Anonymous

If you’re reading this, don’t be afraid to ask for help. Especially when it comes to sobriety.

I began my UNC essay with the words, “Rock bottom is the worst place to be and the hardest place to escape.” While I still agree with that sentiment, rock bottom looks a bit different now than it did back then. A year ago today, on April 26th, 2025, I overdosed.

That night was a culmination of 11 months of hurt and struggle, self pity, resentment, and short sighted recklessness following a bike crash that turned my world upside down. My life as a student quickly shifted to my life as a patient as I bounced around from appointment to appointment, begging for anyone to figure out how to fix me.

For multiple months, I spent the entirety of each day alone and inside, enveloped by concussion symptoms and unrelenting neck and back pain. I began taking painkillers to cope with the worsening issues and over time, habit turned into reliance, and reliance to addiction, until I accepted that I couldn’t live without them. I didn’t care that I had a problem, at least I wasn’t in pain.

A couple of months after the accident had occurred, I had grown into the routine of smoking weed and taking painkillers multiple times throughout the day. This routine continued into the fall as I grew increasingly frustrated with my lingering concussion symptoms (which were certainly not helped by the amount of weed in my system at any given moment) and neck and back pain. I was unable to finish the two classes I had taken incompletes in over the summer that fall, deciding I’d knock them out and get my life together in the spring.

In January, I was prescribed adderall to improve my focus which had been nonexistent following the accident. I began macrodosing, of the mindset that taking more would lead to increased productivity and allow me to get back on track in the classroom and get more consistent with my neck, vision, and balance exercises. I lied to my psychiatrist and got my dosage bumped to the point where I’d start every morning before even having breaking by taking double the amount that had kept me up for 40 straight hours the first time I had taken it. And each day got worse. The anxiety was debilitating. I was smoking five or six times a day, drinking at various hours of the day most days of the week, all in an attempt to escape how I felt. And as the weeks went on and turned to months, my physical and mental health plummeted. I got started on anxiety meds and had my dosage bumped twice until I genuinely felt robotic. I was living off manufactured energy, addicted to painkillers and popping anxiety meds like breath mints. And it was evident. My dopamine system was fried and I’d take or do anything I could just to for a tiny bit of happiness.

I felt trapped. I couldn’t tell my friends around the fraternity because I didn’t want word to spread that I was as broken as I was and I thought it was imperative that they trusted and believed in me. I couldn’t tell my parents because they already had enough to worry about and I didn’t need them stressing when there wasn’t anything they could do. I couldn’t tell my doctors or therapist because I hated the idea of having to go to even more appointments.

I wanted to appear perfectly fine to any and everyone. I was terribly depressed, in denial of the severity of my addiction, living a facade and burying the truth deep within me.

Each of those poor decisions over the 11 months following the accident led to that night a year ago. I took a dangerous amount of adderall before going out, along with the collection of other pills and substances that I had grown accustomed to. I came back, plastered like I always was, took a couple more after inadvertently consuming a heavily caffeinated beverage and within minutes, knew I had messed up. I went into my room and wrote, “I pray to God I don’t OD tonight, and I pray to God I never have to write these words again”.

As the drugs took hold of my body, I began shaking uncontrollably, fighting to keep my eyes open - scared that if I closed them for longer than a second, I may never open them again. I remember the weakness, being unable to stand and having to crawl from my bed to the toilet, throwing up over and over and over again until my body felt empty. I remember the sadness, not knowing if I should call 911 because I really wasn’t sure I was still worth saving. I pictured my mom’s face as she got that call from the hospital, the one I had imagined on multiple occasions in the weeks leading up as an unfortunate hypothetical and remember the feeling of tears draining from my eyes as I felt it turn into reality. I had failed. I had lost. All of the lies and excuses I had made for myself, rationalizing why I was acting in the manner I was, why I was so desperate for an escape that I would put myself in that position - it all hit me at once. This was the end of the story.

But it wasn’t. And thank God for that. As the summer began, I made a vow to clean up my act and once again, fell short by a wide margin. I was still smoking everyday and taking an abundance of adderall with painkillers constantly on my mind. As we returned in the fall, I swore I’d figure it out and sober up and was finally able to make some minor strides in the right direction on my own. However, while less frequent, the adderall abuse was still an issue and alcoholism was prevalent. Upon returning home for Christmas break, I knew I had to get other people involved.

In December, I sat down with my parents and told them that I had a problem and needed help. We discussed possible solutions and simply allowing them to be there for me has made a huge difference. In January, I made the decision to begin meeting with a substance abuse counselor here at the university who has been an exceptional resource and who has helped me make significant strides with these issues. I’ve still got room for improvement before I’m where I want to be but my existence is no longer overshadowed by addiction and dependency as it was for so long.

I’ll leave you with this. A good friend once said, “There is no threshold of pain you must cross to deserve support.” Whatever you’re struggling with - whether it's substance abuse related or anything else - don’t be afraid to ask for help. I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for the people who were there for me when I wasn’t there for myself.

Don’t wait until it’s too late to get the help you deserve.

Anonymous, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill

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