NOT THAT STORY.
About five years ago, I stumbled across a secret—a thread so quiet, so hidden, it felt like a ghost story no one wanted to tell. A truth so raw it burned: someone out there fought a battle with the bottle, and maybe more. I don’t know the full story—just that booze played a heavy hand and whatever else was swirling in their world, it ended in silence. I don’t know if it was an accident, a slow unraveling, or something more intentional. But in the end, the outcome is the same: a scream swallowed by darkness, pain with no name, a wound everyone’s too scared to touch. No neat conclusions, no comforting clichés. Just shadows and echoes that refuse to die.
That story became my inheritance, even though we never shared a moment, a meal, or even a breath in the same room. I don’t carry their name, and we didn’t grow up together, but somehow, their story lodged itself in my bones. Like a phantom limb, their struggle throbs in me. The chaos they carried? It whispers in my blood too. I know the storm. I know what it feels like to stand in front of the mirror and lie to your own reflection. “I’m fine. I’ve got this. This won’t take me down.” Until it does.
And that’s what terrifies me. Because I see how close I’ve come to that same edge. Not once, not twice—too many times to count.
I was a lost soul, wandering through dark corridors of my own mind, caught in the chaos of manic depression and CPTSD. These aren’t just diagnoses—they’re landmines under the surface, waiting. I walk through my days with a smile and a scream tucked into the same breath. Some days, the darkness brushes so close I swear I can feel it breathing. Some nights, I stare down the edge of the bed and wonder if slipping into the void would finally quiet the noise.
But I don’t. Not this time. Not now. Not anymore.
Because every day I choose sobriety, I’m choosing to live. I’m choosing to stay. I’m choosing to rewrite the ending that once felt inevitable.
This is no past‑tense story. This is now. This is breath‑by‑breath recovery. This is waking up with cravings and whispers and lies circling like vultures—and still saying, “No. Not today.”
Lately, it feels like everyone around me is detonating at once—hitting their own rock bottom and torching their sobriety in the process. I scroll and see the shaky Facebook Lives, the slurred voicemails, the late-night posts that read like digital cries for help. Old friends who once chanted “One day at a time” are falling like dominoes, and the crash is deafening.
It should tempt me.
Instead, it turns my stomach.
It looks so ugly—so soooo ugly—I can taste the rot through the screen. And that revulsion? That’s a good sign. It’s proof the lie doesn’t own me anymore. It’s the Holy Spirit yanking the curtains wide: See what it really is.
So I double-down. I grip Jesus with one hand and the truth with the other. I’m still learning this sober life—I’m no old-timer with a medallion and a mantra. But I know what I’m running from. I’ve seen too many friends circle through detox and rehab like a revolving door, only to be pulled back into the pit. And every time, it guts me.
I don’t think I’m better than them. I’m just terrified I could be them.
But honesty time: their implosions don’t stay self‑contained. One of them—someone I loved like family—took their spiraling pain and aimed it right at me. They hurled brutal accusations about my walk with God, trying to pin their shame on my shoulders. I know it’s the disease talking—the bottle bending reality, trauma running the show—but the shrapnel still cut deep. I walked away bleeding feelings I didn’t have names for.
But here’s the shift: I’m taking that wound and letting it drive me toward healing, not destruction. Every harsh word they threw at me? It’s become fuel—not for revenge or rage, but for running harder toward Jesus. That pain is what pushes me deeper into prayer, into Scripture, into the arms of the One who still calls me His. Their darkness won’t become my downfall. It’s becoming the backdrop that makes His light shine even brighter in me.
But that fear? It drives me to the Cross. It drives me to my knees. Because if I ever start believing I can do this alone, I’m already halfway gone. Jesus is the only reason I haven’t gone under. Not willpower. Not a chip. Him. Just Him.
Every time I resist the drink, I’m not just numbing out—I’m standing at the edge of a cliff with the wind screaming lies in my face. I’m gambling with everything that matters. Because giving in wouldn’t just hurt me—it would unleash a generational echo of trauma, disappointment, and shame. I’ve got children watching. I’ve got grandbabies whose tiny lives deserve better than the broken legacy I once carried. And I will not—I refuse—to hand them that curse like it’s some inevitable inheritance.
So I quit. Not because I hit rock bottom. Not because someone staged an intervention or shoved a mirror in my face. I quit because I saw the end of that road—and it’s a graveyard of forgotten dreams and spiritual death. I quit because I finally realized I was sacrificing everything real and holy and good for something that never loved me, never gave back, never cared if I lived or died. I quit because I was done bleeding myself dry for a poison dressed up as relief.
I want to see clearly. To feel it all, even when it burns. I want to live this life with sober eyes, open hands, and a heart that doesn’t hide anymore. I want to see my grandbabies laugh and know I’m really present. I want to watch a sunrise without fog between me and the sky.
Yeah—I’ve got other vices too. This isn’t just about drinking. There are still demons hiding in the corners of my mind, habits that haven’t fully loosened their grip yet. I’m still working on the cussing—I slip, and it gets to me. It really does. But I don’t shy away from the fight anymore. I face it head‑on, knowing I’m not doing it alone. I’m turning from my sinful past, one shaky step at a time, with the Lord walking beside me. And here’s the truth: I’m more afraid of disappointing my Jesus than I am of giving in to any of these old cravings. That reverent fear—it keeps me grounded. Keeps me reaching for something greater. With Him, I’m committed to this journey, one hard‑won moment at a time.
This season of my life? It’s weird terrain. Wild. Unfamiliar. And honestly, most people don’t get it. They look at me like I’ve grown a second head when I talk about sobriety or spiritual discipline. I see the sideways glances, the polite nods, the underlying confusion. And for a long time, I hated having to explain myself. I’d think, Why can’t I just heal in private? Why do I have to bleed out in front of people who don’t understand? But I know now: this isn’t just my healing—it’s my witness.
This is how I share our Jesus—not with perfect theology, but through this gritty, ongoing, in‑progress mess. Through the scars that are still raw and the fight that’s far from over. My voice still trembles because I’m standing smack in the middle of the storm, pointing up and saying, “He’s here. Even now.”
I’m learning to show up like this—on social media, in this blog, anywhere I can get these messy truths out—because it’s the only way I know how to reach people right now. I post even when my hands shake, even when doubt creeps in, because maybe, just maybe, someone out there will see my brokenness and feel a little less alone. That’s how God is using this chaos—turning my scars into lifelines, my raw story into a beacon. And if that’s the ministry I’m called to, then I’ll keep showing up, keep sharing, keep being real.
Healing is messy. It’s ugly. It’s loud and holy and chaotic and strange. It’s falling down at 2 a.m. and still waking up to try again. It’s not pretty—but it’s real. And real is where Jesus meets me best.
He’s not some judge in the sky with a clipboard and a disappointed sigh. He’s down here in the dirt with me, sleeves rolled up, holding my shaking hands, whispering, “You are loved. You are called. You are covered in a grace that doesn’t run out.” Even when I relapse in thought. Even when I want to quit. Even when I cuss and cry and shake my fist at heaven—He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t leave.
This season? It’s sacred and clumsy and holy and hard. But it’s mine. It’s real. And that’s where Jesus meets me—every. single. day.
And now I see it clearly—God sent His only Son to save me. Me. Not some cleaned‑up, post‑rehab, Instagrammable version of me. He came for the mess, the broken, the barely‑holding‑on version. I didn’t earn it. I didn’t deserve it. But I get to receive it. That’s the miracle. That’s the lifeline. That’s what changed everything.
I’m not the silent, broken story I once feared I’d become. I’m the one still being written. I’m the comeback. I’m the fire. I’m the middle of the miracle. Still scrappy. Still saved. Still sober—choosing this fight day after day. And with Jesus? I’m not just surviving anymore. I’m rebuilding.
Madge