Lost, Scared, and Broken: How Self-Awareness Saved My Life

“The first step toward change is awareness. The second step is acceptance.” ~Nathaniel Branden

I felt lost. I felt broken. I felt scared.

As I sat alone in that cold, dark jail cell, I felt like I had hit rock bottom.

My feet chilled against the cold stone floor. The creaky wooden bench, stitched together with narrow strips, tormented me.

Inmates shouted all around me. Their voices echoed in the dark. It was like the noise of the outside world had finally caught up with the noise inside my head. I just wanted to scream.

I was sixteen, but I …

“The first step toward change is awareness. The second step is acceptance.” ~Nathaniel Branden

I felt lost. I felt broken. I felt scared.

As I sat alone in that cold, dark jail cell, I felt like I had hit rock bottom.

My feet chilled against the cold stone floor. The creaky wooden bench, stitched together with narrow strips, tormented me.

Inmates shouted all around me. Their voices echoed in the dark. It was like the noise of the outside world had finally caught up with the noise inside my head. I just wanted to scream.

I was sixteen, but I felt as if my life was already over. Shame and regret filled my heart as I wondered: Is this really all there is? Is this the path my life has taken? Who am I becoming?

For the first time, I faced a truth: I was becoming the person I despised most—my father, a man consumed by addiction and destruction.

My father’s absence was a constant presence in my life. Only occasionally, when he was off one of his benders and attempting to get clean, was he around. But usually, he would drink a lot of alcohol at the house.

I hated him. I hated that man so much for the pain that he caused my mom. The sweetest woman that I have ever known in my entire life. She is the person in my life who taught me about true strength and resilience. She is one of the reasons that I know single mothers are some of the most daring and powerful people.

Despite all the anger and hatred I carried toward him, I was walking the same path, making the same choices.

I’d started drinking and smoking weed at thirteen, began selling drugs soon after, and was eventually caught with varied substances, lots of cash, and a scale.

I was becoming no good, like my father. In fact, I was doing the exact same thing I hated him for—causing my poor mom so much pain.

The weight of that realization was crushing. I felt