Gail Uliston, 64

“It is still alive in me, and I can find myself feeling like I don’t belong every day, so it’s a real battle. But I decided that I don't want to live that life, and this requires work. It requires total surrender. It asks me to do things differently. It’s a real commitment.”

I realized from the age of pre-kindergarten that I did not belong. I didn't feel like I was included, or a part of any group.

There were only boys in our neighborhood, and my brother would play with them.  He was 20 months older than me, and he didn't want me to play with them, because I was his sister. This was the beginning for me to not feel okay in my own skin. And that feeling never ever left me throughout my upbringing years, even though I was loved by my parents. I was on the swim team and took ballet lessons. But I never felt that I was good enough or accepted by the group. I was always in pain.

When we moved from Marin to Florida, I was in seventh grade. It was very difficult, because I didn't know anyone, and I just started puberty. The summer between seventh and eighth grade I decided that life was going to be different: I was going to have friends, become one of the popular people in school, and have a boyfriend. And that’s what happened. I learned that I could influence how people would perceive me. It made me feel that I was in control and could manipulate my environment. But deep inside, I still did not feel that I belonged.

In 1970, while still in Florida, my school began to desegregate and transitioned from a predominantly white school to white, Cuban and black. There were lots of race riots, and one event became a life changing moment for me. This white kid picked a fight with this black kid in band class. When our teacher broke up the fight, the white kid turned around and said, “He started, he's black”. The white kid was told to sit down, and the black kid was sent to the office. I was so stunned that I decided in one moment to never bring a white child into this world. Actually, I stayed true to my decision; both of my children have African-American dads.

In 1971, when I was 13, we moved back to Marin where I started freshman year at Drake. I continued to feel like the underdog and began smoking pot and drinking alcohol. It made me feel that I belonged. My friends were misfits like me, and we all used substances just to feel ok.

My first marriage ended after nine months. My husband was abusive and turned me on to cocaine, which I used for 6 years. I was 21 when my son was born. Together with my second husband we moved from Terra Linda to Southern California, where we could afford a house. I always worked, and when my son was 3 months old, I began my career in advertising sales for the Yellow Pages, a career that lasted for 28 years. While working, I somehow managed staying up all night smoking cocaine, sleeping on the bus, and bringing a grocery bag of food to work. But eventually my entire paychecks would go towards drugs, and my parents would give us money for the mortgage, bills and to buy food. I continued using after my daughter was born when I was 29.

I was in my early thirties when I knew I needed help. My doctor sent me to a 10-day outpatient program where I learned all about addiction for the first time. At the very last day we were told that only 10% of the people who actively seek recovery will succeed. In that moment, I knew I wanted to be one of those 10%. On November 15, 1990, I turned 33 and while working for AT@T as training manager, I began with 12 Step groups. I had my last drink when my mother-in-law poured me a brandy with eggnog during the holidays. I drank about a 1/3 of it, stopped, and thought, “Who am I kidding?” I poured the rest down the drain. That was the end of my long journey. The following day, Jan 1, 1991, was my first clean day. This was 33 years ago.

I separated from my husband at the time I got clean. He abused and terrorized my son, while having a relationship with another woman. When we separated, he took our 6-year-old daughter and moved to Hawaii. I did not get to see her for eight years, which broke my heart. In 1993, I moved back to Northern California when I crashed hard emotionally. I got very depressed.

The first two and a half years of my recovery, I attended meetings just to hang out with others who were sober. The entire experience of attending meetings was terrifying. I read the steps and decided which ones to do and which ones to skip. I was filled with so much guilt and shame, and I was in no shape of ever going to admit the exact nature of my wrongs. I just wasn't willing to be honest. My life was so low, and I knew I had to do something different. I kept going to meetings because I was afraid to go back using. Eventually I found a sponsor who helped me start the process of surrender.

In my 7th year of recovery, I had experienced a lot of relief from the process, and I got very active in service. I had taken 12 Step meetings into San Quentin, and for the first time in my life, I felt that I was at the right place. I moved from Marin to Richmond in order to afford buying a house and decided that I was going to be a normal productive member of society.

But I began to act out, trying to tell people what to do. I was trying to control my outside life, because I had lost control of what was going on inside of me. I knew that I had to come back to working the steps in order to take care of myself.

Eleven years clean, I became suicidal and took a four-year break from work. I went to 90 meetings in 90 days, again, worked my steps, and separated from my new husband. In 2003, my daughter's father died after she had just turned 14. That was the time we reunited, and she came back to live with me and my husband. In the same year I lost my mom, my home and my job, all within two days. My entire life turned upside down, and I was shaken so horribly, like never before in my life. I became more active in the fellowship, where I also met my current husband. As long as I stayed in the process of working the 12 steps, I was ok. If I didn’t, I was not ok. It has become a lifelong commitment.

More than ever, bonding with friends and attending to my relationships is essential in my life. The addict in me says, “No, you don't belong”, still after 31 years of being clean. It doesn't ever go away, it’s a battle every day. And it requires surrender.

I've been married now for 17 years; my husband is in recovery for 8 years. We own a concrete business and have a pretty good life. We traveled all over the world, and we are planning to go on a cruise in January. In the past, my plans often did not come through; I either spent the money, or I was too hungover to go.

Drugs gave me a sense of belonging and a sense of being okay in my own skin. With cocaine I was constantly chasing euphoria, very different than marijuana and alcohol.

And what did it take from me? It took my soul and my money. But it didn't take my family from me. And that was critical. My family enabled me, but they also loved me unconditionally, no matter what was going on. That made a huge difference.

Recovery requires vigilance. I cannot give recovery to anyone else, including my 43-y-old son, who has struggled for many years. But anyone ready to get help, I would invite to do the work and attend daily meetings. It’s a lifelong process that requires daily selfcare.