My childhood was not always easy, but one thing I can say is that my parents always provided stability and care. I was raised in the Lutheran church, attended youth group, went to Bible camp, and participated in communion. I knew God existed, but I didn't have a personal relationship with Him. Around the age of seven, I experienced sexual abuse, which left wounds that impacted much of my childhood.
My biological father struggled with drugs and alcohol, which was one of the reasons my mother divorced him when I was very young. In 1988, she married my stepfather, who later adopted my brother and me. My mom was always kind, compassionate, and soft-hearted. My dad and I had our differences growing up, but looking back, I know I wasn't always easy to handle.
At twelve years old, I started experimenting with marijuana and alcohol. What began as experimentation slowly evolved into complete chaos. For ten years, I drank heavily, sometimes going through a 1.75-liter bottle every day or two. Eventually, I discovered methamphetamine, and my life spiraled even further out of control. I was arrested multiple times, placed on probation, and spent time in jail.
The darkness of addiction is difficult to describe unless you've lived it. It slowly takes hold of you before you even realize what is happening. Over time, the dysfunction, pain, and destruction become normal. You begin to cling to the darkness because it's all you've known. The lies you tell yourself become stronger, and the drugs become the only thing that seems to provide relief from your own thoughts.
But the relief never lasts.
The pain, shame, and unresolved wounds remain buried beneath the surface, waiting for the high to wear off.
“The darkness of addiction is difficult to describe unless you've lived it.”
Then the cycle starts all over again. Eventually, I no longer recognized the person I had become. What once felt like an escape turned into a chemical prison. I wasn't using drugs to get high anymore; I was using them simply to avoid getting sick. I was willing to do almost anything to keep the addiction fed.
As the years passed, I lost hope. A normal life no longer seemed possible. Toward the end of my addiction, I was lost, depressed, angry, and broken. I felt unwanted and untrustworthy. More than anything, I was confused that I was still alive. In my mind, I should have been dead. I didn't want to be here anymore.
But God had other plans.
What led me to Adult & Teen Challenge Northeastern Wisconsin? To be honest, I was sitting in the basement of a house, sick from withdrawal and seriously considering ending my life. The police were called, my parents showed up, and I entered yet another detox program. I don't remember every detail that led me through the doors of Adult & Teen Challenge, but I know this: I felt compelled to come here. It was as if every other option had been removed.
The first time I knew God had spoken directly to me happened at Adult & Teen Challenge. One night, I was lying awake, wondering how my life had reached this point and thinking about ways to leave the program. Suddenly, my mind became completely still, and I heard these words:
“My son, you have a name.”
At the time, I didn't understand what those words meant. They seemed simple, yet they stayed with me. Today, I understand them differently. God was reminding me that I am not forgotten. I am not just an addict. My failures do not define me. I have an identity, a purpose, and a future in Him.
Looking ahead, I have many hopes for the future. I want to help others who are trapped in addiction discover the truth about who they are and why they were created. I want to share the hope that was given to me. And one day, I hope to have a family of my own.
Before coming to Adult & Teen Challenge Northeastern Wisconsin, I had completed a 30-day treatment program. I honestly don't remember how I first heard about Adult & Teen Challenge, but I am completely convinced that God led me here. What felt like the end of my story was actually the beginning of a new one—a story of redemption, healing, and hope.