“Daddy died,” my mom forced out in between sobs. In the middle of the night, my father passed away from an unforeseen aneurysm. Suddenly I was fatherless. With a broken mother who would quickly turn to drinking and men as the salve for her shattered heart. The mundane life of an eight-year-old was just a quickly fading memory. For the next year, my life was nothing but a blur—trying to navigate this new devastating landscape. I watched my mother unravel. A car accident, trysts, despair. And then she met him.
My “step-father” or as I fondly liked to call him, the bane of my existence. By the time I was ten, they were married. With that marriage came a sweet little side of abuse. It was slight at first. As I grew, I started to realize a truth about myself that I had in some way always known: I’m gay. This was not met with warmth in my household. We were deeply immersed in a colorado evangelical christian church (I’m not capitalizing that out of pettiness and pride). I simply could not be gay. The solution was prayer. At church I was going to hell. At home I was already there. The abuse started to escalate. I started to run away. Act out. Anything to make the torture of existing in that house end. After five long years of a war within myself and my household, I left. For good. In the pouring rain I ran away from home, never looking back. And thankfully for me, never going back.
School was a struggle, given how tumultuous my early life had been. I made it to high school and quickly found that it provided me an escape. I could be myself. I made friends. Friends that embraced me despite my quirks, home life and, of course, my sexuality. When I ran away for that last time, these friends provided sanctuary for me. Then my aunt flew to colorado from Michigan and offered me both a lifeline and a proposition: move back to Michigan with her and her partner or move in with my maternal grandma. I chose the latter, not wanting to leave the friends I cherished behind. Thus, I moved in with my grandmother and quickly went from a life being ruled with the angry iron fist of god to a latch-key kid. I loved my grandmother dearly, yet we functioned more as roommates than anything more traditionally parental. I loved every freaking minute of it.
My junior year I transferred schools. I told myself it was for a plethora of reasons, but in reality I was chasing the high of popularity—one of many highs to come. I left my band friends behind, mid marching band season, and switched to a school where I was suddenly the funny, sassy gay boy in a sea of jocks and wealth. However, I quickly started falling into a depression and skipping school. Looking back, I realize I have always lived in the shadow of a major depression diagnosis, but at the time I was just experiencing “teenage angst.” This would prove to be the start of my unraveling. Soon I was actively seeking out marijuana, curious about what I was seeing in pop culture and what the “cool stoner” kids were up to. I tried it for the first time and honestly had the time of my life. But I knew better than to do it every day. At least at the time. Besides, I couldn’t hang with the anxiety.
Being friends with the popular kids brought about that cliche straight out of a John Hughes movie: parties. Alcohol entered my orbit. It was love at first blackout. All the social anxiety, all the past hurt, all of the internalized homophobia vanished into a shot glass. Weekend get togethers became a staple of my senior year and would carry me through to my first attempt at college. College quickly gave me all the excuses to drink and smoke weed on a daily basis. Every day had a cute little nickname and reason to imbibe: Thirsty Thursday, Wasted Wednesday, Twisted Tuesday. My friendships were built and cemented on a foundation of debauchery. Unsurprisingly, I barely passed my classes and decided not to return for a second year. Besides, I had found my calling. Friendship and fuckery. I strung together menial jobs and found an apartment. This only lasted a few months before I would pull my first geographic. I moved to Michigan in the hopes of escaping myself and my poor decision making.
I remained in Michigan for six months. I found a job I loved and new friends to get rowdy with. I put together some savings and a plan: move back to denver and live with my biological dad’s side of the family, under the guise of getting closer to both his memory and estranged family. In reality, I was just eager to get back to my colorado friends and the parties. Attempt number two at college, which lasted less than one semester. I was 21, with a small inheritance. I was unstoppable.
Unfortunately, certain apps for gay men became more prevalent and soon I found myself in bed with questionable men and even more questionable substances. Enter: meth. It scared me the first time I tried it. It made me feel immortal. It also worsened my already severe anxiety. I swore to never do it again and said nothing of it to my friends. However, as the drinking increased, my inhibitions and self-worth decreased and I would find myself repeatedly hooking up with men who had that substance. Within a year I was trying it intravenously, falling into a week-long psychosis, and getting arrested. As a result, I got kicked out of my living situation and would experience my first true bout of homelessness. I waxed poetic and told myself and anyone that would listen that I was simply couch surfing until I got a place. I was a victim of poor circumstances, dangerous men, and an unjust family. I managed to convince myself and only myself.
I entered into a whirlwind of various living arrangements, jobs I hated, and the thinnest veil of stability. The constants I had were the drinks, the drugs, and the friends. I managed to survive the beginning of my twenties. Then, when I was 24, my world was once again rocked. This time in an utterly irreversible way. I was diagnosed with HIV. I was broken. I could finally justify the narrative I had been living with my whole life. I was damaged. Ugly. Unlovable. I wielded this diagnosis as a weapon of my own destruction. I could drink however I wanted. I could be stoned all day, every day and no one could stop me. Any reservations I had about meth evaporated, even if I blamed it for the diagnosis. As my mental state started to spiral I began to contemplate suicide, something I would do often over the coming years. I somehow got on medication and maintained the facade I was always upholding: I’m ok. This would only last about two years before I once again found myself moving back to Michigan and running away from myself and my problems. So, with the help of my aunt, I managed to scrape the semblance of a life back together. Within nine months I was drunk, hopeless, thinking about death as I sat on the floor of my freezing studio apartment. I knew things needed to change. But how? I only had one solution and that was frighteningly permanent.
I went to the hospital and my first trip to treatment. After a short two-week program I was convinced I had this thing beat. And then, two days later, the world shut down. COVID. Suddenly, I was isolated and alone, with no meetings or program to back me up. Of course, drinking was my only problem so I almost instantaneously turned back to weed. This would sustain me into a relationship and through the next eight months of my life. But, on the anniversary of my dad’s death, I got drunk. Shortly after that I was drunk again. I used the fact that I was unhappy in my relationship to fuel even more drinking and soon I was single, homeless, and suicidal. Treatment round two, this time a three-week program. I went from there to a sober living. Relapsed. Back to homelessness. And then, with a little help from my best friend, I went from homeless in Michigan to treatment in California. This would be the start of a three and a half year cycle of treatment centers to sober livings, back to treatment centers. Relapse after relapse after relapse. Sometimes on meth. Mostly on alcohol. I couldn’t believe that I was worth getting sober. So I kept choosing not to let myself.
After leaving my eleventh treatment episode of my own volition, I wound up staying with a friend over this past summer. Naturally, we were both in the midst of full-blown addiction and I knew almost straight away that I was on a one way path to nowhere good. Yet a little glimmer somewhere deep inside told me that this was not the path I would stay on. With a little prodding from the friend I was staying with, I reached out to a member of staff here at Beit T’Shuvah that I had become friends with years earlier at another program. Cameron encouraged me to contact admissions and within a few weeks I was walking up the steps to yet another life-changing experience. This one for the better.
Almost six months in and I’m still learning that I am more than my trauma and deserving of love. I’m learning how to be worthy of being sober. I have a therapist and treatment team that I can get honest with. I have an internship with the Film Department that gives me a sense of purpose and belonging. I’m participating in the LA Marathon, something I never thought I would be doing. I’m developing some truly deep and loving friendships that will hopefully be lasting. I’m learning how to be part of a community that means the world to me.
Throughout my life I’ve existed behind many labels. Orphan. Friend. Gay boy. Band geek. Stoner. Alcoholic. Addict. I’d crafted an armor out of my trauma. Beit T’Shuvah broke through that armor. Here I have found a family. I have people that see me when I can’t see myself. I have a new identifier, perhaps the most important one to me: My name is Justin and I am a grateful member of this community.