I miss the drugs, but I don’t want to use them. I miss AA, but I no longer go.

I tried AA for years. I relapsed more times than I can count and went to various treatment centers that followed that same model. That was all I knew. Eventually, I relapsed again. And still, the only thing in front of me was AA.

So this time, I decided to take the good from it and go above and beyond, because I had reached a point where I was so over my past haunting me and my present.

Before I went back, I was at home withdrawing for days off fake blue 30s. The reason I didn’t go right away was because I felt like absolute crap. But I also used other things that were technically “mind-altering.” Essentially, I tapered off the hard stuff and took each substance one step at a time.

At the same time, I listened to sobriety podcasts, recovery videos, and talked to people who met me where I was at. Eventually, I found the strength to go back to meetings.

This time, I took it seriously.

I made it my mission to actually pay attention to the meetings with a new lens, because before that I had honestly just been winging it. With that new focus, I realized over time that it was helping me tremendously, especially when it came to community.

But I also began noticing something else.

I started noticing the hierarchy. The pedestal people with long-term sobriety were placed on. The positions of authority some held over newcomers. I began realizing that the image people maintained was protected by a culture where time sober was everything, and how much you did in front of an audience of other 12-step members became the standard.

You don’t ask why.
You don’t question something that has “worked for years.”

At the same time, I started seeing people relapse. And honestly, some of those people might not have been ready to go from fifteen years of heavy drug use straight into full abstinence overnight. Maybe what they needed was something different. Maybe they needed more evidence-based treatment.

I started realizing that maybe, just maybe, this model wasn’t truly working for everyone.

Eventually I made it to a year sober while recovering out loud, which got mixed reactions from people in the 12-step fellowship. During that time, I saw people getting better, but not always in the exact same way I was.

It opened my eyes to something important.

Some people simply stop using.
Some people take different routes into recovery.
Some people lean more toward harm reduction.

After year two, I hit a wall.

I was in massive depression for my entire first year sober. Looking back now, I honestly think I was torturing myself. It was the first time in over seven years where I had fully depended on people, God, and just toughing it out.

Looking back now, that was actually dangerous. There were many moments where I came very close to relapsing.

While I didn’t relapse, I can see now that if I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, I easily could have ended up back where I had been before. Just like I did those other 7 years in the past.

After more than two years sober, I finally sought professional help. And that was what I needed.

Not a book.
Not a sponsor.

A doctor.
A therapist.

Someone who had years of experience studying the brain and working with people like me.

Eventually, I decided to try SSRIs. When I mentioned that in the rooms, it was definitely looked down upon. But it turned out to be one of the best decisions I ever made.

For the first two years of my sobriety, it felt like a heavy dark cloud was sitting over my body and my entire environment. No matter how hard I tried to fight it, it was always there.

But after months of working with my doctor and finding the right medication, I finally found a new layer of breathing room.

Suddenly everything became more tolerable.

I still got mad.
I still cried.
But it was no longer immobilizing.

And that moment made me realize something important.

What if other people are going through something similar?

What if people refuse medication, Suboxone, or harm reduction tools because of stigma? What if that one thing could give them the breathing room they need to stay alive and build a life, especially after years of chaotic substance use?

Eventually, I started going to meetings less and became more independent. I began getting opportunities to share my recovery story publicly. I was happy creating content, growing as a person, and focusing on becoming a better human being.

But somehow, none of that mattered to some people in the rooms.

Because I wasn’t sponsoring twenty guys.
I wasn’t going to meetings every day.
And I wasn’t crediting my entire recovery to the twelve steps.

It made me feel worse.

I kept thinking, how is it that I’m helping people in my own way, happier, growing, leveling up as a human being, yet still being told I’m in a dangerous place?

Eventually I realized something simple.

It’s my recovery.

I do choose abstinence today, because that path has brought me stability and love in ways I never imagined. But some of those rooms were starting to make me feel worse instead of better.

When I hit three years sober, I waited all day for my sponsor to congratulate me. I know, petty, maybe you could say that was my addiction coming out to get me, right?

But he didn’t.

The next day he finally texted me and basically told me I needed to work more steps and go to more meetings, implying that my recovery wasn’t valid. At least that's how I took it, I mean you could have just said congratulations..

And that moment changed something in me.

I thought, wait, is this not good enough? I’m genuinely happy. I’m living a better life.

I really started to look around the rooms at that time. Some people cheat on their partners, lying, stealing, but if they’re working the steps “better,” they’re considered spiritually healthy?

I know not all rooms are like that. But it exposed something flawed in parts of the recovery culture. Sometimes we put people down simply for doing things differently or asking questions.

The difference for me was that I had slowly gained the confidence to form my own ideas.

So eventually, I left.

And when I left, I was terrified.

For months, maybe even a year, I genuinely believed I was on the wrong path and that I was going to relapse and die, because that’s exactly what people had told me would happen if I walked away.

I talked to friends who had left before me. One of them had been treated like a complete outcast when she left years earlier. At the time, I thought she was sick too.

But looking back, she was actually incredibly brave. She had her own voice and trusted it.

Talking with her and others helped me start to question things. I realized that if I kept believing I was doomed, it would eventually become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

So I started doing my own research.

I began looking into evidence-based treatment models. I started noticing that some people simply stop using drugs. I started understanding that people who use drugs aren’t bad people. The situation is far more complex than that.

I began what they call deprogramming.

I realized there wasn’t some addiction monster waiting outside to destroy my life. Sometimes when I’m sad or upset, it’s because life is hard, not because addiction is lurking behind every emotion.

I realized I wasn’t morally broken.

I had just coped in ways that weren’t sustainable.

Over time, I started peeling away the demonization of substances in my mind. I could acknowledge that opioids were a terrible chapter in my life, but also understand that they served a purpose when I was a hurt, confused 19-year-old gay kid trying to survive.

They worked, until they didn’t.

And that’s okay to admit.

Today, six years sober, I can say this honestly.

We are all different.

Some recovery paths work incredibly well for certain people. Others don’t.

And we shouldn’t shame people for finding a path that works for them.

That’s why my perspective on recovery is more nuanced.

I don’t hate AA. I can poke fun sometimes, but I also recognize that it has helped many people.

It helped me too, for a time.

But like everything else in life, what works for some people doesn’t work for everyone.

And that’s okay.