Chapter 2: The First Crack

The irony wasn't lost on me. I was born with a silver spoon, nestled in a family that overflowed with love. Mum, Dad, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins – a sprawling network of support, a constant hum of "someone's there for you" pulsing through my veins. My earliest memories are a tapestry of golden sunshine – Dad, a mischievous glint in his eyes, constructing elaborate obstacle courses in the backyard, my sisters and I squealing with delight as we conquered each challenge. It was a picture-perfect childhood. Days were spent building sandcastles on sun-drenched beaches, our laughter echoing as we tumbled down dunes and chased retreating waves. Christmases were a kaleidoscope of brightly wrapped presents, overflowing tables groaning with food, and the warm embrace of extended family. Love, genuine and boundless, seemed to permeate every corner of my world.

Then, at the tender age of thirteen, the ground shifted beneath my feet. One crisp morning, Mum's voice, usually laced with the melody of morning routines, held a tremor I'd never heard before. "You won't be going to school today," she announced, her eyes red-rimmed. We, my sisters and I, huddled together in the kitchen, a collective sense of unease hanging heavy in the air. Then came the news, delivered with a voice thick with grief. My Uncle, Dad's youngest brother, was gone. Suicide, they whispered, on his 25th birthday. It was a word I barely understood, a concept so foreign to my sheltered world. The stark reality of it – that someone could choose to leave, to remove themselves from the tapestry of life – slammed into me with the force of a tidal wave. It was a revelation that would forever alter the course of my thoughts.

The funeral is etched into my memory with the clarity of a photograph. Grandma, a pillar of strength throughout my life, crumpled into a heap of sobs as the casket, left the room, Jimi Hendrix’s Wind Cries Mary playing in the background. My Dad's eyes were hollow, a reflection of the gaping hole ripped open in his heart. Later, I learned about his mates, their grief a raw, defiant roar as they paddled out on their surfboards to catch waves for him one last time. A poignant tribute, yet it couldn't erase the unsettling feeling that had taken root within me. The world, once a playground of endless possibilities, now felt vaguely dangerous, a place where even the seemingly secure foundations could crumble in an instant. The carefree laughter of my childhood had been replaced by a disquieting silence, a constant hum of "what if" echoing in the hollow space where comfort used to reside. School, sports, friends, family – the routine continued, a facade of normalcy masking the storm brewing within.

Chapter 3 – A Magnificent Blur

The first taste of alcohol wasn't a rebellion, but a refuge. It was a fleeting escape from the weight that had begun to settle on my chest shortly after my uncle's passing. A few drinks, and for a glorious night, the crushing darkness lifted. I craved the oblivion it offered, a stark contrast to the constant churning in my head.

School counsellors became a revolving door. Words failed me as I tried to describe the hollowness that consumed me. By fifteen, the pressure valve burst. School became an insurmountable hurdle, and I dropped out, clinging to my mum and dad for a lifeline.

Seven months away gave me a chance to breathe, and the following year, I returned, determined to carve out a new normal. Year ten was a beacon of light. I found a group of amazing friends, and laughter filled the void for a while. Memories of that year are a collage of fun, mischief, and the comfort of belonging.

But impermanence seemed to be my shadow. Moving away ripped those friendships apart. In the new school, the familiar unease returned, and finishing year eleven and twelve was a bridge too far.

Eighteen arrived, a milestone that felt unearned. Running became my coping mechanism. My first escape was a short-lived stint on Hamilton Island. Back home, I found solace in the familiar buzz of local pubs, while pursuing an entry-level university course.

I would attend three more funerals by the time I was twenty. One of my sister’s friends, My Dad’s Dad and my Mum’s Mum. Each funeral a burning reminder of the fragility of life and the struggle to go on missing these people.

Love, when it arrived, felt like a lifeline. Acceptance into a Criminology program in Bathurst offered a chance at a fresh start. Yet, the pattern repeated – a whirlwind of excitement followed by a swift retreat.

Then came the pregnancy. The loss at thirteen weeks shattered me, the foundation of my budding relationship fracturing under the weight of grief.

At twenty-three, with a one-way ticket to the Greek Islands clenched in my hand, I traded my car for escape. A UK visa opened the door to a two-year European odyssey. England, Scotland, Wales – a blur of pubs, clubs, and new faces against the backdrop of breathtaking landscapes. Sky diving in the Swiss Alps, caving in Budapest, music festivals in Germany, getting lost in Italy – it was a myriad of fun filled days and late nights.

I would experience two more family deaths in this time – my Uncle, Mum’s little brother and my Grandad, Mum’s Dad. I was back in Australia for my Uncle’s funeral – another harrowing experience as we were close, shattering the world of my Aunty and two small cousins - but would miss my Grandad’s. Distance made this especially hard and I struggled with bad dreams and restless nights.

My next stop, Wales, unbeknownst to me, would be another turning point. There, I met Chris. His imminent departure for Australia was thwarted by our connection, his flight ticket gathering dust.

Those first weeks together were pure joy – days filled with laughter, shared drinks over pool tables, and the exhilarating rush of getting to know each other. We moved in together, forging a bond that felt unbreakable. Eight months later, we embarked on a journey back to Australia – me to Newcastle, him to Brisbane, with a promise to reunite soon.

A few weeks later, Chris was by my side, and we moved in with my parents, saving for a place of our own. The future stretched before us, a blank canvas waiting to be filled.

But beneath the surface, the darkness still lingered, a storm waiting to break.

Chapter 4 – The Highs and Hells

By my mid-twenties, the daily clink of a beer bottle had become a constant companion. It was easy to maintain the illusion of carefree fun while hopping from country to country. But when the whirlwind settled, the reality of my dependence on alcohol remained.

Back in Australia, life took on a semblance of normalcy. Chris and I bought our first home, a symbol of stability and shared dreams. I enrolled in a Bachelor of Business program, determined to build a future for us both. An unexpected opportunity arose – a chance to manage a restaurant in the heart of the CBD.

For the first time, I felt like I was truly thriving. University, a demanding job – I juggled it all with a manic fervour. Money was poured into books on restaurant management, three devoured at a time. My grades remained surprisingly good, fuelled by a relentless drive. "This is adulthood," I thought, a giddy sense of accomplishment washing over me.

Obsession soon replaced ambition. Salt and pepper shakers had to be angled precisely, blackboards meticulously redone until they were flawless. My once-friendly demeanour gave way to a short temper with staff. University assignments, neglected amidst the chaos, became an urgent scramble for extensions. Paranoia, a slow creep, convinced me every customer was whispering about me.

Then, one day, the world tilted on its axis. During a lunch shift, the walls seemed to close in. Every glance felt accusatory, the air thick with unspoken judgment. Panic seized me, suffocating and relentless. I shut down the restaurant, collapsing under the weight of my own delusions. My doctor, recognizing the signs, sent me straight to the hospital.

A month in a locked mental health ward followed. The diagnosis: Bipolar Type 2, the new term for what was once called manic depression. My manic episode, fuelled by hyperactivity and a distorted sense of achievement, had finally crashed. Unlike full-blown mania, my highs weren't as extreme, but the crashes were terrifying plunges into despair.

This new reality was a bitter pill to swallow. But within the sterile walls of the ward, a seed of hope was planted. The realisation that I wasn't alone, that there was a name for the storm raging inside me, was a glimmer of light in the suffocating darkness. However that light would still be a long way off.

Chapter 5 – The fragile hope of motherhood

Thirty. A milestone birthday, a line in the sand I desperately hoped would mark a new beginning. Pregnancy. Finally, something monumental, something that would surely rewrite the script of my life. A child, a source of endless joy, a cure for the darkness that clung to me – that's what I clung to with all my might.

The pressure was immense. Google, my well-meaning but ultimately unhelpful friend, became my enemy. Stories of birth defects and withdrawal symptoms danced across the screen, fuelling my anxieties. In a heartbeat, I stopped my medication, convinced it was the lesser evil. Fifteen fragile weeks I held on, the fragile bubble of hope threatening to burst at any moment.

Logic finally wrestled back control. The doctor's words were a lifeline – the baby needed me healthy, needed me stable. Reluctantly, I resumed the medication, and a semblance of calm returned. The rest of the pregnancy was a blur of nesting and baby prep, a desperate attempt to outrun the storm brewing within.

December 2012. Drew entered the world, a miracle bundled in a blanket. For the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of genuine joy. The early months were a blur of sleepless nights and endless diaper changes, but there were moments of pure, unadulterated love. Friends and family became my lifeline, their support a shield against the encroaching darkness.

But the darkness never truly leaves. The yearning for oblivion, the familiar comfort of a drink – it was a constant battle. My carefully constructed facade of the perfect new mum crumbled. Wine bottles found a secret hiding place in the pram, a shameful counterpoint to the lullabies I sang.

Ten months old. My world imploded. Another hospitalization, another confrontation with the reality of my illness. A social worker's question, laced with concern, felt like a slap. "Who cares for Drew when you drink?" The anger was a hot, searing wave, a defence mechanism against the creeping shame.

The hospital focused on the depression, another temporary fix. The cycle repeated – a few good weeks followed by a relentless slide back into the abyss. Discharges were bittersweet, a return to a life on a tightrope, precariously balanced between sobriety and oblivion.

One year later, the ward became a familiar refuge. This time, fate intervened. Emmi, a whirlwind of manic energy, became my unlikely ally. Witnessing her descent, the crash that followed her high, was a strange sort of mirror reflecting my own struggles. A friendship blossomed in the sterile hospital walls, a lifeline of understanding and shared experience.

The next six years were a blur. Annual hospital admissions, punctuated by periods of forced sobriety followed by inevitable relapses. I treated the bipolar, but the true enemy, the alcohol, remained a silent companion. The guilt gnawed at me, a constant reminder of the promises broken, the moments stolen from my son.

Then came the rock bottom, the depressive episode that threatened to consume me whole. I tried to quit my job knowing I could no longer go on - the advice of my supportive boss, a lifeline extended when I least expected it – to take as much time as I needed. On a family trip, the façade shattered. Sitting alone in the car, the sound of waves a distant mockery of my turmoil, I stole wine, seeking solace in its familiar sting.

That car ride home was a turning point. I was done. I could take no more. This was when I decided to take my life. As much as it would crush my family, I knew they were better without me, and surely they would want me at peace. The quiet desperation in Chris' eyes, the unwavering support of my family – it barely pierced through the fog of despair. This time, I refused the hospital. The burden, I believed, was too heavy for them to bear. Yet, through some twist of fate, my doctor intervened.

The final hospitalisation in 2020 was a blur – ten rounds of electroconvulsive therapy leaving my memories fragmented. But a shift had occurred. Emerging from the haze, I was determined to break the cycle. Sobriety, not just a goal, but a necessity. The fight for my life, and for my family, had truly begun.

Chapter 6: The Relapse and the Rock Bottom

The fragile sobriety I clung to after the hospital stay shattered with a deafening crack. How long it lasted, lost in the haze of addiction, but the familiar cycle soon reared its ugly head. Empty bottles became my unwelcome companions, hidden like shameful secrets throughout the house. The morning crawl to the liquor store became a desperate routine, the need for a drink an insatiable monster gnawing at my insides.

Work became a carefully constructed façade. Coffee breaks were a cruel joke; my solace lay in the cold embrace of a hidden bottle stashed in the car. School pick-up, a brief reprieve from the constant vigilance, was followed by a mad scramble to finish the day's stash before the charade resumed. The empty bottles piled up, a silent testament to my failing resolve. Disposing of them became a desperate choreography – a frantic dash to the supermarket, furtive glances over my shoulder, a moment of shame as I tossed them into the overflowing bin, before repeating the whole soul-crushing cycle all over again.

The effort expended in maintaining this charade was Herculean. But the alternative – the tremors, the sweats, the agonizing withdrawal – was an even more terrifying prospect. This unsustainable existence, a relentless dance with oblivion, could only end badly. Hospital loomed large, a constant threat.

Desperate for a different path, I sought out a rehab facility in Sydney. Within a week, I found myself in a detox unit, the first step on a long-overdue journey. A month in rehab was a revelation. Surrounded by people who understood my struggle, who spoke the same language of addiction, a profound sense of relief washed over me. I wasn't alone. Chris and Drew's weekend visits brought a flicker of hope, a glimpse of the life I so desperately craved. Chris, I saw it then, a flicker of hope rekindled in his eyes.

Coming home, armed with the tools gleaned from rehab, I felt a fragile sense of optimism. Work resumed, life moved forward, one tentative step at a time. Four months passed in a relative blur, a period of tentative peace.

Then came the trigger, a seemingly innocuous detail – a bottle of bourbon left unattended in the shed. The fragile dam holding back the tide of addiction crumbled. Without a moment's hesitation, I reached for the bottle, the first sip a betrayal of the hard-won progress. The familiar cycle, the desperate scramble for bottles, the shame of hiding, the numbing oblivion of each drink – it all came rushing back, a cruel echo of the past.

Three weeks of self-destruction culminated in the final straw. Chris, his eyes filled with a heart breaking mixture of pain and resolve, could no longer bear the burden. The thought of being alone, free to drink myself to oblivion, was a horrifying yet strangely tempting prospect.

Two days passed in a haze of self-loathing. A single glance in the mirror shattered the last vestiges of denial. My reflection – haggard, defeated, teeth stained red, a grotesque caricature of my former self – was a wake-up call I couldn't ignore.

This time, the call went to my mum. Emergency services, a calming dose of Valium, a shaky promise to start again – the same script, a new performance. Yet, amidst the familiar despair, a tiny ember of hope flickered. October 18th, 2021 – the day I woke up and chose differently. The day I've been sober ever since.

Chapter 7: Reclaiming My Life

Two and a half years sober. As I write this, the weight of those words settles on me, a testament to the long, arduous journey I've travelled. It wasn't easy, but with each passing day, a life I can be truly proud of has begun to take shape.

The first steps were tentative. Leaving the security of my old job was a leap of faith, but it opened doors to new possibilities. A temporary detour led me to a less-than-ideal position, but it became a stepping stone on the path to rediscovery. Finally, I found a work environment that felt right, a place where I could thrive.

Volunteering became a lifeline, a way to expand my horizons and connect with my community. The effort I once poured into acquiring and hiding alcohol, I now channelled into making a positive difference. My world grew larger, filled with new opportunities and meaningful connections.

Looking back, the lengths I went to feed my addiction are staggering. That same relentless energy now fuels a life bursting with purpose. Hitting rock bottom was a brutal awakening, a stark confrontation with who I was and who I desperately wanted to become.

Today, my word is my bond. I show up for the people who matter most, offering unwavering support and a listening ear. Life may be a whirlwind at times, but the chaos is exhilarating, a far cry from the suffocating darkness of addiction.

I got sober for a better life, and the rewards are immeasurable. My bipolar disorder and alcoholism, once demons, have transformed into a kind of superpower. They grant me a unique perspective, an understanding of the struggles faced by others. Kindness has become my guiding principle, a reminder that everyone carries burdens unseen. I embrace inclusivity, creating a safe space where vulnerabilities can be shared without judgment.

The small stuff? It no longer holds any power over me. My priorities are crystal clear - the things that truly matter are the ones I cherish and nurture. Sobriety isn't a chore; it's the foundation on which I build a life of joy and fulfilment. A good life for Chris. A good life for Drew. A good life for me.

There's time now, time to explore the things that set my soul on fire. No more burnt dinners, no more waking up shrouded in shame. I hold my head high, a newfound confidence radiating from within. This is who I am, and for the first time, I like the person I see staring back in the mirror.

My story is a testament to the fact that there is always a way out, even from the deepest darkness. A flicker of hope, however faint, can illuminate the path to recovery. Speak up, seek help, break the silence. No one can force you to change, but the strength to choose a better life lies within you.

For me, the struggle continues. Early nights are my shield against late-night cravings. Thoughts of drinking still intrude, but their hold weakens with each passing day. "Sober" – it's not just a word anymore, it's my new normal.

Medication is my daily companion, a vital part of managing my bipolar disorder. Reaching out when I feel a wobble – that's my safety net. There's a whole network of support out there, waiting to help. Don't suffer in silence.

I am no longer held by the shackles of addiction or my BiPolar. I share my story openly, hoping to be a beacon of light for others battling similar demons. I'm unapologetic about my mental health and my past struggles. They bought me here today. This is my life, my journey, and I choose me.

This isn't the end of my story; it's a new chapter. I hold the pen, and I get to write the ending. My dreams, once deemed unattainable, are now within reach. Being well – something I never thought possible – is now a reality. I am finally at peace. Don't give up on yourself. There is hope, even in the darkest of times.