Craving Recovery: An Alcoholics Guide to Rehab & Life Afterwards

By Joshua M. Young

Craving Recovery is an open & honest account of alcoholism resulting from childhood trauma and how the disease of alcoholism impacted my life and my family's. After decades of drinking, recovery was desired and thus I sought out the help needed to detox safely, to finally open up and address the issue that caused the excessive drinking and through the recovery process restored relationships and improved not only my life but everyone's life around me.
Craving Recovery not only speaks to the alcoholic but also to the people dealing with a loved one with a drinking problem.
For the Alcoholic: Rehab is glamorized in the media and there are numerous myths and stigmas attached; allow me to take you through what it is actually like by way of my first-hand experience. Additionally, what does life after rehab look like; support groups, therapy, addressing your guilt & shame, identifying and dealing with the root cause of your drinking, alcohol cravings, triggers, your sober social life, relapse prevention, and living a happy and fulfilling life in sobriety.
For the loved one dealing with a problem drinker: Alcoholism is a family disease; I will walk you through the process of communicating with your loved one, intervention and available options. Additionally, I will address how to recognize the traits of an alcoholic, lying & withholding, support groups, and most importantly how sobriety can change the life of your loved one, your family and yours for the better.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667892481

Joshua M. Young

Joshua Young is a dedicated writer and public speaker in the recovery and mental health space. He passionately serves as a board member for Recovery Advocate Network, a non-profit addressing the disparity in mental health resources and focuses on aiding those with mental health disorders, processing disorders, substance abuse, trauma healing, and sexual identity challenges. Discover more about his impactful journey at joshuamyoung.com.

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Copyright © 2023 by Joshua M. Young

Craving Recovery

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

Print ISBN: 978-1-66789-247-4

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66789-248-1

Printed in the United States of America

To my family –

for your unconditional love & support

Author’s Notes

Although this book is factual, many of the names have been changed due to privacy reasons. This book contains sensitive topics such as suicide, sexual abuse & excessive drinking. I am not a trained therapist, or an expert, and this book is not intended to be a substitute for professional help. Everything mentioned in this book is based on my personal experience. If you or someone you know is struggling with substance abuse, mental health, or a victim of a sexual assault, please call:

Alcoholics Anonymous: 1-800-839-1686

Al-Anon: 1-888-425-2666

Suicide Prevention Hotline: Text or Dial 988

National Sexual Assault Hotline: [phone]-HOPE (4673)

Table of Contents

Introduction: My Story

PART 1

1. Admitting I had a Problem

2. Day 1 - Waking Up in Rehab

3. Holistic Healing

4. Day 2

5. Day 3

6. Day 4

7. Days 5, 6, and 7

8. Day 8

9. Day 9

10. Day 10 – Last Day in Rehab

PART 2

11. Day 1 Out of Rehab

12. Alcoholics Anonymous

13. The First Six Months

14. Steps 1–4

15. Steps 5–8

16. Steps 9–12

PART 3

17. Breaking Down the Myths of Rehab

18. PTSD

19. Alcoholism – a Family Disease

20. Dishonesty: Lying and Withholding

21. Guilt & Shame

22. Alcohol

23. How Long is Rehab?

24. Relapse Prevention Plan

25. The Sponsor

26. Therapy

27. Sober Social Life

Conclusion: Life Afterwards

INTRODUCTION

My Story

It is so damn dark before the dawn – Life seems to get worse before it gets better, but in the saddest, unhealthiest and most dangerous of situations, there is hope!

On my final day of drinking, or what I thought would be my final day of drinking, it happened to be Valentine’s Day, 2018. It was early in the morning, and I had just showered to wash the overnight stench of alcohol off my skin and was ready to head out for work when I was overcome with a feeling of guilt, shame, and despair. Unlike most alcoholics, who end up being forced into rehab by an intervention or court order, I knew of my own accord that I would never make it through the end of the year without it and would never get to walk my daughter down the aisle or see my son play high school football. I also knew that if I didn’t do something now, at this very moment, my wife would be a widow for the second time in her life, and her sons would be fatherless . . . again!

I think about guilt all the time, and the crazy thing is that no matter how much guilt you have, you can always top off that glass a little bit more to make it even worse than it started out. The habit of adding to the guilt glass takes years of practice, and I’m a professional when it comes to it. My guilt came from hiding my drinking problem. In other words, I lied, and once you learn to lie, it becomes routine and easier, or so one would think.

I always showered each morning and got ready in the kids’ bathroom, not the bathroom off of our master bedroom, and I’ll get into the reasons for that later, but on that Valentine’s Day morning I exited the kids’ bathroom, walked the hallway with all the courage I could muster, and sat down on the edge of the bathtub behind my wife. My wife Sasha was standing at the counter getting ready for work herself, and with a lump in my throat, I finally broke down and told her, I have a drinking problem, and I need help. Sasha looked at me, and with a tender glance reflecting off the bathroom mirror, she softly said, It is about time you admit that obvious fact. We’ll get you the help you need.

My drinking career, and yes, it was a career, began, like most people’s, in high school. My grandfathers were alcoholics, my dad is an alcoholic, and at every party or event I attended, alcohol was center stage. I had tasted alcohol before high school and thought it was awful, but it wasn’t until I was a sophomore, at the age of fourteen, that I realized that alcohol would soon become my best friend and help me solve my problems. I had problems—boy, did I have problems—specifically one big one that I perceived as solely mine to solve.

I was at a typical high school party at a friend’s house. His parents were out of town, and they had beer and vodka there. I was only fourteen, and this was my first official high school party, an awesome one with loud music, lots of girls, a lot of laughs, and lots of booze. I didn’t like the taste of beer at the time, so vodka was the clear choice; mix it with Kool-Aid, and it was awesome. The pain in my life numbed instantly the minute I imbibed it, and I was happy, although the next thing I recall is being woken up by the police in my friend’s parents’ bathroom with a half-naked girl lying next to me and our shirts and pants in the sink. According to my friends, who filled me in on what had transpired at the party at school that next week, the girl and I were starting to hook up when we both started feeling sick from the booze, and so my friends hustled us to the bathroom, where we ended up sharing the toilet to vomit. I, of course, didn’t remember a thing, much less how our clothes ended up in the sink.

I was fairly popular in high school; I was on the football team, hooked up with lots of girls, went to parties, surfed, got good grades, and hung out with multiple groups of friends, which is easy to do in a high school with five thousand kids. I thought, like a lot of kids do, that I was on top of the world and could do no wrong; if I kept lying to myself and to others, I’d be just fine.

Constant lying started early for me. In eighth grade, lying became a habit. I went from making the honor roll to failing most of my classes. Before the days of the Internet and parents being able to check, in real time, their kids’ grades online, parents would only be informed of poor grades by a letter sent home from the teacher (a progress report) or when the physical report card was sent home twice a year. To say the least, I would always start sweating the moment I had to hand over the report card. I was grounded indefinitely throughout eighth grade, of course, and my parents got the same answer to every question they asked of me, which was I don’t know. Why did you do this? I don’t know. Why didn’t you do your homework? I don’t know. Why didn’t you do well on the test? I don’t know. Today, as a parent, I realize this is the most frustrating answer a kid can give you. I knew at the time I had to get better about actually coming up with a reason other than I don’t know, even if it was a lie.

My mom’s nickname in high school was nails, not because she had nice nails but because she used her nails to fight with or so the story goes. My mom was extraordinarily caring, always hugging and loving on us, but when we got into trouble, it was another story. ‘Hit first and ask questions later’ was her way of dealing with us. My dad was also very loving but wasn’t one to hit us unless prompted by my mom to do so. He used a hiking belt to spank me, and I hated this belt as it had little metal rings all around it. This belt always scared the shit out of me as it would leave little red rings on my ass, and I thought at the time that life sucked and wondered if it was worth living.

I remember the first time I considered killing myself. It was a Friday night, and the family had gone to Sizzler’s restaurant to have dinner. While at dinner, I was doing my best to avoid having a conversation about school, but my older sister, who was already in high school, ruined my night by bringing up her straight As. My mom knew I had had a test earlier that day, and being a good kid, I was honest and told her that I had failed it. My mom looked me straight in the eye with a smile and said, Okay, you’ll get the belt when we get home; enjoy your dinner. Right, enjoy my dinner. How in the hell would I enjoy my all-you-can-eat Sizzler salad bar with that lingering over my head? I’ve never understood how someone on death row could eat a last meal, because knowing the pain and suffering to come made me sick to my stomach. As a kid, knowing that this was in store for me was the equivalent of a painful death. I excused myself to go to the restroom and found myself looking in the mirror and asking myself how I could possibly get out of this situation . . . wait, what if I killed myself? I didn’t end up attempting suicide that night, but it was the beginning of a life spent contemplating and attempting suicide if things got too bad.

I had to start lying, so I did. My mom worked during the day, and I would walk home from school, and the key was always in the mailbox, so I’d just let myself in as a typical latchkey kid would do. My mom called home one day to check in, and I answered, with her immediate question being whether I’d taken the trash out or not, like she had reminded me to do so before I left for school. I told her I hadn’t done it yet but would do it now. She of course told me that I needed to take the trash out now and reminded me that I’d get the belt that night for not doing my chores as she’d asked. Why in the hell didn’t I lie? There was no way for her to know if I had or hadn’t taken it out. Going forward, instead of admitting I hadn’t taken the trash out, I’d just tell her yes, and she’d be happy. Problem solved. Mark this one down on the list of lies that would be in my back pocket from that day forward.

There were also obviously great times growing up and growing older, although my years from the eighth grade to the fall of my sophomore year were the most difficult, challenging, and secretive for me. These years comprised a lot of confusion, lies told to me, and an incident that would shape my life into something of a nightmare for the years and decades to follow.

In my opinion, all the adults in their lives, and not just their parents, are supposed to look out for children. What you are about to read is not regarding a family member or even a family friend, but an adult nonetheless.

Like all kids, we dream of being the best at what we do. Perhaps that dream is hitting a home run in the ninth inning of the World Series or scoring the game’s winning touchdown in the Super Bowl; at least it was for me. Football was huge in my life during my youth. I had season tickets to the Rams and USC and excelled at playing the game. I was younger than every single one of my friends, starting high school at thirteen. I knew that I would have to work harder than all of them to prove my worth and would need to build muscle and work on my speed in order to even step foot on the field, not only to protect myself but to add value to the team.

When I was in seventh grade, I worked out and ran with my dad all the time, and he even surprised me at Christmas with a weight set, which was awesome, as my friend Steve and I would work out with the set all the time. My dad’s best friend, Wally, would also work out with me and teach me about fitness, diet, and the special workouts he was taught in the military during the Vietnam War as a Green Beret. There was another adult individual that I really made a connection with, although he wasn’t a family friend, just an acquaintance. This individual entered my brain every single night for the next forty years.

It is said that a child predator can be identified as someone who pays unique attention to a child. They first start by making a connection in an effort to learn as much about the child as they can. The next step of a child predator is to try to get the child to do something that involves being alone together. Other identifying factors could include someone who buys stuff for the child to buy their attention or someone who indulges in strange touching or even shares inappropriate information with the child. The most worrisome kind of child predator is someone that tells the child they must keep a secret and not tell anyone.

Today, I know that a child predator can be married or single; they can be of any race, gender, or ethnicity; they can be highly educated or not; and there is no classic child predator. In other words, a child predator looks just like you and me and is often hidden in plain sight. What I didn’t realize at the time but realized later in life was that I was the victim, and for a long time I blamed my parents for not keeping a closer eye on me and tried so many times to rationalize things in my own head, even to the point of blaming myself.

Being a thirteen-year-old latchkey kid in eighth grade was the main issue. I started getting questions from this individual about what time I’d get out of school, where my school was, what I’d be doing after school, and if I could ever hang out. I sincerely liked and looked up to this person, so I never wanted to say anything that could potentially get them, or more importantly, me, in trouble. There was no Internet at the time, so looking up this type of behavior wasn’t something I could have done and wouldn’t have done anyway. There were no Dateline programs around this subject and no online ways to interact with this predator that my parents could monitor—nothing at all. The early 80s were a time when kids would leave all day and come home when the streetlights came on; it was not as if there were cell phones or GPS.

It all started out innocently enough, I thought at the time. He would call me at home, and we’d talk about football, my workout schedule, my diet, etc., and he would give me plans to build up my body. He then showed up at my school one day, only after I’d told him specifically where I went to school, and he told me he would drop me off at home. He knew that my parents worked days, and nobody would see him, although he made me promise that I wouldn’t mention this to anyone, or he wouldn’t be allowed to hang out with me anymore. At thirteen years old and in the eighth grade, I was very impressionable, and I thought he was cool, and I wanted to be cool, so I did what he said. He would usually pick me up once a week, and even though my elementary school was only a block away from my house, he would take me to the liquor store, where we would play a few video games, and he would buy me candy and soda, but don’t tell your mom or dad would always follow.

The summer of 1984 was when everything changed. I was in high school football summer camp, and I would always walk home, which was a good thirty-minute walk. However, walking home for me didn’t last long as he would have me meet him in a parking lot adjacent to the high school as not to draw attention to us, although that wasn’t the reason he would give me. He would always lean in and give me a hug, which I found odd, but he had been doing this for the past year, so I didn’t think much of It. Our conversations would always be the same; he’d ask about my workout, and then he would touch my arms, chest, and thighs to see if he could tell if I was getting stronger. For the first few weeks of summer, the routine was the same: he’d pick me up, he’d check my muscles, and he would have a few ideas on how I could gain more muscle, then he’d drop me off down the street from my house so nobody would see him. One day, the talk changed a bit as he started talking about the weights he had at his house and that I’d really get a lot out of using them to train. He started asking if I had to be home at a certain time and started guilting me about not working hard enough while working out and saying that if I was serious about playing football that I needed his help. I agreed to have him personally train me but was reminded not to tell anyone, which I didn’t.

One of the things that I was never taught was about setting boundaries and that if someone makes me scared or uncomfortable that I can tell my parents about it. In my house, we didn’t openly talk about sexual abuse or sexuality. I wish I would have had someone tell me that I was not going to get in trouble for telling my parents about this predator, but as a nervous kid, getting in trouble always crossed my mind. I’m sure my parents felt that it wouldn’t happen to their child . . . but it did. Today, I know how to be prepared to spot the red flags before something happens, as these types of child predators have specific child grooming techniques. One in five girls and one in eight boys are victims of child predators before the age of eighteen, and this is only the number of reported incidents. I wasn’t in that count; therefore, the number must be higher.

When I first got to his house, he took me straight to the weights room, which was set up in a bedroom off the hallway. He had every piece of workout equipment, and I was impressed. He seriously said that we had to have a verbal contract that specifically stated that he was in charge and not to tell my parents as he didn’t want them thinking I was being worked too hard. I recall him telling me that we needed to know what point I was starting at in terms of muscle growth, so he had me take my shirt off so he could measure my chest, arms, and then my thighs, and he would go on to tell me this was how professional athletes measured change. He kept a little chart that