Me, an Addict Too

Well, this is my story. I am a 29-year-old gay man living in a village in Toledo (or deepest rural Spain, if you prefer). I can’t attend NA meetings because there isn’t a single group in my entire province. Luckily, my family had the resources to admit me to two private treatment centres for three months. Now that I’m out, I’m taking advantage of the work of Proyecto Hombre, donating what I can, as it’s the only non-private resource that can help me. I combine it with the UCA (Castilla-La Mancha public health service) but, like any public resource for our problem, it’s not enough to help us.

The first time I got drunk was at the age of 13—though I had already tried alcohol and cannabis at the age of 12, apart from smoking tobacco every day, which, let’s not forget, is one of the worst drugs there is. At that age, I also had my first “whiteout” from smoking joints.

I didn’t have a good situation at home because my parents were divorced and didn’t have the means for each to live their own lives, so there wasn’t a good atmosphere. At 14, I suffered sexual abuse that took my virginity. I don’t know if these two things are the cause of the problem, but I do know that they had something to do with its development. At that age, I was already drinking with my friends, and I was the one who always got drunk, who had to drink the most and the fastest. I did it to seek that feeling of ‘not being myself’ and ‘numbing myself’.

At 16, I tried cocaine, MDMA, and mushrooms, and since then I have tried everything except heroin: alcohol, cannabis, cocaine, crack, MDMA, speed, benzodiazepines, barbiturates, poppers, chloroethyl, mephedrone, GHB, methamphetamine, alpha, salvia divinorum, LSD, mushrooms, ketamine, DMT, and 2C-B. And finally, handfuls of tramadol (which are opioid pills) along with a codeine medication to experience that high without actually using heroin itself, due to fear of the stigma and stories surrounding that substance. However, with the rest, I wasn’t afraid. I thought that I could never be a “junkie” if I didn’t consume that “star” substance, and I always tried to consume as much as I could—whether it was by taking advantage of others, prostituting myself for money or in exchange for drugs when I ran out of savings, manipulating, or stealing.

From the age of 18, I consumed cannabis and alcohol most days until, in my early 20s, alcohol also became a daily habit. The other substances, with a few exceptions, were only for the weekends, in as large quantities as possible. Even so, I managed to get to university (although I didn’t finish), earn two professional qualifications, work as a programmer from the age of 25, and maintain a life that was gradually deteriorating but still fulfilled the vital goals we all have.

But one day everything changed, and it was when I tried slamming (also called shooting up, but we queers use an Anglicism to make it sound cooler and less like a drug addiction: you’re not going to tell the person you’re going to have sex with that you can shoot up during sex, it’s cooler to say that you can slam) at the age of 28. I’ve been doing chemsex since I was 20, but it went from being a one-off thing to becoming more and more frequent, until by the age of 27, I couldn’t have sex unless I was high or completely stoned. And at one of those parties, I tried slamming, as I said. That was in April 2024, and by September I was doing it almost every day until November, when I moved to Torremolinos to live alone (well, with my dog) using the savings I had. It became a daily habit from my second week there, just like sex. I injected myself at home most of the time, even having to do it as soon as I woke up on the days I slept so that I would have the energy to open my laptop. I was teleworking—another circumstance that did not help me, as the problem was not so visible in something as essential as my work. I spent more than €20,000 in six months.

From that summer of 2024, I started having psychotic episodes—six in total, I think—but the people I was with always knew how to handle the situation until it passed. Along with these episodes, I suffered from many delusions. Because I injected myself with methamphetamine every day, I practically stopped sleeping and sought to ‘double down’ on drugs so that I could rest after three to four days without sleep. I spent many months like this, which meant that from December onwards, I was hearing voices and thinking that I was being spied on in the studio where I lived. I also started seeing worms inside my face and cutting myself because of it. I will always have a couple of scars on my face to remind me of my problem. And in May 2025, I had a psychotic episode with a guy I was having a relationship with; he called the police, and I woke up tied up in the hospital in Málaga.

I was discharged in less than 24 hours, but they notified my family of the incident. I finally had the courage (or the obligation—although I had been aware for years that I was addicted, I don’t think they would have reacted the same way if I had brought up the conversation suddenly without them seeing such a consequence) to tell them about my problem and tell them that I needed to be admitted. I am lucky to have a family that supports me and is helping me a lot with my addiction.

I checked into a centre in Madrid, and after two months I relapsed for a week while staying at a friend’s house, as my family wouldn’t let me go home while I was still using. I checked back into a centre in Toledo for another month so I could stop using again and not lose my family. I was discharged voluntarily on 5 September because my family could no longer afford to pay for my stay, and now I am living with my parents again, who have remained supportive since I was admitted and are helping me a lot. Thanks to this help and the resources I mentioned at the beginning, I have been living a normal life for ten days (although with different habits than I had before) and for now, I am maintaining my abstinence. I hope to continue that way, since during my relapse I heard those voices again and I do not want to be irreversibly damaged psychologically, among many other internal and external motivations. I’m not going to lie to you, it’s not been a walk in the park and I have cravings every day, but by changing my thinking from ‘I can’t use’ to ‘I don’t want to use’ and remembering the many dark photos I have, I calm that anxiety.

So this is my story (summarised as much as I can), one of millions around the world, which in one way or another, however different they may seem, always involve the same problem: addiction to a substance that we cannot stop using without help and that causes us to decline more and more, destroying everything in its path.

Aaron Garcia, Illescas. From rural Spain, 15 September 2025.

Alberto

I am Alberto, from Mexico City, and I would like to share my testimony as a member of the LGBT+ community.

How did you come to NA, and what helped you stay? There is a group near my house. I walked by the meeting location one day and began to reflect on my need for sobriety—realizing just how little I was able to quit drugs on my own. Hearing others share their experiences and realizing I wasn’t alone is what helped me stay.

What has been your experience in NA as an LGBTQIA+ member? I hadn’t really thought about it from that specific perspective before, but substance use is so prevalent within our community. I have realized that many queer men, like myself, carry significant pain from our upbringings. While the mechanics of addiction are the same for all NA members, we cannot isolate our recovery from our cultural context. I believe we need to speak up more about our unique experiences.

What does recovery mean to you today? It is the best gift in the world. Although I am not yet a deeply involved member of the fellowship, it is the only way I have found true peace.

What message would you share with other LGBTQIA+ addicts who are still suffering? I want them to give themselves the chance to join this beautiful, life-saving fellowship. Know that we all belong here, free from discrimination, and that it is truly possible to live a different kind of life. SXH 🙂

Thank you.

Clean and queer

Addiction kills so many of us.
In the late 70s a dyke friend was talking about going to meetings. At that time there was no NA in my state but she attended meetings of our mother program. I was kind of surprised that lesbians could go to those meetings – or would even want to.
A couple of years later, having bounced along the bottom for a long time, I did attend my first 12 step meetings. The folks there were mostly straight Chicano Catholic men. I was none of those things but they let me stay and, after a number of false starts, I got clean.

Eventually a few women started attending and I got a sponsor named Ann. One woman from California told me there were meetings out there in that mythical California land called “Clean and Serene.” I liked the sound of that. I got a t shirt – not black for once – it was dark maroon – and put iron-on letters on the sleeve: “Clean and Serene.” I still have the picture of me in my 1967 Plymouth Fury Sport with a 386 engine and no brakes. I’m wearing my standard black bandana around my forehead and flipping the bird to the photographer. My shoulder proudly proclaims that I am “Clean and Serene.”

When I took my first third step I truly believed that I was turning my will and my life over to a power that would want me to become straight, marry a man, have 2.3 children and a dog, live in the suburbs and wear polyester. I was horrified. But I was desperate. I said the damn prayer. A few days later (I know, we’re supposed to wait a year ) I had a hot date with a woman and decided that the steps weren’t so bad after all.

One day my sponsor Ann told me she was taking me to a new meeting. Richard had come from East LA and he had some yellowish or beige papers with familiar sounding steps and traditions on them and a bunch of stuff I’d never heard before. It was the first NA meeting in my part of the world. I have no idea what was talked about in the meeting, but I will never forget the circle we made for the prayer. I was in my scuffed boots – motorcycle or steel-toed work boots – I don’t remember which. Ann wore high-heeled cowgirl boots which she waitressed in – lord only knows how. Bernadette had on Birkenstocks. Richard was wearing city-slicker shiny thin-soled shoes that were absolutely useless in the high desert because we have these nasty stickers called goatheads.

What I understood in that moment was that no two of us matched. None of our shoes looked even vaguely like we would associate with one another. And in that moment I knew that I belonged in NA just as much as anyone else. I didn’t match. Neither did you.
A year or so in, a lesbian couple moved to our area and brought our first Basic Text. I had a crush on both of them so I couldn’t ask them to sponsor me, but they sponsored half the fellowship here. It made it easier to be in this community since much of the meeting had queer sponsors.

I relapsed during this time and while waiting for the guy with the drugs to show up I ended up stopping at their house. At one point I looked at my watch and said I’d need to be going. My friend asked if I wanted a tortilla. I couldn’t figure out why she was offering a tortilla, much less one with no chile, cheese or beans on it. I declined and said I needed to leave. She asked if I wanted butter on it. I guess butter is my Higher Power sometimes. I stayed. I ate the tortilla. I have been clean ever since. I used any excuse to use. I can use any excuse to stay clean. Butter. It works.
Since then there have been a number of times in meetings when I did not disclose the gender of my partner for fear of being excluded or disrespected, or fear of turning someone else away from NA. That doesn’t happen much any more. Sometimes at H&I meetings I still don’t mention my lover, my heart. It’s not all perfect or safe. I would love to carry the message to a number of countries but the penalties for being found out to be queer are serious – sometimes even death. In international zoom meetings I often tell a vague version of my story so as not to put anyone else in harm’s way. I am welcomed in the meetings in my area but not everyone is so privileged.
The steps, the traditions, the principles, the fellowship and sponsorship have gotten me through some raggedy recovery and some tragic times. I have been able to stay clean since 1982.
I’ve been to gay meetings, women’s meetings and one time, on a bad night, I attended a men’s meeting which was the only meeting for about 50 miles.
All of it held me. You all held me.

From the very first meeting in my area there has been at least one queer member. When I am afraid of being unwelcome, I remember that I’m the dinosaur and it’s my place to welcome newer people, not the other way around.
We have always been part of Narcotics Anonymous. If I keep working my program I may make it all the way to the infinity medallion. We all belong. We’re all different. Any addict seeking recovery can lose the desire to use and find a new way to live. Any addict.

Amber G.

My Story – Na Journey

I have lived with addiction for nearly 18 years. Like many others, my story began with what
seemed harmless and fun. First cigarettes, then other substances… Until I met my drug of
choice, everything felt under control. After that point, my life slowly but surely began to fall
apart. My relationship with my family deteriorated, I lost my job, yet I still couldn’t stop. I was born in Switzerland and lived there until I was 16. Later, due to family circumstances, we moved
permanently to Turkey. There, I felt like a stranger. People judged my behavior, body
language, and the way I expressed myself. I, on the other hand, tried to survive by hiding who
I was.

I had my sexual orientation for many years. I was more afraid of my family being hurt than of
losing myself. From a young age, I experienced violence for expressing who I was. Looking
back today, I can see that the “relief” substances gave me was actually rooted in my need for
acceptance and freedom. When I used, my fears faded, boundaries disappeared, and I felt
more at ease. But the cost of that feeling was very heavy. Over time, my family broke, and I became increasingly isolated. For a while, I had a good job, but because of my addiction, I couldn’t maintain it !t. Then came poverty, withdrawal, and desperation. I lived on the streets for three years—under bridges, and abandoned buildings. In order to survive, I went down paths I never wanted to take. Along with this came legal problems.

During probation, I met a professional who truly listened to me and treated me like a human
being. That connection became a turning point !n my l!fe. I entered treatment and later joined
a long-term rehab!l!tat!on program. There, I learned how to cope with addiction, face myself,
and ask for help. I first heard the NA message during this time. The experiences shared sounded very familiar to me. Realizing that there were others like me gave me hope. After leaving the program, I joined an NA group. As a newcomer, I was warmly welcomed. No one judged or questioned me. They simply listened. That experience was deeply healing for me.

Today, I have a sponsor !n NA and I am preparing to work the Twelve Steps. Recovery now
means more than just not using. It means being honest with myself, living without
suppressing my emotions, and making peace with who I am. As an LGBTQIA+ member, I have experienced unity, acceptance, and friendship within NA. Here, what matters is not who I am, but my desire to recover. The tools that help me stay clean and connected are meetings, sharing, and remembering that I am not alone.

To LGBTQIA+ addicts who are st!ll suffering, I want to say this: You are not alone. There’s hope. Recovery is possible. Asking for help is an act of courage. If I can be here today, you can find a way out too.

Anıl.B

Being Reborn:

We all have war stories. Many of you know aspects of my story, but you don’t need to know all the details to know me – To welcome me, to make me feel like I belong. I belong because we come from the same hell. We lived it. Sometimes, we still are. When I get caught up in my disease, I start thinking that I’m a special snowflake – until you remind me that one of you, all of you, have been there and here before.

Being clean and sober is like being reborn. But let’s remember what birth is actually like…Not that we can remember – which is the first similarity.

You are in a womb, cared for. You get food. You piss and shit; someone else cleans up your mess. The only hope is that you survive. They do wellness checks on you. Hope and pray – and you have no idea. Then, the day comes when all eyes are on you. You are not happy. The world stops for everyone around you. It’s sometimes days of hell. All for you, little old you.

You come out, hopefully without causing too much damage. You are kicking, screaming, and covered in all manner of your screw-ups. Everyone is just happy you are alive, with the hope that you will be healthy. They wrap you in a birthing blanket and clean you off.

You, though? You are pissed off. All of a sudden, you don’t have food all the time. No one understands you. Your body is doing all sorts of crazy things. And you aren’t safe anymore. You are out in the world, completely vulnerable and dependent on others. For fuck’s sake, it’s the first time you are doing this. You have no idea what you are doing – who you are, what you are.

They say you are a blank slate. You need people, and that is scary. But you always did, love, and they were there taking care of you. Putting themselves out over and over again for you. But you? You had no idea. You thought you were doing it alone. You thought life was good. That you created it. That you could live like this forever. But your world was so small then. That wasn’t living, darling. That was growing.

Our sobriety is, in many ways, a rebirth. But it isn’t a new beginning. The seeds of our ability and desire to live clean and sober were planted during those last and worst months of using. They prepared us for the journey of stepping into life. If we are lucky, we find ourselves in the warm blanket of love and care of those who were always there, and new entrants who bring their experience, strength, and hope to guide us as we learn who we are and clean up our side of the street.

So now, after two years of clean time, I recognize that I’m a baby in the body of a 34-year-old. I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. I’m hungry, angry, lonely, and tired. Everyone says that life is beautiful – that it’s a gift that shouldn’t be wasted.

But this? This is what it’s all about? I was much happier wasted. But it was because I wasn’t really living. Happiness is fleeting. There’s an opportunity cost for every action or inaction. Using cost me most of my life. Now, I’m no longer yearning for happiness. I want peace. The simplicity of a peaceful life. The peacefulness of a simple life.

I keep coming to these rooms and learning from all of you what peace looks like, feels like, tastes like. Sometimes, I am lucky enough to enjoy a few moments of blissful serenity. But it’s not in the way or how I used to think I’d find it. Mostly in a club, in a bottle, or between a woman’s thighs – or all of the above simultaneously.

No. Nowadays, the blissful peace comes to me in the wet nose and head bumps from my cat at 4 a.m. The sound of my sister’s voice saying, Is it cool if I stop by? The vibration in every cell of my body after a sunset walk in the valley. The hugs from my nephews and growing list of inside jokes. The noise of the engine from a friend’s car outside, picking me up for a meeting. The richness of shitty instant coffee with a friend who randomly stopped by because they just had to tell me about this understanding they had around a challenging moment in their recovery.

It’s the feeling – the knowing inside me – that I’m right where I’m supposed to be. Being reborn every day, covered in blood, puss, and shit. Knowing that when I call you and come to these rooms, you wipe my tears with your birthing blankets, and envelope my anger and pain with your extra long hugs. And celebrate me – yes, me – with your “We Love You.”

Carolina

For the Addict Who Still Suffers and for Those Yet to Arrive.
My story is not much different from that of other addicts; like most of them, I experienced pain, loneliness, and fear, among many other things. But today, I want to share my experience from the beginning, and I want to do it the N.A. way. To do that, I have to go back in time—a few years ago—when I went through the worst and hardest stage of my life.

I’m Caro, and I started using to escape reality around the age of 35, while I was going through a difficult time in a live-in relationship. Of course, other factors played a role as well: environmental, work-related, social, and my own personality, which was affected by various personal experiences, future life plans, and desires that crumbled because they never came true.
It was a harsh time, and I remember that first day perfectly; although I have been in recovery for a while now, it feels as if it all happened yesterday. Before I go on, let me warn you that the process can be painful. Explaining what I’ve learned today means knowing how to discern between the feelings that arise when memories return and what is necessary to understand about life in order to work on oneself. It can be very difficult, but self-love demands that we be strong and stay true to the desire to leave addiction behind.

The Descent

In my experience, using was like continuing to dig a hole that I had created long before as a result of a mountain of emotions, unanswered questions, memories, and incomplete life moments that I hadn’t fully experienced. As I mentioned at the beginning, when the addiction started, everything got worse. I thought that by forgetting I would avoid the pain, but the reality was a failed attempt to escape one hell only to enter another. It seemed like an endless cycle of suffering and living behind a mask of lies—above all, lying to myself in an eager attempt to believe I felt better. It became an everyday war.

I spent five continuous nights without sleep under the effects of a drug (within the fellowship, we learn not to specify the type of substance, but rather to label them all as “drugs”), accompanied by the toxic habit of tobacco. And the worst didn’t end there, because I used another drug to rest for a bit, only to return to using via inhalation. It isn’t necessary to give details about quantities, because all of us addicts in recovery know very well that we lose all sense of limits when we use; no amount is ever enough.

I have thousands of unusual anecdotes to tell, but none of them are good. On the contrary, for every one of them, I lost self-worth, and in the end, the only thing I achieved was creating a false identity around a pain that never went away. One night, during an overdose, I wanted to end my life. Nothing did me any good anymore, not even the drug itself. It was so hard for me to stop crying; I wanted to stop breathing, but it seems that wasn’t in God’s plans for that moment. What I had premeditated as a tragedy turned into a miracle.

The Miracle of Recovery

Now I want to tell you the most beautiful part: the recovery and the changes I practice daily to keep growing. A while ago, someone told me, “Life in recovery is beautiful,” and it made me reflect on how important it is to connect with oneself consciously—to take care of and love oneself to lead a fuller life.

Just for Today, I have been in my first treatment for 2 years, 5 months, and 11 days, moving forward peacefully and surrounding myself with people who share the same interest in self-care, self-love, and validating the importance of mental health. I practice daily reading of N.A. literature, which offers me reflection and wisdom to face facts exactly as they happen. I have virtual group members who are available 24 hours a day to listen and be heard. There is always, always someone attentive to accompany you; the fellowship spans the entire world. In face-to-face groups, you can feel the energy created among everyone, which helps us heal and complete our broken pieces.

The first day I arrived at my beloved group, Paso a Paso (Step by Step), I walked in empty-handed and walked out with the grace of having had one of the best experiences: sharing a part of my life with people who supported me as if they had known me forever. The mate ready and being passed around, the cups of coffee, something to eat, and the literature. That is how the meetings begin; in that moment, the miracle of unity begins to take shape.

A New Life

I have a beautiful relationship with myself that motivates me to keep growing, enjoying each passing day. And as I progress in this relationship, my self-respect grows. For me, recovery is the School of LIFE, where I find my therapists, my Narcotics Anonymous group, my loved ones, my peers in treatment, and God, who gave me this unique opportunity: the chance to start over in a better way.

It’s about waking up every day and taking time for myself, attending to my needs, and having the clear conscience of knowing that all addiction causes harm. Sharing my recovery experience honestly is the best gift I can give to another addict who still suffers. The only way out is the desire to stop using, and as we say in every meeting: “Yes, we do recover.”
Thank you for being here and for the silence that allows me to feel supported while you read my share.

I need you.
— Caro

Christian

My name is Cristian. I am a gay man, I have been living with HIV for 21 years, and I am an addict in recovery. I am from Talca, Chile, and this is my story.

I first came to Narcotics Anonymous nine years ago through a newspaper advertisement. Initially, I found the atmosphere hostileC, but the following week a fellow member said something that stuck: “This program is for you, not for the rest.”

Unfortunately, at the time, I didn’t take the disease of addiction seriously. I failed to accept that alcohol is a drug and lived in self-deception for over a year. While I attended meetings and mimicked the behaviors of recovery, I continued using for two years. My character defects flourished; my conduct was improper and I harbored deep resentment toward the fellowship. Eventually, I walked away for six years. During that period, I sought help from psychiatrists, psychologists, and therapists within the LGBTQIA+ community, but I saw no results.

On November 3, 2023, I finally returned to N.A. I was welcomed back by a member I had known years prior—someone I had actually argued with while I was relapsing and he was new. When he said, “I’m glad you’re rejoining the group,” I was stunned. His physical appearance had completely transformed, and he spoke with a fluid, gentlemanly grace. I asked him, “What have you done to change like this?”

He responded: “Follow the steps and be obedient to yourself.” At that moment, I told myself: I want that change.

My Experience in the Fellowship

Since returning, my experience in N.A. has been full and varied—from consistent meeting attendance and service to participating in retreats and conventions. I have a sponsor and am actively working the Steps.

As the only LGBTQIA+ member in my local Talca group, I often share my unique experiences, but conventions have been a lifeline. There, I have met other queer fellows who provide encouragement and suggestions, giving me the peace of mind that I am not alone.

“Just for Today,” recovery is a personal journey; it is a conscious contact with a Higher Power that has been nothing short of miraculous. While I feel we work very hard on tolerance and respect within the fellowship, I believe it would be wonderful to have specific LGBTQIA+ groups where we could share service and suggestions within our own community. That mutual respect is something we must continue to build in today’s society.

The Path Forward

Just for Today, I have been clean for two years. It has been an extensive journey with many highs and lows. I have learned that in recovery, you must be honest, open-minded, and—above all—obedient.

Greetings from Talca, Chile,
Cristian

Jesus

Good evening, my name is Jesus, I am a forty-something gay man and have been an addict for fifteen years. My life has not been easy, but rather very hard and complicated.

I am the youngest of six siblings, and from a young age, I realised that I liked men. I come from a humble family, but one with a good education, strong values, and honesty. When I was not yet eighteen, I was raped by a boy much older than me At the time, I did not realise or understand what had happened to me, but I was raped.

I finished my studies and started working at a very young age in supermarkets and cleaning companies. I have worked hard in many different jobs, always with a good education and being very responsible and hard-working. I started smoking joints when I was about twenty-two years old through a friend who got me into it, hash joints, and I became a real addict, smoking up to eight joints a day. I also went to work high, but it worked for me and at the time it wasn’t a serious problem.
I never thought that at twenty-eight I would swap a soft drug for a harder one. I never thought I could give up joints, and I couldn’t imagine or believe that I would give them up for cocaine and smoked heroin. I first started smoking crack on aluminium foil, but I also had another brother who was addicted and smoked crack mixed with other drugs. I had the misfortune of receiving almost €25,000 in compensation due to medical negligence.

I was working at the time, but I was severely depressed, and my brother took advantage of the situation and persuaded me to smoke a mixture, but I didn’t like it; I didn’t like the taste of heroin. I finally started smoking crack with a little bit of heroin, and I still do it today.

Going back a little, when I was about twenty-five, I started going out with my friends and we took cocaine only on weekends to go out partying. When I started smoking crack, I began to isolate myself and use alone. I wasn’t one to use with others; I either smoked with my brother or smoked alone in my room because of loneliness and depression.

When I went to the dealers to buy drugs, there were people who asked me, “Why do you use that stuff when it doesn’t suit you? You don’t look like someone who uses drugs.”
I’ve never been good at asking for money or stealing, and I’ve never been to prison. I spent all the money I earned from my job and my severance pay on drugs, and I caused a lot of harm to my family, but I also caused harm to myself.

Then I started going to the CPD [Provincial Centre for Drug Dependency] and they prescribed me methadone, but they didn’t help me much. I had all my appointments with the psychiatrist and took antidepressants, sleeping pills and anxiety medication. I decided to ask Caritas for help to join Proyecto Hombre, but I only stayed for four months because it didn’t work for me. It wasn’t right for me. When I left the centre after two months, I started using again. Some days, fifty euros was enough, but there were weeks when I spent two hundred or even three hundred.

I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I even tried to kill myself twice and was admitted to a psychiatric ward several times. Then, a few months ago, I found out through the Red Cross that there were NA meetings in my city, and I decided to give it a try. One afternoon, I showed up, sat down, and started listening to other addicts. I saw that there was another addict who was also gay and had been in recovery for four months, and I realised that I wasn’t the only gay person attending these kinds of meetings.

Today, I have been attending Narcotics Anonymous meetings for four months and,honestly, it is going quite well. There, I can share my experiences, any relapses, how I am doing, how my process is going, my day-to-day life…
In these four months, I have seen how other addicts have arrived, and it strengthens me a lot to hear them share. I also listen to those who have been clean for years, and although I find it very difficult, I hope that one day I will be able to say that I too have been clean for years.
There are also addicts who have problems with alcohol, but I have never had problems with alcohol.

Today, all I can say is that I have been clean for a month and a week, and although it may seem like a short time to some, for me it is a lot and it is taking a lot of effort on my part, but I am very happy. I would say to other LGTBI addicts not to be afraid and, if they have any kind of addiction, to go to Narcotics Anonymous, where we help each other. For me, it’s been a very rewarding experience. I go twice a week and in the mornings I do other activities. I try to keep my mind busy so I don’t think about my addiction.

On the other hand, I feel very guilty about everything I’ve done in my life over the years, all the money I’ve spent and all the damage I’ve caused to my family and loved ones, but I hope to be able to make it up to them. My mother is the most important thing to me, and all I want is for her to see me well and trust me again before she leaves this world. Right now, I am not working. I am on sick leave due to depression, and I do not know if I will be able to work again, but what I do know is that the most important thing for me right now is my physical and mental recovery.

Thank you very much for listening to these words, and I hope they will be of support to other addicts who suffer in silence and tell them that it is possible, you just have to attend Narcotics Anonymous meetings.

Kevin

My Journey from Isolation to Connection. I discovered drugs at the age of 13. The first time I tried them, I was at the cinema with two strangers I had met on Messenger. I have no memory of the film. I simply remember waking up in the hospital a few hours later. My mother was at my bedside, worried and angry. The medical staff told me I had narrowly escaped a coma. This experience—which could have been my last—didn’t serve as a lesson to me.

The next day, I had a date with the boy who became my first boyfriend. I am gay, but I hadn’t fully admitted it to myself yet. I had no role models; I was ashamed of my attraction to him and afraid of everything it represented.

With the rest of the world, I never felt like I belonged. I was anxious and reserved, and to top it off, I had a severe stutter at the time. On the weekends, we would party with friends from middle school, and that’s when my tongue began to loosen. Drugs made my fears fall away and gave me the illusion of finally being connected to others. But with every comedown, self-hatred and suicidal thoughts returned:

Holes in the Memory

I have many gaps in my memory. I have very few memories of my childhood, save for a few traumatic events engraved in my body: the death of my father four days before my second birthday; the suicide of my uncle; the death of my grandparents; my mother’s chronic depression. I was well-supported by therapists, but nothing seemed to soothe the gaping wounds I carried.

The years flew by between increasing consumption and unhealthy “victim/savior” type relationships. I always surrounded myself with people damaged by life who used more than I did. This allowed me to avoid questioning my own use. To me, it was “festive”: I drifted from techno parties to after-parties of after-parties, high, finally feeling like I belonged to something.

Around age 22, I realized something was wrong. But I couldn’t see that the heart of the problem was the drugs and my inability to stop. Some side effects became unbearable, but I quickly found other products to mitigate them, which allowed me to use even more.

The Breaking Point

All my boundaries shattered when the Covid pandemic arrived. I could no longer hide from the truth, yet no solution worked. I saw a doctor, then a psychiatrist-addictologist, and was put on medication. I didn’t stop using; I just took the meds like candy.
It was at age 27, after a breakup and a summer spent getting high, that I finally hit rock bottom. Along the road, I saw an advertisement for a sister fellowship that saved me. I walked through the door of a meeting, and the solution I had sought for so long gradually revealed itself.
At first, I didn’t understand much. But the honesty of the people there touched my heart. Listening to their stories, I felt like I was hearing my own. I was no longer alone. Their smiles and support made me want to come back. I was soon advised to check out Narcotics Anonymous. In those meetings, I identified completely, but total abstinence seemed impossible. Still, something pushed me to return.
Relapses made the phrases read in meetings feel more and more real: “One is too many; a thousand never enough…”, “Substituting one drug for another…” Then I applied “One day at a time” with daily meetings. Gradually, I managed to string together days of abstinence.

The Power of the Group

I believe the turning point was a mountain camp organized by N.A. I only had three weeks clean, but something shifted: the desire to end the self-sabotage. What was impossible alone became feasible through the support and strength of the group. Upon returning, I asked a fellow addict for help to get rid of all my drug stashes. It is a powerful memory of surrender.

Attending a national convention allowed me to meet my sponsor, whom I can never thank enough. She quickly passed on the Steps so I could use them in my daily life. Today, when strong emotions overwhelm me, I stop; I put words to my fears by talking to my sponsor or a member. Rather than fleeing, the program taught me to face things and look for solutions.

In my first year, I visited many groups in France and abroad, both in person and virtually. This allowed me to touch the greatness of our fellowship. Writing the Steps revealed my anger toward the idea of God I had been taught. How could He love me after all I had suffered, all I had done? Over time and with the help of other members, I softened and reconciled with spirituality. Today, I have my own conception of a loving and benevolent Higher Power.

Service and Identity

Service has also helped me grow. Investing in a group, finding my place, chairing a meeting… understanding that everything didn’t rest solely on me and that I could count on others freed me from an enormous weight. Along with two other addicts, we had the desire to open an LGBTQIA+ meeting. A year later, that meeting was born. It gave me incredible hope in what we can do together. Seeing new people walk through the door, return, and then pass on the message in their turn warms my heart. It hasn’t all been easy, but celebrating the 2nd anniversary of this meeting soon brings me immense joy.

These special interest meetings allowed me to share very intimate aspects of my life that were too difficult to address in other meetings. They also seem essential as an entry point into N.A. for certain people. Discovering that I can be friends with other gay men is also a novelty for me. At the same time, I feel just as much at home in other meetings. The diversity of people is a great source of richness for me. Regularly, my Higher Power expresses itself through members with whom I seemingly have no apparent affinity.

A New Way of Life

I came to N.A. for a drug problem, yet I found so much more. My relationship with the world, myself, others, love, sexuality, family, friends, work, and money has literally changed. It may seem staggering, but most of these transformations happened slowly and gently, with the help of N.A. members, some of whom have become dear friends.

Today, I have 3 years, 11 months, and 6 days of abstinence, and I am still amazed whenever I announce my time. Today, I am no longer ashamed of who I am. I don’t regret the past, and I am happy to see that my experience can benefit others. I attend meetings less often than at the beginning, but I stay connected to the program daily. Whether it’s with my sponsor, my sponsees, my Higher Power, through service, writing, or reading… it is a way of life I have made my own and that I must pass on with humility. I have ultimate confidence that everything is possible as long as I continue on this path, one day at a time.

I thank everyone who allowed me to get here, and the Higher Power that guides my steps.

Laurent

I call myself an Anonymous Addict from the LGBTQIA+ community. During my youth, I felt very lost regarding my identity—not just sexually, but personally. I identify as gay, but I grew up in a small town with no references other than the traditional, heteronormative model. When I moved to a big city to study, I discovered that the world was much wider, but I still struggled to adapt: I was afraid of people, had little confidence, and possessed a profound inability to be happy. I took refuge in drama, especially in my emotional and sexual life.

Years later, I moved to another country for professional reasons and arrived in a city where the LGBTQIA+ community had a very strong presence, especially its party scene. I was very attracted to that world, and that is where I began using drugs. Under the influence, all my insecurities vanished: I felt free, sociable, beautiful—the “king of the party.” I lived as if there were no limits: endless parties, sex, travel, a lifestyle without measuring consequences. But that pace began to bleed into every area: using to work, to sleep, to socialize, for everything. I ended up using all the time, and life became unsustainable.

The consequences arrived: isolation, illness, HIV, Hepatitis C, multiple STIs, hospitalizations, overdoses. What seemed like fun at first turned into a hell. Out of eight years of active use, three were “fun” and five were a continuous fall toward a very dark bottom, where I could neither stop nor find relief.

Reaching the Bottom

Finally, after a chaotic summer full of extreme situations—months isolated at home, risky practices, legal problems at an airport, a total inability to manage my life—I reached the end point: a suicide attempt. That was my real bottom.

A friend rescued me and sought help. They contacted an LGBTQIA+ member of N.A. who came to see me the next day and told me his story. I identified deeply with him, both in the relationship between drug use and sexuality and in desperation. He invited me to an LGBTQIA+ meeting, and there I discovered something crucial: I was not a special case. There were people exactly like me. I felt hope for the first time in years.

I arrived at N.A. shattered, unable to even eat, but from the first day, I experienced relief. It took about fifteen days to stop using entirely, but I stopped being alone. I started doing what was suggested: I chose a sponsor quickly, did service (even serving coffee), wrote the steps, and asked a lot of questions. I was very controlling and distrustful, but the more I followed suggestions, the better I felt. During that period, I was also undergoing aggressive treatment for Hepatitis C, and yet I never missed an appointment—neither medical nor within the program. I did 90 meetings in 90 days, and I maintained that for over a year, meeting weekly with my sponsor to share the program.

The Turning Point

With time, my rebellion turned into curiosity, and curiosity into trust. I stayed clean: first one month, then two, then three. And so I kept going. I learned to live with my fears—at first, I was even afraid of heterosexuals, women, and trans people—but N.A. sustained me. The program worked and my life began to find order, some things quickly and others over the course of years.

I was able to help many people, and that filled me deeply because I feel it is the only way to give back what I have received. I should have died; I survived almost by a miracle, and being able to accompany others is my way of saying thank you. Even so, there was a moment in my recovery when I grew resentful toward N.A. I felt my service wasn’t valued as I expected, and without realizing it, I started demanding recognition. That distanced me emotionally from the program. I didn’t stop coming entirely, but I pulled away on the inside—and that is always dangerous.

A Spiritual Home

The LGBTQIA+ groups were my point of return. In particular, this new group allowed me to reconnect with the joy of service, of taking care of a group, of making amends for the harm I caused during my active use—both to the community and to those who crossed my path. Caring for the group became an act of reparation and love. Today, it is my spiritual home within N.A. It fills me to see new members arrive, to be able to pamper them, integrate them, and accompany them with unconditional love. I learned that spiritual principle through effort, but I live it with sincerity: it doesn’t matter how they arrive, everyone deserves care.

Our disease is serious, chronic, and fatal, but it is also true that in our community, fun is important. Recovery is not a sentence: it is a bridge to life, toward the ability to enjoy ourselves without destroying ourselves. I was very afraid of what my clean life would be like. Today I know that I can have fun, that I can be reasonably happy, and when I am not, I have a program that gives me peace to walk through the difficult moments.

For all of this, I am deeply grateful to Narcotics Anonymous. I can only end by saying: thank you, thank you, and thank you.

Apart but Still a Part

Before coming to the fellowship of Narcotics Anonymous, life felt like a constant struggle. I was moving through mud while everyone else (so it seemed) had a manual on how to live. Mine never arrived. From an early age, I felt different and apart from others. I tried to fight my way through life, which led to recurring depression and phases of not wanting to live anymore. I coped by hurting myself. Physical pain felt easier to endure than the constant emotional and mental chaos in my head. I isolated myself and did everything to find relief: self-harming, secretly smoking my mother’s cigarettes, and using food to fill an emptiness I couldn’t name.

At fourteen, something happened that would mirror what I experienced years later when I walked into the rooms of NA. After attending a youth trans meeting, I identified with their stories. For the first time, things made sense: I had never been a girl. I was meant to be a boy from the beginning. Being fortunate enough to grow up in the Netherlands, where healthcare for gender-diverse people is supported by the system, I began my transition. I changed my name, started testosterone, and at age nineteen underwent surgery to remove my breasts, uterus, and ovaries. With every step, I felt more at home in my body. It finally felt like it belonged to me. Yet, while my body and gender aligned, I was still far from accepting myself. The inner struggle with life remained.

Moving to a big city to live in a student house brought temporary relief. Away from the small village where everyone knew my past, I could live openly as myself, no further questions asked. I met people who accepted me, and this new phase of life felt exciting and free. We partied several days a week, and soon I discovered what I believed I had been missing all my life: drugs saved me from myself. Initially, it seemed as if self-acceptance was finally possible.

My story is one in which it didn’t take long before taking drugs stopped being fun and became a necessity just to get through the day. Over a period of two and a half years, both the amount and variety of my drug use increased, leading to dangerous situations. Responsibilities disappeared, along with the self-worth I thought I had gained in the first place. I desperately sought my lost self-worth by getting paid for sex. The higher the amount, the more I was worth—or so it felt. I crossed boundaries I never thought I would, telling myself this was empowerment, while inside I felt emptier than ever. I ended up at chemsex parties where I took many unfamiliar drugs with many unfamiliar people.

Friends expressed their concern about my lifestyle, but I reacted with anger. How could they judge me when I was finally living life to the fullest? It wasn’t until I started getting panic attacks and losing touch with reality every time I used, that I could no longer deny the truth. The desire to no longer live hit—again. This wasn’t the place I thought I’d be at age twenty-three. My best thinking, my hard work, and my constant drive to run harder and do better resulted in being hospitalized in a psychiatric institution for a week. I was physically exhausted, emotionally numb, and completely hopeless. I didn’t know what to do anymore. I never imagined those words would become the newfound foundation of my recovery.

I had already been introduced to NA by a fellow I met in treatment, and during that time I attended meetings with great resistance. Although it felt like a loving place with caring people, I struggled with the idea of addiction as a disease, with the word “God,” and with the people in the room—people I feared would never accept someone like me. I thought fellows were avoiding responsibilities and worshipping a God who hated people like me. When a fellow told me, “If you don’t make yourself a part of this group, we cannot help you,” I got angry, convinced he didn’t know what he was talking about. Little did I know.

Queer-focused meetings helped me feel safe enough to stay, but it was in regular meetings that real change began. By showing up honestly as my authentic queer self, I discovered that my greatest enemy isn’t other people; it is the stories I create about them in my mind. By facing the fear of rejection, I learned that I am accepted and loved not because of who I am or who I’m not, but despite it. That is freedom to me.

Finally being able to admit I have the disease of addiction was the beginning of getting back my long-lost freedom and self-acceptance—for real, this time. My entire life, I had been at dis-ease with myself and the world, trying to control everything and everyone. All my attempts at getting a grip on life failed, so there was no other option left than to surrender. I came to accept that I have a disease of perspective, and that only a spiritual solution can help me see life the right way.
I found a sponsor who guided me through the Twelve Steps and helped me build a relationship with a God of my own understanding—one that accepts me for all that I am, and helps me to do exactly the same. I don’t know how it works, but I do know what works. I can sum it up in six words: trust God, clean house, help others.

Through the Steps, I made peace with my past and learned to live differently today. I have the privilege of helping other addicts, including many trans and queer fellows. The experiences that were once sources of shame have now become a power to help others.
At one point in my early recovery, I had the urge to fit the puzzle pieces of myself together. I heard a lot of people at meetings say they had always felt different, and I had always assumed my gender was the reason I felt different and apart. Although being male has always felt right, I got confused. Above all, I wanted to know whether feeling different was part of my addiction or part of being trans. Through honest conversations with other trans fellows, I discovered that knowing wouldn’t change anything. All of it is part of who I am. My gender, my addiction, my recovery: none of these stand alone. They are threads woven together into the whole person I was meant to be.

Today, I am no longer apart. I am a part of something bigger than myself. For that, I am deeply grateful to the two great Powers that made this possible: God, and the fellowship of NA.
— MH

Sergi

Hello, my name is Sergi and I’m an addict. I am 28 years old, a member of the fellowship and also of the LGTBIQA+ community. Today I have been clean for approximately three years (2 years and 7 months). I discovered NA in 2021, after a very bad experience with substance use. At that point, I thought I had hit rock bottom, but I still had more to lose. I did not return to meetings until 2023, when I began my recovery process in earnest.

I grew up in a seemingly structured family. My father was raised “the old-fashioned way” and my mother had suffered physical and verbal abuse both in her childhood and as an adult. I was a much-wanted child: my mother could have died from complications during pregnancy, but she still decided to have me. She was allergic to seminal plasma and was willing to sacrifice her life to bring me into the world. For me, there is no love purer than my mother’s.

My childhood was not easy. I had difficulty socialising, which led to me being bullied from nursery school until I was 18, both by teachers and pupils. At the same time, I was caught up in a family war between my siblings and my parents. I didn’t have any major conflicts with my father, as he remained silent. With my mother, it was different: although she wanted the best for me, she found it very difficult to show affection, and her constant demands regarding my studies made me feel permanently insecure. It was never enough for her, and it was never enough for me either.

At the age of 7, I was sexually abused by two cousins. I was unable to recognise it as abuse until I joined NA and worked the steps. My sexuality awakened prematurely and in a completely traumatic way. From an early age, I already showed compulsive behaviours, such as eating anxiously until I vomited. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. At school, I harboured resentment from a very early age. My nervous and restless nature created enemies, and I often took on an arrogant or superior attitude as a mechanism to defend myself from pain. In secondary school, my real hell began. I already felt that something in me was different. I was bullied for being overweight and for standing up to the popular boy. Even my best friend from childhood joined in the teasing; I don’t blame him, he had to survive. At the same time, I was beginning to realise that I wasn’t attracted to women. I had always sensed it, but I still couldn’t label it as ‘homosexual’. The psychological harassment was brutal: insults, humiliation and isolation. No one wanted to be around me. I lived in a rural area, which increased my loneliness: I had no friends, only resentment and hatred.

I redirected that hatred towards life, my parents, and society. I blamed them for everything, especially my parents, for not protecting me or getting me out of that hell. I convinced myself that I had to be better than everyone else, and that their rejection would be their big mistake. But at the same time, I began to hate myself: for my body, for the way I was. I took refuge in my studies and promised myself that I would be someone in life. However, I took out my anger at home: shouting, insults, slamming doors, running away. I became violent and resentful.

At 16, I tried alcohol. From the first drink, it awakened something in me: I always drank until I lost consciousness. That same year, my homosexuality became public when a girl discovered it on social media. My mother did not take it well; she was concerned about the harm I might suffer, but I interpreted it as rejection. My resentment towards her grew.
Soon after, I discovered Grindr. I had no friends, but I could find strangers who made me feel desired for a few minutes. That false affection served me well: I was desperate, anyone would do.

At 18, I moved to Barcelona to study at university. I thought I had escaped my hell, but I continued to have unprotected sex and ended up infected with HIV. It was unbearable for me to admit responsibility for my actions; it was easier to blame others. At the same time, I discovered a world of orgies and drug use in which I was apparently the centre of attention. The pain of the past was silenced every time I took drugs. I didn’t care if I was being abused, I didn’t care if I went from one person to another. I just wanted to destroy myself. When my parents found out about my diagnosis, they didn’t know how to handle it. I resented them even more, especially my mother. Her initial difficulty in accepting my homosexuality and the fact that she didn’t accompany me in my illness were deep wounds. My hatred for her became absolute: she was my enemy, the one to blame for all my suffering.

Over time, my father suffered a stroke, and I couldn’t handle that either. I met my first partner, a good man who supported and loved me, but I responded with infidelity and cruelty. While he was going through his father’s terminal illness, I preferred to keep partying and using drugs.
After leaving him, I returned to my parents’ house, where I unleashed my fury on them. I began a cycle of coming and going to Barcelona or Madrid: I would run away, relapse into drugs, hit rock bottom, and return home. I lost jobs, friendships, and relationships, but my hatred continued to grow. I manipulated psychologists, family members, anyone.

The final blow came in 2022. My father entered palliative care and my drug use skyrocketed. I went from using sporadically to partying for several days at a time, prostituting myself for drugs and stealing without a second thought. My father died in November of that year, and my life went into free fall. On 31 December, I began a binge that lasted until 12 January, without sleep or rest. I ended up in a psychotic episode, naked in the street, calling family members and posting on social media. I hit rock bottom.

I returned to NA. My mother, exhausted by everything she had been through—cancer, widowhood, caring for her granddaughter and a son on the brink of death—said to me for the first time without shouting, “Please don’t make this any harder for me.” That moment broke me.
I moved to Barcelona and started attending meetings every day, even when I had to work 12-hour shifts. I knew my life depended on it. I found a sponsor and started working the steps. At first, I was violent, arrogant, manipulative. Only a couple of veteran members approached me and said, “Keep coming, I was just like you.”

Although I was clean, my life was miserable. I had not surrendered to a Higher Power. I knew the program, but I did not feel it. My rejection of my own homosexuality led me to be cruel even to fellow members of the community. I was unable to attend special interest meetings for about the first 10 months. The rejection I felt towards them and myself was immense.
At 18 months clean, I lost my job at a bank and fell into a severe depression. I resented God; I felt that if I didn’t use, everything should be fine. But one day, for the first time, I knelt down and asked my Higher Power for help. Regardless of my doubts, I did it. And something changed. I stopped fighting; I surrendered.

I started the steps again with my current sponsor, a compassionate and kind man. Little by little, I regained hope and built my own idea of a Higher Power that loves and cares for me no matter what. I began to feel compassion for others, gratitude for the group, and love for my family. I accepted my past, my responsibility, my homosexuality, and my HIV. I stopped rejecting myself.
Today I serve selflessly in NA, and accompanying others helps me accompany myself. I understood that no one was to blame. As I once heard in a meeting, “God made me this way; it was me who didn’t want to accept it.”

I am grateful for the peace I feel. Only a Higher Power could give it to me. I have not yet finished my second round of steps, but I feel free to be who I am: willing to love, to repair the damage caused, not out of guilt, but out of compassion and sincere willingness.

To the member reading this: there is hope. You can stop suffering. The love you learn in NA is immeasurable. No matter our orientation, identity, or way of using, we all share the same horror of addiction. Thanks to the steps and a Higher Power, we can rewrite our story and find peace. Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.

No addict seeking recovery need ever die. Thank you for giving me everything back.

Where I come from

Born in the early ’60s into a typical German middle-class family, growing up in the countryside, going to church on Sundays, and struggling to remember the names of all my twenty-six uncles and aunts – my life was exactly how everyone thought it should be. I was Mum’s golden boy, right up until I became a teenager.

By the mid-’70s, you could usually find me in a public park right after school – like so many others my age – playing guitar and passing around some “smoke“. We all had something in common: the search for meaning and purpose in life. For some, it all boiled down to nothing more than fun. For me and many others, it marked the beginning of an odyssey filled with obstacles and inevitable setbacks – but ultimately one that led to recovery.

From the countryside, I made my way to the city – to West Berlin. Back then, it was an island in a communist country, and the capital of alternative lifestyles, surrounded by a wall. Mine, however, gravitated more toward the drug scene at Bahnhof Zoo. And David Bowie was the soundtrack to our lives. “We can be heroes. Just for one day” – eventually, we tried for every day, until my first detox at age 19.

Afterwards things started looking up again: high school graduation, followed by college. Then another relapse. And another detox.

Then, in 1989, the Berlin Wall fell, and off I went to the East – to East Berlin. The techno scene promised to finally take me where I’d always wanted to be. E-Werk, Tresor, Love Parade, Gay Pride – what more could you want? It was electrifying. There was so much to discover and so much to experience; I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

But there was also an incredible amount of drugs. My use evolved, as it always does, from “moderate” to “too much is exactly enough.”

Those periods of moderate drug use made me feel like I had everything under control, but untreated addiction always drags you back to square one. By the age of 35, I was finally done. I was exhausted, drained, and incredibly sad. But I’ll get to that later.

Coming Out

I always thought that all boys were into boys. I was actually quite surprised to discover otherwise – and that there was a word for it: homosexuality. It sounded like a medical diagnosis. “I have homosexuality.” It felt strange, confusing, and in a way, very lonely. At the same time, though, it was also a kind of relief to know that I apparently wasn’t the only one – that there was still “something” out there to discover.

My coming out wasn’t a choice; it was an accident. My parents stumbled upon an explicit adult magazine I’d hidden, the glossy cover left nothing to the imagination. In that moment, everything was out in the open – the cat was out of the bag. My mother reacted with a heavy, silent reproach. My father took it personally and retreated into his shell. By the next day, the subject had vanished. It was as if a door had closed, and we all silently agreed never to open it again.

Then, in the mid-’80s, a real diagnosis – and a disease – actually emerged. The actor Rock Hudson had AIDS, and with him, that carefree spirit died. From then on, intimacy was no longer just a desire; it was a risk. Fear became a constant companion in the bedroom. Looking back, it seems unbelievable – but we all simply got used to it.

In spite of everything, I certainly had my share of good times in the gay scene. I was up for anything and made myself as desirable as I possibly could be. I believed that how you look is who you are. And I felt that if men didn’t want to sleep with me, they had no interest in knowing me, either.

But underneath, I worried about not being good enough – not attractive enough, not funny enough, not part of the “gang”. And I scrambled to find the next man just to make that feeling go away. Ultimately, drugs felt like the only thing truly holding me up, to get what I was longing for but never reached.

Don’t Dream it’s Over

My doctor, a gay leather man, approached me one evening at a bar. He said I should come in for a checkup again; he wanted to talk. “You’re such a lovable guy. Is this really the life you want? Let me help you – we can do this together.” Over the following days, he stood by my side as I went through my final detox in his clinic. “Go to meetings. You can’t pretend everything will get better if you don’t talk about it.”

To this day, I am incredibly grateful for him and his kindness. I had known for a long while that something was wrong with me – that without help, and without accepting help, I would not survive. Having someone believe in you during times of hopelessness can be incredibly motivating; it can work miracles. He was like a true friend to me – the father I never really had. He died of cancer a year later. At my home group meeting, I shared my grief – and for the first time, I sobbed my heart out in front of others.

A First of Anything is a Beginning

By the time I attended my first NA meeting, I was already 35, but I felt like I was still in my teens. Addiction doesn’t exactly promote growing up. At first, I had some really serious concerns: How addicted do you have to be to join NA? Am I the only gay guy – the first one ever – to have the idea of attending an NA meeting? Will they have a problem with my lifestyle? Am I even “qualified” to be here? Do I belong?

There were times when I wasn’t even using every day. I was college-educated. I wasn’t broke. I didn’t have a record, and I’d never been homeless. I was still working as a gay escort out of my own studio, partly to pay off my student loans — and somehow, I felt out of place anyway.

Surprisingly, the people at the meeting didn’t look like addicts at all – and to them, I probably didn’t look like an escort, either. Honestly, nobody cared. Everyone was completely relaxed and kind. I felt a sense of welcome I hadn’t experienced in a long time – actually, I couldn’t remember the last time.

As a gay man, I was used to feeling anxious, scanning my surroundings before venturing into unfamiliar territory. I was quite hypersensitive to picking up on microaggressions, and I tried to blend in as much as possible so as not to “rock the boat”. And that’s how it was for me in NA for a long time.

By my second week, I took over the coffee service. Of course, I had to be the best – just like Mum‘s golden boy. People-pleasing to the point of exhaustion. But at least it helped me stay clean for the time being.

Without those meetings – almost every day for the first five years – I wouldn’t have been able to let go of old habits, develop new ones, and leave the past behind. The early meetings were tough. I had always been able to be physically intimate, without any inhibitions, with men I didn’t know at all, but the emotional closeness in those meetings – simply talking and listening – was almost unbearable.

I often envied others for the ease and eloquence with which they expressed their thoughts and feelings in meetings. For my part, I didn’t have a strong urge to speak up. When people asked me how I was doing, I first had to pause and think about it; thinking out loud was utterly unfamiliar to me, and deeply uncomfortable.

My therapist at the time even said: “We don’t have to talk about your feelings; we don’t seem to be getting anywhere with that. Just tell me what you did yesterday so we can fill the hour.”
Over the years, though, that has actually improved a bit.

Recovery is Possible

There are many ways to break free from active addiction, but over the years I’ve learned of one path that never worked for me: trying to do it alone. And one thing became clear – something that absolutely had to change: whatever I don’t do regularly for my recovery simply won’t work.

Working the steps with my sponsor, attending meetings, and the feeling of being part of something, a part of a community, gave me a strength I could never have mustered on my own – the strength not only to stay clean, but to finally arrive at my own life.

The most important and persistent challenge turned out to be the work on relationships. After all, that’s what counts at the end of the day, isn‘t it?
I had two ways of approaching any connection – in friendships as much as anywhere. One was using people – not necessarily to harm them, but by making them responsible for how I felt. In the long run, nobody can sustain that.

The other was to magnetically attract someone whose teeth fit “harmoniously” and precisely into my wounds. And then wonder why a relationship that started so beautifully “harmonious” ended in a nightmare.

I had also thought of love to be just a feeling. But love isn’t just a feeling. It’s more than that; it’s a skill, and when it came to skills, I was very much an amateur. Of course, love involves feelings, too, but mine weren’t a reliable source for understanding or enjoying relationships. In truth, I didn’t really have feelings; I had reactions based on distorted assumptions – on projections, past traumas, self-hatred, and fantasies. I saw people as I wanted to see them rather than as they truly were. And I tried to see myself that way, too, even though I never was that person.

Final Words

I’m still no expert when it comes to relationships. In fact, I think I’m more of an expert at messing them up. But my friends say: “Put that behind you. Nobody’s perfect. We like you. You’re totally fine. The only one who doesn’t believe it is you.”

If you’re new to NA, give yourself a chance. It won’t always be easy, but it will get easier over time. There will be challenges and dark days. And actually, don’t the dark days go hand in hand with the good, as they help to appreciate the bright ones all the more?

I’m deeply grateful to have a program that keeps me from losing myself in fantasies of endless self-optimization or retreating into my default self-centered mode. Instead, it provides me with an outlook and values that make my life – and the lives of those around me – worth living.

For me, NA is the best way to navigate through this life. NA has helped me not only to stay clean, but to become the best realistic version of myself: someone somewhere between a hopeless loser and Superman.

Moving through a “straight” world as myself can still be challenging. But despite our personal highs and lows, I believe we all have more in common than we care to admit. Or, as RuPaul would say:

“We‘re all born naked, the rest is drag.“

UDO Berlin