It’s safe to say no one grows up choosing a life of drugs and alcohol. Certainly not Mike, who recalls sneaking wine for the first time at age 10. It was Mike’s job that evening to carry trays of half-filled glasses from the basement recreation room to the kitchen. His parents were hosting a wine-tasting party, and no one was paying attention to the mischievous youngster.

“By the time everyone went home, I felt 10 ft. tall and bullet-proof,” remembers Mike. Unfortunately, it also was the start of a long, disastrous passage to hell and back.

Mike, 46, was born in Iowa but moved to Atlanta in 1968 after his mother remarried. With the marriage came two new siblings—an older brother and younger sister—who joined Mike and his little brother. Not too many years later, the older brother introduced Mike to speed.

“I dropped out of high school twice,” says Mike, “both times during my senior year. I was bored, so I joined the Army in 1977. I was using everything by then.”

Mike eventually was sent to Korea where “you could get really high, really drunk, really cheap. And I started selling,” he says. “I would buy one pound of marijuana, take the seeds out and clean it up. I’d use one-half to make 20 bags, then sell them for $20 each. That way, I doubled my investment and still had one-half pound left for me to smoke myself.”

Mike married while in Korea, and he and his wife later had two sons. When he returned to the States, the now severely addicted young soldier was promoted to recruiter.

Thus far in his Army career, Mike had been fortunate. He was caught but never charged for drug use. His luck, however, had run out, and things were about to change—dramatically.

Mike received recruiter training and was sent to his station in Denison, Iowa. A year later, in 1987, he was required to attend a meeting of all recruiters in Fargo, N.D.

When Mike reported to Fargo, the first thing he received was a small urinalysis cup. “Well,” says Mike, “the army really frowns on its recruiters doing cocaine. In a short time, I lost my clearance, my rank and had blown a nine-year career. But I managed to hold on to an honorable discharge under general conditions.”

Two years later, in 1989, his wife divorced him, taking their two sons.

He returned to Georgia, where he began a rapid decline. His little brother taught him to smoke cocaine, and from there, it was “downhill all the way.” Between 1987 and 1997, he had been to detox, treatment or a hospital 28 times, usually compliments of the VA.

Finally, one night he was picked up by the DeKalb County police. “They told me they’d drop me off at the VA hospital because I was too sick for them to handle,” Mike recalls.

“Since it was law enforcement doing the honors, the staff admitted me, though I had long since worn out my welcome.” That was May 19, 1997.

At 10 p.m. the next evening, Mike received a telephone call from his sister. His 16-year-old son, Mitch, had committed suicide by hanging himself in the garage. Mitch’s younger brother, Marcus, found him.

“I snapped,” says Mike. “I lost it. I blamed myself. Something in me broke, and I believe it was at that moment I became teachable.”

For his safety, Mike was put in a padded room on the psychiatric floor, where he says.…“the first step worked me. My powerlessness had been handed to me in a BIG way. I had a lot to think about, and all
I knew was, I didn’t want to be like I was.”

The VA then put Mike in a Christian halfway house to, hopefully, continue his sobriety. It was rough going at the time; Mike was struggling with the whole “God thing.”

When his sponsor recommended Hope Homes—three-quarter housing for recovering addicts—Mike began a new passage. Then, he was referred by another Hope Homes resident to CA—Cocaine Anonymous.

While at Hope Homes, Executive Director Wick Hatch mentored Mike in his goal of developing a healthy, productive life. Wick instilled in Mike a strong work ethic and an appreciation for the rewards of doing a good job.

“I saw in Mike a willingness and an incredible desire to live life in recovery,” remembers Wick. “He is a survivor and has gone on to help many others struggling with this terrible disease of addiction. We are proud to have Mike in our lives, and he remains a part of the Hope Homes community.”

“It was at Hope Homes that I really began applying myself to the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous,” Mike says. “I saw how I was using cocaine addictively. We had house rules. We had living rules. Hope Homes was a safe place to recover. Being able to work the 12 steps allowed me to have a spiritual awakening.”

Mike lived at Hope Homes two years—all the while perfecting his craft and living sober. “Finally,” says Mike, “Wick encouraged me to go to work for myself, and with his direction, I formed my own company. I consider him a mentor.”

That was then—over nine years ago. These days, Mike employs four carpenters and is booked months out for work. He has remarried and has a wonderful relationship with his younger son, Marcus, who is studying architecture at Iowa State University. Most important, he continues an active program of recovery by going to CA meetings and sponsoring guys when asked.

Mike is a familiar visitor around Hope Homes. There are many times when he pitches in to help Wick with various projects. Also, he has been named a member of the newly formed Hope Homes Advisory Council.

Like so many others, Mike had to reach bottom before he would accept help. His world had come apart, and in desperation, he finally reached out.

Hope Homes was there to welcome him—and to let him experience a community of others who had lived the darker side of life. Because of the community’s philosophy of sobriety and support, a solid foundation was built for one more sober life.

Like many before her, Vanessa, 23, began the journey to addiction during her early teens. The story is familiar. First experimentation. Then increased frequency and, ultimately, daily use. It didn’t take long for heroin and cocaine to become an essential part of her life.

Meanwhile, Vanessa’s parents were becoming more and more desperate. There were short stays in jail. Finally, after many broken promises and failed attempts at stopping, the welcome sign was removed from home.

Money for drugs was a constant problem, and Vanessa eventually resorted to serious criminal activity to provide for her habit. Once again, she found herself in jail. This time, the stay was longer. And it was here that her life took a dramatic detour.

“I met Paul in jail,” says Vanessa. “We would talk occasionally, and he would say, ‘It’s your choice, Vanessa.’”

Ironically, Paul was on the other side—a field training officer with the sheriff’s department who taught new prison personnel. When Vanessa was released, he was the first person she called when she relapsed.

“I overdosed but still had the presence of mind to call Paul at the jail,” Vanessa continues. “I’ve never been this scared. I knew if I continued to use the way I wanted, I would kill myself.”

However unlikely, Paul helped her, and the two began a tentative relationship through phone calls. They then began going out—attending events, kayaking and taking part in other healthy recreation.

“Paul was always up-front with me,” Vanessa continues. “He made it perfectly clear drugs could
never be a part of my life if we saw each other.”

In mid-2004, Paul asked Vanessa—still clean— to move into his three-bedroom home. Soon friendship  evolved into love. During this time, Vanessa began going with a girlfriend once a week to a local karaoke bar. While her friend sang, Vanessa started down a familiar path—substituting alcohol for drugs.

“I was careful around Paul, but soon drinking started to mirror my old drug habit,” she says. “Paul asked if I thought I was drinking too much, and I told him I was a drug addict—not an alcoholic.”

Then in late 2004, Paul, who is in the Army National Guard, received word he would be deployed to Iraq in January. They married January 5, 2005, before he left.

Vanessa’s world fell apart. “I felt everyone had left me. My rock of stability was gone,” she says. “I was totally depressed, and, of course, it didn’t take long before I started using again.”

And it didn’t take long for Paul to recognize the signs during daily phone calls and a rapidly diminishing bank balance. He came home on R&R in July and immediately took Vanessa to a treatment facility.

“He told me, it was okay. It was not the end of the world,” remembers Vanessa. “Paul returned to Iraq, and I stayed in the hospital for 21 days. I had tried in the past to stay sober on my own, and I knew I couldn’t do it. I needed more applied practice at recovery and life. That was when a counselor recommended Hope Homes.”

The therapist described a three-quarters recovery environment, where Vanessa could practice what she learned in treatment. She would live with a small group of women, fostered by a larger community.

Vanessa says she had a long conversation with Hope Homes Director Beth Fisher. Beth told her that at Hope Homes she would learn to live with her disease—without relying on drugs or alcohol.

“Vanessa was an ideal applicant,” says Beth. “She was clean, eager and decidedly ready for a new way of living. I told her how our community operated— that she would live with a female roommate with a similar dependency in a single-family residence.

“However, I made it clear that she—like other residents—must follow the rules. This meant she would  adhere to guidelines, participate in regular 12 step meetings and take an active part in group activities and personal development programs.”

“I was hungry this time,” stresses Vanessa. “I wanted to stay clean, and I finally accepted that I needed long-term help. I required the support and daily contact with other recovering individuals, and Hope Homes seemed ideal.”

Vanessa elaborates on the community environment. She says she experienced a re-enforcement structure where she could speak about family life and the influences that surround everyone— every day.

“At Hope Homes, I became part of a group where we all had similar problems,” Vanessa says. “I learned — through example—how to be responsible and accountable. They made me look at myself and take care of my own sobriety. I finally found a circle of friends working for a common goal.

“You know, initially, you might go into treatment or recovery for someone else. But to be successful, we have to stop this destructive behavior for ourselves.”

Today, after a seven-month stay at Hope Homes, Vanessa has a blueprint for the future. Paul returned from Iraq in May 2006 and is stationed at Ft. Campbell, KY, where she plans to start college and perhaps a family someday.

Beth also seems optimistic. “I’ve observed Vanessa before and after,” she says. “She’s been a sponge—soaking up every positive part of this community environment. I feel so very, very encouraged about her future.”

“I cannot put into words what Hope Homes did for me,” says Vanessa. “It was the perfect place for me to stay clean until I felt I could handle the real world.”

Vanessa’s story is unique, but it has a common component: a lost soul now living one day at a time—clean and sober.