Please help me: The three words I could not say, but finally learned to live with in recovery
How surrender, honesty, and three simple words helped me rebuild a life I never thought possible.
For most of my life, I was the guy who had it together—or at least that’s what I wanted you to believe. A career musician, a corporate professional … I was someone who knew how to make things happen. I was fluent in confidence, competence, and control. But beneath the polish and the smiles, I was drowning in silence. The three words that might have saved me (“Please help me.”) were the ones I couldn’t bring myself to say.
Addiction doesn’t begin with a drink or a drug. It begins with a feeling—a slow, creeping ache of not-enoughness. Mine started long before my first sip. I chased belonging, chased the noise that could drown out the voice inside whispering that I wasn’t worthy. On the outside, my life looked golden: gigs with rock heroes, corporate wins, applause, and paychecks. But when the music stopped, the quiet felt unbearable. That’s when the bottles filled the space.
To ask for help meant admitting I wasn’t in control—and control was everything. I told myself I could fix it, that I just needed to try harder, play better, work longer. But recovery begins where self-reliance ends. I didn’t know that yet.
The turning point came not with a crash, but with a whisper. One morning, I saw the reflection of a man I barely recognized—tired eyes, empty heart, standing in the ruins of his own creation. ‘This can’t be me,’ I thought. But it was. For the first time, I felt something more powerful than pride: surrender. Not defeat, but the quiet willingness to stop pretending. I picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and said the words that changed everything. “Please help me.”
Those three words cracked something open. They let the light in.
Recovery, I learned, isn’t about getting back to who you were before. It’s about becoming someone new—someone honest, humble, and human. It’s showing up even when your hands shake. It’s learning that strength isn’t found in toughness, but in vulnerability. It’s sitting in rooms with people who tell their stories, raw and real, and realizing that your story, too, can help someone else find hope.
Over time, I began to make peace with my imperfections. I rediscovered music—not just the kind that pours from amplifiers, but the kind that lives in connection, in listening, in service. Through my work as a Licensed Certified Peer Recovery Supporter in my Ohio community, I’ve seen how powerful those three words still are. When someone in crisis whispers, “Please help me,” they’re taking the bravest step imaginable. They’re trusting that life beyond pain is possible.
Recovery didn’t return the life I lost—it gave me a life I never imagined possible. One filled with purpose, gratitude, creativity, and peace. The work is daily. The growth is lifelong. But each morning, I get to wake up clear-eyed, present, and grateful for another chance to do it right.
If you’re struggling today, I want you to know this: you are not alone. The same three words I once couldn’t say might just save your life, too. Please help me. Say them. Live them. They’re not a sign of weakness—they’re the beginning of freedom.
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