A New Relationship with Recovery
by Mike Glendinning

I feel like I have a new relationship with recovery.

I’ve spent the last 20 years going in and out of rehab centers. I’ve had long stretches of sobriety, and I’ve had blackout moments that could fill a book. For a long time, when I wasn’t drinking, I missed it. I missed the parties. I missed the bar talk, the laughter, the chaos that felt like connection. But what I never remembered was the craving—the desperation that came before that first drink.

And once I started drinking again?

I missed being sober.

It took me all these years to realize I don’t drink like a normal person. I’ve seen normal people have half a beer, put it down, and not touch another one for two years. Me? I get one sip, and I’m already on the edge of the next run.

Some people waste a weekend. I’ll waste a whole damn month… if I’m lucky.

Alcohol to me is like being in a relationship with a crazy ex you know is bad for you. Yeah, you remember the wild nights, the good laughs, the stories. But you also start to remember the screaming, the manipulation, the blackout calls that had nothing to do with you but made you feel like shit anyway. That’s alcohol. It seduces, then destroys.

And when I really think about it—drinking never gave me anything good. Not a thing.
Sober? I’ve got music. Connection. Sanity. Faith. Purpose.
There’s no contest.

Right now, I’m in a room in Oakland, in a sober living house. The window’s open. Outside, people are partying—or at least trying to. Smoking weed, meth, drinking all day like it’s freedom. From up here, it looks like they’re having the time of their lives. But I know what that illusion really costs.

I look down and see the Store Club—a place I used to play. A place I have memories in. Oakland is full of those for me. The fake beauty of addiction, and the hard truth of where it always ends up.

And still… I love this city.
Because this is where I found out who I really fucking am.

Looking back, I don’t think I wasted my life.
I think this was all part of God’s plan.
The drinking. The losing. The trying.
The falling again.
The praying.
The surrender.

Will I drink again?

I sure the fuck hope not.

This isn’t something I’m comfortable talking about. Not even close.

But if sharing this helps even one person think twice before going down the same road I did — then it’s worth it.

I’m talking about meth.

Crystal. C. Speed. Crank. Whatever name you give it, it had me by the throat — or more accurately, by the balls — for a long time.

When I finally got help, I was shocked by what I saw. Meth didn’t care who you were. In treatment, I met people of every race, age, and income bracket. Teachers. Construction workers. Stay-at-home moms. Kids barely out of high school. It stripped away everything — homes, jobs, families, dignity.

Here’s a little background most people don’t know:

Meth wasn’t invented in some shady back alley. It was first synthesized by a Japanese chemist in 1893. Then, in 1919, Akira Ogata refined it into the crystal form we know today. During World War II, soldiers from Japan, Germany, the UK, and even the U.S. were given meth to stay alert and push through exhaustion. After the war, it was sold to American housewives as a weight-loss and energy pill. Then, in the ’60s and ’70s, biker gangs made it a street drug — and the rest is history.

I was 15 the first time I tried it.

Back then, it was called crank. It was considered “white trash” dope — the white man’s crack. And when I took that first hit? Man, I felt unstoppable. My mood lifted. I was focused. I could finally stay on task without getting sidetracked.

But there was a problem.

I like sleep. Meth doesn’t.

And when you don’t sleep… you start seeing things. Hearing things. Losing grip on reality.

I’ve been off it for a few years now. Thank God.

But what’s out there today? It’s a whole new beast. Meth is no longer just meth. It’s often laced with fentanyl — a synthetic opioid so strong that people are overdosing and needing Narcan after smoking what they thought was just meth.

Street drugs have never been safe. But now?

It’s like playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun.

If you’re out there and tempted, or if you’ve already started — hear me. I’ve been where you are. I’ve lived the highs and survived the fallout. You don’t have to wait until you’ve lost everything to turn around.

There’s a way out. I found it.

You can too.

"F**k you Mike, I’m gonna f**king kill you!" The raw, venomous shout sliced through the thin glass of my Oakland rental, becoming just another jarring note in the nightly symphony of the streets. Living there, in the heart of the city, felt like being dropped into a pressure cooker of human struggle. The air outside my door crackled with the frenetic energy of individuals battling addiction, their demons spilling out into the public square in the form of guttural screams that often shattered the 2 AM silence.
Six months into this reality, the threats, once terrifying, began to fade into the background noise. A grim normalization had set in. But what I couldn't become numb to was the sheer scale of the opioid crisis unfolding before my eyes. It reached a point where leaving my apartment felt like a reckless act without a few precious boxes of Narcan tucked away. In a single week, I witnessed three overdoses – two souls clinging to life, and one tragically lost on the unforgiving concrete of Telegraph Avenue in West Oakland.
One afternoon, the stark reality of the crisis hit me with brutal force. A young man lay sprawled on a street corner, his breathing shallow, his body unresponsive. This time, I was unarmed – no Narcan, no phone. Panic clawed at my throat as I ran down Telegraph, desperately pleading with passersby to call 911. The indifference I encountered chilled me to the bone. Most people simply averted their gaze, navigating around the unconscious figure as if he were an inconvenient obstacle. Finally, a kind woman answered my desperate pleas and made the call.
I rushed back to the young man, my heart pounding, to find him still lifeless amidst a sea of uncaring faces. I stood guard, a lone sentinel, until the wail of sirens grew louder and paramedics finally arrived. I never learned his fate.
These experiences etched themselves into my soul, a stark reminder of the human cost of the fentanyl epidemic. It's a crisis that demands our attention, our empathy, and most importantly, our education. Please, take a moment to educate yourself about fentanyl. It could be the most important thing you do.
What do you think of this direction? We can definitely tweak it further to make it even more impactful. Perhaps we could focus on a specific aspect or feeling you want to convey?

The calendar flipped to November of 2005, a date etched in my memory not for a joyful occasion, but for the stark reality of entering my first rehabilitation center. The weight of my mother's absence, a void that had stretched for over two years, still pressed heavily upon me. My then-wife, witnessing the insidious creep of my alcoholism, had finally reached a point of profound concern. The roots of this struggle stretched back to the year 2000, a year marred by the loss of my brother-in-law to cancer. Yet, it was the agonizing aftermath of my mother's passing in January of that same year that truly unleashed the full force of my addiction.
Emerging from a month of outpatient treatment, a fragile hope flickered within me. I was eager to reignite a creative spark, to return to an album project that had begun to take shape in 2004. I found myself working with a producer, whose name I'll deliberately omit from these reflections. Initially, our collaboration seemed promising. A routine developed: before diving into the music, we'd grab a bite to eat, establishing a semblance of normalcy.
However, one seemingly ordinary lunch would shatter this illusion. As we wrapped up our meal, the producer announced, "We have to run a few errands." The first stop was a liquor store. He casually handed me a twenty-dollar bill and asked me to go inside and purchase a case of beer for him. A wave of anxiety washed over me. In the often cutthroat and opportunistic landscape of the music industry, I was unaccustomed to such direct requests, especially one that so starkly challenged my nascent sobriety. Fearful of jeopardizing the professional relationship, I reluctantly complied.
But the unsettling encounters didn't end there. After securing his alcohol, he drove to a residential address. "Wait here," he instructed, "I'll be back in a little bit." Twenty long minutes ticked by before he reappeared, stepping back into the car with a small bag containing cocaine. That particular poison held no allure for me, but its presence in that moment spoke volumes. It was a blatant disregard for my struggle, a callous indifference to the very reason I was fighting to rebuild my life. This individual, entrusted with the task of nurturing my musical aspirations, displayed a shocking level of disrespect, revealing a profound lack of empathy.
Today, nearly fifteen years have passed without a word exchanged between us. Following that incident, I voiced a truth that a narcissistic personality, so often masked by a veneer of professional charm, simply couldn't tolerate.
My journey within the music industry, spanning numerous years, has illuminated a harsh reality: it is a realm where one inevitably encounters individuals who operate with self-serving agendas, often cloaked in deceptive pleasantries. Genuine friendship, built on mutual respect and authentic connection, is a rare and precious commodity.
This experience, however disheartening, served as a critical lesson. It underscored the paramount importance of self-awareness and the unwavering need to protect one's boundaries. In an industry that can often feel like a relentless pursuit of fleeting fame and fortune, it is crucial to anchor yourself in your own truth. If you present anything less than your authentic self, if you project an image of vulnerability or uncertainty, there are those who will inevitably see it as an invitation to exploit and manipulate.
Therefore, I implore anyone navigating the complexities of the music world, or indeed any field where ambition and ego can collide: know who you are, understand your values, and refuse to be treated as a stepping stone in someone else's ascent. Embrace your true self, for it is your most formidable shield against the vipers and wolves in sheep's clothing that you may encounter along the way. Authenticity, though sometimes challenging to maintain, is the bedrock of resilience and the key to navigating treacherous terrain with your integrity intact.

Discharged from sober living due to an insurance snafu, I found myself in a downtown facility that was a bizarre hybrid: rehab center, homeless kitchen, and a few beds crammed into makeshift dorms. My new reality was a windowless room with two bunk beds.
Initially, I shared the space with Tim, a guy in the same boat. Fresh out of a three-month residential program, he was scraping together funds for his own place. We got along well enough. Then came our third roommate, a guy from a homeless shelter. He was clean, kept up his hygiene, and seemed alright. Except for the nightly ritual of his ice-cold feet dangling off the top bunk, landing squarely on my head as I tried to get ready for my 4 a.m. shift.
The “party bus” – that’s what the drivers called the all-night route from downtown to Oakland Airport – became my daily commute. A bus filled with graveyard shift workers and those caught in the cycle of addiction. Not exactly the ideal start to the day.
One afternoon, I ran into Tim on the street. He looked troubled. “We got a new roommate,” he said, “and it’s…not good. He smells awful, and I think he’s gay.”
I have no problem with anyone’s sexual orientation, but I knew Tim’s reaction wasn’t going to be pleasant. I also knew that the no-window room was about to become a biohazard.
Enter JR, an oversized, 17-year-old homeless kid with a hygiene problem that could clear a room. When I walked in after work, the stench was so overpowering I nearly gagged. I had to cover my face with my shirt and beg him to clean up. Not my favorite task, but what choice did I have?
He made a half-hearted attempt, which slightly mitigated the funk. Tim, a tall, lean guy, shared the bunk with JR, a short, obese teenager. The whole setup looked like a structural collapse waiting to happen.
My 4:30 a.m. wake-up call was already brutal. But now, at 3:30 a.m., I was jolted awake by Tim yelling, “JR, you gotta go!” Apparently, JR’s nightly self-pleasure sessions, conducted with the enthusiasm of a jackhammer, were keeping Tim awake. The cheap metal bunk beds rattled like a freight train.
The final straw came on my day off. I was trying to relax with YouTube when the head guy of the house walked in with a new resident, Mike, and his belongings in plastic grocery bags. Fresh out of county, he was replacing the guy on the top bunk. As I tried to explain the house rules, he kept interrupting, mangling my sentences. “Fuck my life,” I thought.
Then he saw my guitar. “I play drums,” he announced, “let’s jam sometime.”
This wasn’t my first rodeo. “Plays drums” in this context meant he’d likely spent time banging on a garbage can or a metal tray in a cell block. He probably didn’t know a time signature from a drum kit.
That night, trying to get a few hours of sleep before work, I hung a sheet for privacy. Half-asleep, I heard the rustling of my food bag. He was helping himself.
It was a sign. Time for the next adventure. I was out of there within a week.

The dim room swam into focus, a stark canvas of concrete floors and sterile white walls. Then, the jarring reality: a man just feet away, convulsing, his body slamming against the unforgiving glass. The scene unfolded like a nightmare, a chaotic dance of desperation and fear. I screamed for help, and a flurry of figures rushed in, their voices a frantic chorus against the backdrop of a life in peril.
As paramedics arrived, a chilling realization washed over me. I was back. Back in the cold, unforgiving grip of detox. Cherry Hill. The name echoed in my mind, a stark reminder of my own shattered control.
The fragments of memory surfaced: the blur of a late-night drive, the terror etched on my friend's face as headlights sliced through the darkness. Then, nothing. A blank space where check-in and phone calls should have been. Just an empty void, a testament to the devastating power of addiction.
"He would have died if you hadn't called," a fellow patient's voice cut through the haze. I simply stared, the weight of my own situation pressing down. This was my second descent into this stark, clinical hell.
The room, a grim testament to human vulnerability, held eight threadbare beds. The concrete walls, the stainless-steel toilet—a grotesque blend of functionality and despair—all spoke to the harsh reality of withdrawal. The entire facility was a place that could be cleaned with a pressure washer. I walked to the lobby and saw more of the same.
Stripped of my phone, devoid of books, I was left with only the echoes of my own despair and the faces of fellow sufferers. Seeking a human connection, I attempted conversation in the smoking area, but the weight of shared trauma hung heavy in the air.
Twenty-four hours. That's all the reprieve I was granted. Still shaking, still battling the acute throes of alcohol withdrawal, I was told to leave. The fear was real: the risk of stroke, a constant, looming threat.
The Urgent Reality of Alcohol Withdrawal
For those battling chronic alcohol dependence, a week is often the minimum time needed to reach a semblance of safety. This experience was a brutal reminder of the potentially fatal consequences of sudden alcohol cessation.

 * Alcohol Withdrawal Symptoms: Understand the severity of alcohol withdrawal symptoms, including seizures, tremors, and the risk of stroke.

 * Detox Centers: Information about detox centers, and what to expect.

 * Seeking Professional Help: The crucial importance of seeking medical advice before quitting alcohol, even if you believe you drink moderately.

 * Alcohol Addiction: A raw look at the realities of alcohol addiction and the struggle for recovery.

 * Mental Health: The connection between addiction and mental health, including depression.

 * Recovery Journey: The start of a recovery journey, and the importance of support.

If you or someone you know is struggling with alcohol addiction, please seek professional help immediately. Don't let fear or shame prevent you from taking the first step towards recovery. Your life is worth fighting for.