Larry G | From Surviving to Rebuilding
I took my first drink at five years old. My dad handed it to me, and for a moment, I felt like his buddy. It wasn’t about the alcohol, I did not understand that yet, for me, it was about connection. Maybe it always was. Alcohol was sporadic until we moved to town and dad bought a bar. At twelve years of age, I was drinking almost every day. Even when I was surrounded by friends, I rarely felt like I truly belonged. I learned early how to laugh, how to blend in, and how to look comfortable while quietly feeling out of place. As school turned into isolation and participation turned into escape, alcohol quietly settled into my life as something that felt normal.
There were a few bright spots; football season, working at the pizza parlor, diving into science competitions. Although when focused I delayed drinking, alcohol had become the one companion that never left. It didn’t ask questions. It didn’t judge. It just waited for me at the end of the day, the week, or whenever I needed it. And that pattern lasted nearly fifty years.
From the outside, my life looked good. I grew up on an Oklahoma farm, played football, excelled in science, and was elected class president. I earned a scholarship to Oklahoma State University, completed a master’s degree in geology, and built a career in science, technology, and leadership. I worked hard, advanced, and helped organizations grow. But inside, I was always running from fear, toward validation, toward achievement, and from the belief that no accomplishment could fix what felt broken underneath.
When I was invited to visit West Point, I told people for years that I turned it down because I didn’t want anyone telling me what to do. The truth was simpler and harder: I was terrified of failing. Perfection felt safer than risk, and alcohol helped me avoid both. It wasn’t just a party habit, it became stress relief, escape, confidence, and emotional anesthesia. I learned how to function while carrying chaos inside me, and that’s the danger of functioning alcoholism. If you can still work, achieve, pay bills, and smile, you can convince everyone, including yourself, that nothing is wrong.
Over time, I built careers while slowly damaging myself emotionally and spiritually. I stayed busy because slowing down meant facing shame, fear, broken relationships, guilt, anger, and the realization that I had spent much of my life disconnected from myself. There were periods of deep turmoil, relationships filled with manipulation, situations involving children where I should have recognized danger sooner, moments where I tried to save everyone around me while quietly collapsing myself. And yet, even in the middle of all that dysfunction, I never believed I was a bad person. I believed people could change. I believed I could change.
After a separation, painful accusations, and the collapse of the life I thought I had built, DHS became involved and referred me to Palmer Continuum of Care. For years, I told myself alcohol wasn’t the problem because I could still function. Eventually, I had to face the truth – “functioning” and “healthy” are not the same thing.
Recovery wasn’t one dramatic moment. It was a slow, steady process of honesty, accountability, humility, and rebuilding. I had to learn that sobriety alone doesn’t fix a life. Recovery means learning how to live openly, truthfully, and with purpose after decades spent hiding behind alcohol, work, and noise. Palmer became more than treatment, it became a turning point. Working with the staff, I began to understand that my problems weren’t just about alcohol or failed relationships. They were rooted in how I thought, how fear shaped my decisions, how validation drove me, and how disconnected I had become from myself.
After becoming certified as a Peer Recovery Support Specialist, I struggled to find work. Maybe it was my deferred sentence. Maybe it was pride. Maybe I still thought I knew better than everyone else. Whatever the reason, my certification eventually lapsed. Then one day, almost on a whim, I stopped by Palmer and talked with the executive director. He mentioned they might be starting a volunteer position, a chance to rebuild my certification, gain experience, and maybe find a way forward.
So, I volunteered. Nearly 450 hours later, after five months of searching and about 77 job refusals, I still had no job. Then the same director who gave me that volunteer opportunity asked if I’d be interested in joining Palmer as a Recovery Support Specialist.
Full circle.
Today, I work in recovery support and mental health advocacy. I help facilitate groups, develop curriculum, and support people who are trying to rebuild their lives one day at a time. Most of what I share doesn’t come from textbooks, it comes from mistakes, failures, hard lessons, and years spent learning how to be honest with myself. I’ve been sober since 2022, and I still have a long way to go. But I know a few things people are not beyond repair. Recovery is possible, even after decades of dependence. And sometimes the most powerful thing a hurting person can hear is, “I’ve been there. You’re not the only one.”
Every person is one decision away from an entirely different life. We can’t rewrite our past, but with honesty, support, and purpose, we can absolutely redirect our future.