My name is Jake. I’m 32 years old and I was born in Washington, DC. I had a pretty normal childhood. Nothing stands out as especially traumatic or dramatic before I was about 14, and I think that’s important to say because people often assume addiction always starts with early trauma. For me, things didn’t really spiral until my twenties.
I went to military school as a teenager, which is where I was first exposed to drugs and alcohol. At the time, my substance use felt pretty normal and recreational. But what I’ve learned since is that addiction is progressive. Just because I could use recreationally for a while didn’t mean that was what my relationship with substances truly was.
As an adult, I went into the entertainment business and became a professional songwriter. I had some moderate success, but I was in an environment where smoking marijuana every day was normal and no one questioned it. For a long time, it didn’t seem like a problem. That changed in 2020 when my father passed away suddenly. It was the first real experience of grief and loss in my life, and I didn’t know how to handle it.
Soon after that, my drug use escalated quickly. I started using harder drugs and abusing prescription medications. Eventually, I developed drug-induced psychosis, where I lost the ability to process reality for what it was. I was scaring my family and people around me, and I became a danger to myself. I was involuntarily committed under the Baker Act, which was terrifying. I tried to go back to work afterward but my family made it clear that I wasn’t okay, and I entered my first treatment center.
That first stay didn’t stick. Thirty days felt like a reset and I thought that would be enough to get everyone “off my back”. Within six weeks of leaving treatment, I was using again. Looking back, I wasn’t ready and I didn’t stay long enough. My mental health continued to deteriorate. There were periods where things seemed better and my family felt relief, but they never really knew when the next crash was coming.
When my fiancée broke off our engagement, I went on tour and started abusing prescription drugs heavily. I became erratic, and my family distanced themselves. Eventually, I went into another episode of psychosis that lasted 28 days. Doctors didn’t know if I would come out of the psychosis and whether there would be irreparable cognitive damage. When I entered another treatment center, I told them I would quit hard drugs but I still planned to drink. That’s how deep my denial was.
What changed everything for me was longer treatment stays and getting involved in a recovery community. I learned that just like runners need running communities, people who want to live a sober life need sober communities and for me, the spiritual component of recovery has been incredibly meaningful. I’m very active in Alcoholics Anonymous and have sponsored other men, which has been one of the most fulfilling parts of my recovery.
Looking specifically at my time at Lifeskills, I connected deeply with group therapy, especially the process groups, and the clinicians and individual therapy. Early on in my stay at Lifeskills I became friends with another client and we would make music together. He would play the guitar while I would rap and freestyle, and we would talk about how we were going to build our lives back. We’re still friends today and he’s also doing really well in his recovery, but that combination of creativity and connection showed me that recovery could still feel like me.
I realized I didn’t want to go back to the entertainment business because it was too hard to separate the art from the drugs. Instead, I started working with foster children after treatment. It was humbling, exhausting, and incredibly meaningful. Being of service helped me get through my first year of sobriety as it shifted my focus away from “poor me” and taught me humility. But I burned out very quickly and knew I needed to pivot.
My mother has been a rock in my life and a constant support. For some time, she had wanted me to come work for her at her Retreat Center and while I had blown her off for years, I reached out to her one night and asked her if the job offer was still there. A year before, she wouldn’t have trusted me with her car keys. Now she’s trusting me with a job.
A friend inspired me to go back to school, and I was recently accepted into a counseling program. That still feels surreal to say. I continue to go to therapy and check in with clinicians even when things are going well. I exercise six days a week, eat a healthy diet, and stay very in tune with my mind and body. I have since learned that the diagnosis I was given in the psych ward was just a snapshot of me in the middle of amphetamine-induced psychosis and not who I truly am, and it has been a journey since then to figure out exactly what my mental health
Today, I’ve been sober since 2024. Recovery has been a blessing in my life. I’m incredibly grateful for the treatment and education I received – learning how to taper medications properly with a physician and understanding the role blood work plays, and realizing there are healthier ways to manage conditions like ADHD without stimulants. These are things I had no idea about just a few years ago.
If there’s one thing I want people to know, it’s that recovery is possible no matter how low or how high you get in life. My first treatment episode didn’t work because I rushed it. Slower and stronger recovery is what lasts, and it was the longer stay in treatment that helped me build a solid foundation.
To families, I would say: maintaining your faith and belief in your loved one matters more than you realize. My mom believed recovery was possible for me long before I did. Even when I was angry and resentful, she kept showing up. Today, we have a better relationship than we ever had before. On the other hand, my brother and I didn’t really repair our relationship until about 16 months into my sobriety, which also taught me that trust takes time.
Being Baker Acted doesn’t have to define your life. It’s more common than people think. It can happen to anyone. Humor, joy, and community helped me move past that trauma. It will pass if you let it.
I knew I had a problem for a long time – I just didn’t want to do anything about it. Now, I see my story as one of the experiences I get to draw from, not something that defines me completely. Healing isn’t linear, but it is real.
I’m deeply thankful for this journey and for everyone walking it with me. And if I can say anything to those still struggling: slow down, stay longer, build community, and don’t give up on yourself.
