I jolted awake, heart racing, swallowed up by darkness.
My beat-up body tattooed against the hard floor of a pitch-black bar.
The stench of spilled drinks mixed with bad decisions lingered in the air.
As my brain came back online, it hit me:
I had blacked out here the night before.
Groaning, I pushed myself off the floor, every muscle aching, my clothes glued to my skin. “Get it together, man. You can’t keep beating yourself up like this.”
The damp room clung to me like a second skin; I scanned my surroundings, half-expecting judgmental eyes or a bouncer ready to toss me out on my busted ass.
But the place was empty. Somehow, I hadn’t been kicked out before closing.
What the hell happened?
Dim light crept through the windows, casting long shadows across the room.
It had to be 5 a.m., maybe earlier. My mind was a foggy mess, fragments of last night swirling—freedom turning to chaos, as it always did.
I began testing the doors, looking for an escape. Each push revealed nothing but solid wood and metal that refused to budge. Finally, I spotted a flimsy door at the back, slightly ajar.
I shoved through and stumbled into the biting January air of San Francisco. The cold slapped me awake, sharp and unforgiving.
For a moment, I just stood there, the silence of the empty street weighing heavier than the hangover.
The air was so cold it cut through everything. My breath came out in clouds, as if each exhale was pulling the last bit of last night out of me.
2011 was a year of great success—and even greater struggle.
This story is just one of many from my days as a heavy drinker while working for a tech startup in the blue Bay Area. Fast forward a year, and I was sober as a stone in the mountains of New Mexico.
Looking back, I see it now: Every stumble led me here.
Rock bottom comes in different shapes and sizes. So does the comeback.
In every moment of darkness, there’s a flicker of light.
And in that contrast, we find our true selves.
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