovery. During this time, I met the love of my life. She was dating my old drinking partner I followed to UM years ago. We fell for each other almost instantly with our similar hatred for him. Time went by, and life was happy. I had my new hips, a beautiful, smart and successful woman in my life; nothing could go wrong. I continued to drink, and use other substances on a daily basis. We moved in together, and I got a few odd jobs here and there to at least support my habits. I was in and out of the hospital for liver disease. This was all during the rise of the coronavirus, so everything bad was doubled. I was becoming impatient with everyone around me. I hid my drinking and my using from her. I even used at work. I couldn’t even keep a job working with beer and wine, because my addiction was so strong. I was eventually let go for nodding off in the break room for hours at a time. It was terrible for me. I could feel myself losing the woman of my dreams before my very eyes. She was everything to me, but the addiction that was in my subconscious had become fully grown, and I was now only Addiction; there was no more Zach left. Not too long ago, maybe four months. I was driving down the interstate to get my substance. I had already had some drinks, and was quite buzzed. It was dark, and I slammed into a vehicle I did not see ahead of me. I scraped alongside the guard rails until the vehicle came to a complete stop. I was completely awake during this crash, but I wasn’t worried about myself anymore; I was worried about the person I hit. I was arrested that night, and taken directly to jail. I didn’t know the status of the other driver the entire time I was in jail; it was terrifying. I asked God to please let the other driver be okay. I figured it was pointless to pray that my girlfriend forgives me, or that my parents don’t disown me; so I focused on the driver I hit. I got up the next morning to the correctional officers giving the general population the most disgusting breakfast I’d ever had, but I felt like I deserved no better. My ego was shattered. That black belt, a bunch of cotton rope; that college degree, toilet paper; all my skills, ambitions, achievements and goals, gone. I was humble to anyone who treated me with the slightest hint of kindness, because I didn’t deserve to live anymore. After I ate my breakfast I laid back down on the top metal bunks in the jail to try and sleep. I closed my eyes for a second then BLANK! I wake up on the chilling concrete floor of the jail. There is a cold liquid pouring down my face like ice water. I am in a daze, and don’t know what is going on at all. I had a seizure from alcohol and drug withdrawals. The guards kept me there, and watched the security footage first before taking me to the hospital in handcuffs and shackles. I guess it’s strange to hear the other inmates yelling that I just rolled out of the top bunk, and slammed my head into the metal edges of the bottom bunk in the process; of course that sounds funny, but it’s true. I received eight staples in my head at the hospital with no numbing agent whatsoever; I was too out-of-it to care anyways. The correctional officer took me back to jail in order to wait for my bail. They didn’t give me an x-ray, or anything, but that's the legal system (don’t go to jail kids). I was finally bailed out by my undeserving father yet again. I was out of that place, that was all that mattered. I knew I was coming home to a house of judgment, and shame; I was prepared for it. We were in the car headed home when I blacked out again. Seizure numero dos. This time I was told I almost bit my tongue off. My dad panicked, and drove me straight to the emergency room where I stayed in detox for two days. Once I was out, I was without a license, a car, and everything else. That night I was going through withdrawals so severe that my little devil living inside my head thought I could sneak out my parent’s vehicle, go get my drugs and be home in time before they woke up. I was caught in the act. It had come down to one final option, rehab. This was something I avoided for a decade of my life, but there was no doubt about it, I needed professional help. I got all the affairs in order, and headed to a rehab facility in the northern part of the state. I fell in love with it. Rehab was nothing like I pictured it. I learned how to be Zach all over again. I found that little kid who worked hard to get that black belt. I also realized that I was not alone in addiction, There were hundreds of people just like me, and I found out what life had to offer. I finished my twenty-one day stay at the rehab facility. I packed my bags, the letters from my girlfriend who surprised the Hell out of me by not disappearing after my true evilness showed itself to the world. I was an open book. There were no more secrets about it, and it was the most exhilarating feeling that no drug could match; I was me again. Today, I am thirty years young. It’s a Tuesday afternoon, and I am writing this to you. I want to tell you a little bit about what I have planned for this gift I have received.

I learned how to crochet, my mom taught me back when I was riddled with metal rods after my first wreck. I did not appreciate it as much as I do now. I enjoy it so much. The simplicity of repeating a pattern, and having a final product of perfection. I am going to sell my products, and donate the proceeds to different causes. Some such as the MS society; which is a disease my mom, and millions of others suffer from on a daily basis. I am going to donate my time to speaking with younger people who suffer from depression and anxiety. I want to help other addicts find sobriety, and recover quicker than I did…much quicker than I did at that. I am going to give the girl of my dreams my grandmother’s wedding ring after I ask her to marry me. I am going to do what it takes to make other people feel the buzz and happiness that I felt when I was using drugs, and drinking all those years prior without having to put something in their body. I want to thank God that the person I hit is okay, and driving a brand new car today. I want to show the world that there is a chance for all of us. For the person who feels that hope snuck out the backdoor, and will never come to visit again. I want to bring appreciation for the little things back into the household. The joy of a delicious home-cooked meal, or small moments of laughter with a loved one. I want to shout out through the streets that you’re amazing beings with unlimited potential to do wondrous things in the universe. I want to tell the girl I love that she means everything to me, every second, of every day. I want kids to smile, and know that the unknown is positive in the future, not negative. I want it to be known that I am living proof that miracles exist. They come when you least expect it. I want to give until I am unable to give anymore. I want to share sobriety; I want to share love; I want to share life. This, the year 2022, will be one for the books when it comes to living, really LIVING.

-Zach