21/10/2025
James, 31 – 1 Year Substance Free
I think it’s important to talk about mental health, because a lot of people don’t — and that silence can lead to bad situations.
I grew up around this area. It feels surreal to be back now, clean and in recovery. I always said I’d never get clean where I came from. I’d used all over Birmingham and, for a long time, I didn’t even want to stop.
As a kid, I was always in trouble. My brother and sister wasn't — but I was the one always acting up, getting excluded from school. When I was in primary school, I was meant to go to Warwickshire cricket trials, but because of my behaviour I wasn't allowed to go. At school I was a bully, and then I got bullied. I believe in karma, so in a way it made sense. I left school with no GCSEs because I didn’t pay attention or apply myself. Looking back, I know things could’ve been different if I had applied myself differently.
From 16 to 18, I didn’t really do much. That’s when my drinking started — just at parties. Then I started gambling. I won £10,000 on a £3 scratch card. It made me think money would always come easy. Gambling was my first addiction. Now, I won’t even buy a raffle ticket.
From 18 to 23, co***ne took over my life. I had a few jobs, I owed lots of money to dealers. Once, someone I owed posted a piece of paper through my parents’ door. That’s when I broke down and told them I used — but they didn’t know how bad it really was. I used on Christmas Day. Sometimes I’d be out for a week straight, losing my mind to psychosis.
At 23, I got kicked out. I’d stolen my mum’s bank card and taken a lot of money. She gave me an ultimatum about facing my dad or not — and I ended up in Stratford, sleeping rough under a Ferris wheel by the canal. I barely slept. When I came back, I still thought my mum would be okay with me. I didn’t understand the reality of what I’d done. Later on, I found out they could have lost their house because of me.
I became suicidal. One day I was crying outside my mum’s work, and she called an ambulance. The paramedics were kind and took me to a mental health ward. It was strange — I didn’t think I belonged there — but it made me think, what am I doing with my life? They sent me to St Basil’s in town. When the drugs wore off, the reality hit me hard. My world had been my family, and I’d lost it all through my own actions.
From 23 to 30, I lived in HMOs and hostels — places full of mice, theft, and violence. I was hit with a knuckle duster once, and metal poles another time. I started using crack co***ne — something I’d always sworn I’d never do. I’d taken my mum’s savings, manipulating her with lies. The guilt and shame from that still live with me. One day, I’ll pay her back.
In a hostel in Sparkbrook, I was using every day. I survived by shoplifting and begging. Every time I used, the psychosis got worse. I couldn’t cope anymore. My tenancy was ending as my two years were up, and the support workers were worried about where I would go next. My support worker mentioned rehab. She called a place in Moseley, and that’s when I had my first real higher power moment. Someone I used to use with worked there — and she was a year and a half clean. That call gave me hope.
I got a place there, but at first, I just wanted the bed. I made it to 22 days before relapsing. When I owned up, they gave me a second chance — and I’m forever grateful for that. Even though I’d only been clean 22 days, something had already clicked. Once you’ve been to meetings and had a taste of recovery, using is never the same again. You’ve got a belly full of drugs but a head full of NA.
When I came back, I was honest. I started going to meetings again. I even bought my first proper bus pass — I’d used fake ones for eight years. Nobody would’ve known if I’d carried on, but I wanted to do the right thing. That’s when I knew I was changing.I got a sponsor, started working the steps, and made it to four and a half months before another relapse.
That relapse put me in a wet house. I stayed clean there, thanks to the people from NA who picked me up every day, took me to meetings, and brought me food. For the first time in my life, I felt part of something.
After 30 days clean, I rang Lindale — every morning at 9:30 for a week. On the Friday, Steve Curley told me there was a bed.Moving into Lindale was weird at first. I had preconceptions about how things would be, but it was a breath of fresh air. The structure and routine are second to none. You have to do this, you have to do that — and I needed that direction. I’ve never had a warning since being here.
Recovery means everything to me now. Without it, I have nothing. For years I felt lost and broken. Now, I’m learning about myself — understanding my emotions, writing them down. I used to think being emotional was weak. Now I see its strength. When I first came into recovery, I tried to cherry-pick what I wanted to do, and that’s why I relapsed. I’ve learned that recovery only works when you go all in.
My purpose now is to carry the message. I’ve done main shares, and I know my story has power. You can’t put a price on lived experience.
When I went into groups, I was lucky enough to have Ian. He helped me so much — God rest his soul. He brought something out of me. When I first left his group, I remember thinking he was a bit of a prick — but on reflection, he’d just hit a nerve. He knew how to bring things out of you. I felt so uncomfortable, but that’s what helped me gain insight and change. Ian was terminally ill, and still ran groups. His commitment to us all, and to his own recovery, was inspiring. Even with everything he was going through, he stayed clean. He came to work and did his job right up to the end — that speaks volumes. I’ll never forget how he helped me, and the mates I made through him. He touched so many people, more than he probably realised. I spoke at his funeral — and I’m grateful I did.
I’ve struggled with eczema my whole life and was even hospitalised for it. It came back worse in my twenties, and I didn’t want to leave the house. Some days I forced myself to go to meetings anyway. Now, with new treatment, my skin has improved massively. I’ve also had 16 teeth removed and dentures fitted — it’s given me confidence again.
This Christmas, I’ve applied to volunteer at Shelter. I used to go there as a client, and now I want to go back and show people that recovery is possible. I still carry shame and guilt for my past, but I’m working on it. I’ve learned to fill my own cup before helping others, because you can’t pour from an empty one. I’ve learned about boundaries — how to say no, and how to protect my peace. I’ve realised that saying “sorry” doesn’t mean anything unless your behaviour changes.
I’ll never forget the day I was sitting outside a hotel on Broad Street begging, and a man looked me in the eye and said, “You’re worth it.” No one had ever said that to me before. That moment sparked something in me — something that had been buried for a long time.
Temptation is still out there, but now I know I have a choice. I can pick up the phone and call someone who understands. People in NA get me. That connection keeps me strong. Deep down, I’ve always thought I was kind and compassionate. Recovery helped me see that again. It’s taught me to be honest — brutally honest — because that’s where real growth happens.
Now I’ve got a routine: shower, breakfast, meetings. I’m looking after myself and trying to eat better. I’m mindful of what I put in my body, avoiding processed foods, even cutting out milk for my skin.
Giving back is my goal. Once I’ve finished Step 4, I plan to volunteer more — because helping others is what I believe is my purpose.
James 🙌
