Running Towards Recovery - Mike's Recovery Story

I do want to share my recovery story, at least the shorter version. I don't really do it that often because I don't like to toot my own horn. I don't like attention and I don't want to share out of ego. However, I do have a powerful story. I know I have some medals hanging at my desk, but those are to remind me of what I'm capable of.

As a child, I grew up with alcoholism and drug addiction within my family. My father was an alcoholic, and my mother was both an alcoholic and had a prescription pill addiction. I've had grandparents and uncles die from alcoholism and alcohol-related diseases. Growing up, I knew I had the disease long before I actually drank. My first addiction was to sugar and sweets. Then, as I got a little older, I found video games. As a teenager, I started to escape into drinking and smoking weed. I felt free from the burdens of getting bullied, not being cool, and being the shy kid in the back of the class. At 16, I ran away from home.

I remember my first night sitting at the South Park Blocks on Park and Salmon, drinking and smoking weed with the other street kids. For the first time, I finally felt free and accepted. I spent a significant amount of time on the streets, eventually finding crank to keep myself awake and safe. After a while, I got some stability and was able to get a job as a bottle clerk at the Food Value on 28th and Burnside and get myself off the streets.

Although I've had some periods of stability, my disease was always dragging me down to periods of homelessness and instability. I tried different drugs and different combinations of drugs, and I always had to have something to make me feel good.

In the early 2000s, I worked as a line cook in various fine-dining restaurants. I had a chef tell me, "Mike, there's something holding you back," and, "You've got the Irishman's disease." I knew I had the disease; I didn't really care because I never knew there was a way out.

In 2005, after yet another failure, I was told by a roommate to go to AA or else. I went to my first meeting: the 5:30 basement meeting at the Alano Club. I didn't get it. I thought it was some seriously hokey hippie bullshit. My second meeting was Night Owls at 11:00 pm.

I remember thinking, "This lady that's chairing is bitching about her cat dying, and I'm hurting?! My life is shit? How is this gonna keep me sober?" I sat in the back, wishing someone would talk to me but at the same time, not wanting to talk to anyone and to be left alone. I was introduced to heroin in 2008.

When I took that first hit, I felt like I had finally found my drug - THE DRUG that took away all my pain, my anxiety, my depression. I once described heroin to an ex as "Like God wrapping a warm blanket around my soul."

A part of me felt so cool, like Lou Reed from The Velvet Underground or the famous beatnik writer of the book Junkie, William S. Burroughs, or like Bob in Drugstore Cowboy. In reality, heroin took me to a depth of my disease that I had never known. Being cold, wet, dopesick, and alone in a doorway trying to figure out how to get my next fix before I got really dopesick. In desperation, I tried various religious treatments because OHP didn’t cover treatment pre-Obamacare. I tried some other free programs but didn't last more than a week. I had gone to Hooper Detox twice and used immediately after getting out.

It wasn't until I got arrested dealing dimebags downtown that I finally thought I had a shot at getting sober. Once those handcuffs went on, I knew that I'd get court-mandated treatment and that I'd finally get some relief. However, I had to detox in MCJC on Bedrock first. This was the most miserable detox that I'd been through. On day 2, as I lay in the fetal position of my cell, curled up in a cramped ball of anxiety-ridden, sleep-deprived agony, one of the guards came into my cell and asked, "You doing OK?"

"No, this shit hurts. I hurt everywhere," I replied.

"Well, son, you did this to yourself." He was half joking, half serious. I couldn't mutter anything other than a groan.

I thought to myself, "What an asshole!" but he was right. I did do that to myself. Yes, I was physically and psychologically addicted, and yes, my brain pathways had been hijacked by dope, but I did make that decision to inject heroin the first time, then it was adios. In a way, he was right. I am responsible for my disease. I got released on pretrial after 30 days. What did I do? I went right back to it. My pretrial officer had an intervention... well, more of a strong suggestion... no, more of a choice: Hooper Detox again or back to jail. Third time's the charm, right?

I did complete detox again and was sent to Salvation Army rehab over by the airport. I lasted about four days there. I didn't appreciate their methods of recovery. I know faith-based recovery works for some, but it definitely doesn’t work for this heathen. I went right back to it again. I had managed to spange up a few bucks with a gutter punk friend, Scraggle Steve. We were walking across Pioneer Square. I hadn't changed my socks or my clothes in about a week. It had just rained the night before, so they were sticking to my feet. I turned to Steve and asked, "You know where I can get some clean socks?"

"Socks? I don't give a fuck about my socks. As long as I'm high, it really doesn't matter." He pulls his foot up; his Converse shoes were about 60% duct tape. "See, doesn't fucking matter..."

At that moment, all I could think about was how small my life had become. A small box of downtown and every single-occupancy locking bathroom between the Waterfront and the base of the West Hills. We hopped on the MAX, met the man, and split our bag. I knew I wanted to try again. Try to get sober. Try treatment again. I was done being miserable, cold, dopesick, wet, and alone. I was tired of "friends" whose only goal was to get what you got if you had anything. I knew at that moment that I was capable of so much more than being a junkie. That whole William S. Burroughs wannabe thing didn't really pan out for me.

The following day, I went to Central City Concern's Recovery Center. I decided to try the outpatient program again for the third time. I was ready to take the suggestions, to go to meetings, and to listen—to truly listen to what was working for others in the rooms. I spent my first two weeks sleeping across the street in front of Old Town Clinic while attending groups, waiting on a bed at The Clark Center. At the Clark Center, I started running; it helped with the anxiety and post-acute withdrawal from years of opiate abuse. This was my new drug. While in outpatient treatment, I had one relapse that nearly killed me. I was honest about it in group and was met with support, understanding, and love rather than the guilt, shame, and shun that I was accustomed to. That last use was May 11th, 2012.

I graduated from CCCRC and had a room waiting for me at the 8x8. I thought I had it made. Just one more obstacle: sentencing. On September 10th, with 4 months clean, 198 documented recovery meetings, and a stack of support letters, I was sentenced to 364 days in county jail with early release to treatment. Wait... what? I just did treatment? What do you mean I had to go to treatment again? The judge gave me two weeks to tie things up and turn myself in. I did 30 days on that county year when I got sent to Volunteers of America's Men's Rehabilitation Center.

While in VOA, I started a small running group in the mornings with the support of some of the staff members. We were consistently running every morning. On the weekends, I'd spend my pastime going on some longer runs. After a few months, I decided to ask the rec coordinator if we could sign up for an upcoming race. She and the VOA staff were nothing but supportive and got us into the race. I chose to run the Half-Marathon. I ran a blazing 1:37 and finished third in my age group. At the time, I didn't know that I was capable of that. All I was hoping for was to finish. We had to go, so I couldn't get my age group award.

Later that night, I emailed the race directors and shared my experience with them—how I came from homelessness and addiction and that finishing 3rd in my age group was very special. They offered to mail my medal, then they offered me the opportunity to participate in their Multi-Sport races. Even though I didn't have anything other than a few pairs of run shorts and some run shoes, I took them up on their offer.

An entire community of multi-sport athletes and companies rallied to support me. They even hooked me up with a local triathlon coach, Dean. I did both my first duathlon and my first triathlon in 2013. Over the last 11 years, I have been to both USA Triathlon Duathlon and Triathlon National Championships, completed several half and full Ironman triathlons, tons of shorter distance triathlons, several marathons, and countless shorter running races.

I've been interviewed by KEX and KPTV 12, published in Triathlete Magazine, and was on the cover of the 2019 USA Triathlon Age Group National race program.

Recently, I switched back to just running. It's a bit easier to manage for me right now. I qualified for the Boston Marathon last year and am submitting my application for the 2025 Boston Marathon on September 9th. With any luck, I'll be able to go. It's a bucket list item for me, and not everyone who BQs gets to go. Endurance sports are a big part of my recovery, but it took a lot of support from others to get me here. The opportunities and hope that we offer the peers we serve are the same opportunities and support I was offered when I was using and when I got clean. Things in the recovery services community looked different 12, 15, or 20 years ago, but the spirit is still the same. If I had a peer mentor and access to services, I might have gotten sober sooner.