The perilous escape ...

This one is hard to read.  Wolf Recht graduated from high school in 2016, an experience he describes as "confusing." When he left for college, things got even more confusing.

Wolf attended Cal Poly SLO for two years where he mostly took coursework in Forestry and Landscape Architecture. After dropping out of college due to his difficulty managing a "hazily diagnosed" mental illness (he is quoted), which most closely resembled bipolar disorder, he worked odd jobs like welding, landscaping, and tree care. After a series of run-ins with the law, he began working very intentionally on sobriety starting in October of 2018.

Wolf's story is harrowing. He went from a super intellectual kid in my AP Language class to a young man fighting for his life. "My post," he said, "is a brief description of my struggle with mental illness and substance abuse, its possible causes and its tangible consequences."

- C.H.

Before I begin, I do not care whether the subject matter concerned makes you uncomfortable; you the reader should know that I’m not ashamed of who I am today, nor do I intend to accommodate the likely target audience’s insulated and all too privileged, removed perspective on an objectively taboo matter. I am not your buddy, and this is not a funny feel-good story. What I have to say deals with social issues which a lot of people all too often pretend don’t affect them. I know in my heart that I have worked incredibly hard to get to where I am today. That said, I am not resentful, nor am I looking for sympathy. I am not trying to prove anything, either, except that I needed help and either I shunned it or it was never there in the first place. In writing this I am seeking a sort of catharsis, and simultaneously actively hoping that someone else, perhaps younger than me, might read this and realize that they don’t necessarily have to go as far down the road as I did. Hypothetically speaking they will realize that I did this shit so that they wouldn't have to. Maybe they’ll even consider reaching out to someone that they see is having a hard time. Shit happens close to home whether you’d like to believe it or not.

For as long as I have been relatively sentient, I have yearned to escape— escape my harrowing loneliness; escape my deep depression; escape my persistent anxiety; escape people, modernity, triviality, commercialism, shame, guilt, hurt, carnality, gluttony, whatever; escape everything, everything. It seemed that only I suffered the way I did, and that feeling of utter isolation has never left my life. So I hid in high school. Most will probably remember a strange aloof fellow, who, probably stoned, donned shoulder length hair and a camo bucket hat. He took interest only in eccentricities and fringes like the Velvet Underground and psychedelics. He was excited to talk about ecology and Jack Kerouac, but otherwise he wasn’t seen around. At least I sensed there were hazy rumors surrounding my identity, and, apropos of that apparent reticence, I nearly took pride in my solitude. It is no wonder why I would go on to take a profound interest in things like surfing and backpacking— they took me to places where even people’s best wishes had no power over whether I lived or died. So I was mostly alone; my friendships in high school mostly tended either to end poorly or only scratch the surface. But all that is irrelevant now except with regards to where that eventually led me. More than forming meaningful relationships with my peers, I was interested in seeking peace of mind on my own terms— thus I cannot write an earnest retrospective piece without focusing primarily upon the effect that substance abuse has had upon my life. It occurs to me that in order to give credence to the trajectory that my life has taken due to drug and alcohol abuse, I should tell this narrative backward from where I find myself now. Today I am one hundred days sober. My process of recovery has been the most profoundly difficult undertaking in my life so far. I have spent the last few months shuffling around between one detox, two inpatient treatment centers, one psychiatric ward, one halfway house, and one outpatient treatment center. Before that, I spent more than enough weeks homeless and more than enough nights in the San Diego County Jail. When I was admitted to my detox, and before that when I was booked into jail, I suffered full-blown delirium tremens due to withdrawal from multiple substances. I shook like a leaf, sweated bullets, and vomited until all that was left were dry heaves. Even before I was homeless, I was a morning drinker. I was a daytime drinker; I was an evening drinker; I was a nighttime blackout drinker, so I don’t remember much about the nightimes in particular (but I’d prefer not to remember them anyway). On top of that, by the time I found my situation worsening rapidly and dramatically, I had also become addicted to methamphetamine. Any problem drinker or drug addict will know what I mean when I say that at a certain point I did not drink or use to have fun. I drank and used so that I wouldn’t feel sick to my stomach. So that I could feel like a normal person. So that I wouldn’t kill myself. So that having nowhere to sleep and consequently staying up for three days consecutively would feel manageable. Life had become and would continue to become increasingly dark and appalling. I can say confidently that I have seen things on the street that no man should ever have to see. That I have had things done to me that no man should ever have to endure. That in order to survive I have myself done things to others that no upright man should ever do. I cheated, stole, lied, and hurt people physically and emotionally. I can say confidently that I was moving fast to insanity or death— that sobriety has saved my life from ruin, and the lives of those who love me from torment. Nobody besides myself will ever be able to understand the difficulty with which sobriety came in my case, but unfortunately that’s the plight of the addict in recovery. There were times I felt I simply couldn’t carry on, but I did anyway. It wasn’t easy to swallow the notion that the method of coping that I had used since early adolescence was going to kill me if it didn’t make me kill someone else first. It wasn’t easy to swallow the notion that I had to seek recovery for myself when I hated myself. But I tried with every ounce of my willpower to trust that drinking and using were making me wretched to the very core, even when my physiology told me that I desperately needed to get high; before I could love myself enough to seek recovery for myself, I told myself I was doing it for my mother or for my girlfriend. At least I knew surely that my situation was dire, that I never wanted to cry through the phone in a jail cell again. Anything was better than that.

Today I am feeling like a man again. Today I started a new job with great growth potential with a private forestry company that works on a contract basis with federal, state, and nonprofit organizations. A few days ago I applied to a university in Canada— I think I might give school another try. Today I have a roof over my head. Today I love my girlfriend and she loves me back. I trust her and she trusts me. If none of what I’ve shared feels relevant, kindly carry on with your day. But if it resonates, know that things can get better if you try earnestly to better yourself. And never be ashamed to share. If the people you surround yourself with can’t find the courage to help you, maybe they shouldn’t be around you. Addiction and mental health issues are not a weakness, but apathy and selfishness are. Be proud of what you’ve got inside, who you know you can be.