The guest-writer on this blog post is Rehan Rohillah.

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My story starts like many before me. Scenes of domestic violence and constant taunting at school had transformed me into a quiet child. As I grew older I became numb to my own needs. “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what your problem is” were the common pleas that I’d hear, but I’d never tell them. I would just get by — by just saying enough. If this article is about a second chance at life, then let me explain first that I am writing about my third. You see, the two are intertwined.

At the age of eleven I lived with my family as an expatriate in the Middle East. It was the early nineties and Saddam had just invaded Kuwait. As the air raid sirens blared, we’d sit in our living room wearing gas masks listening to Scud missiles falling on their targets, some in the distance, some very close; and at times we could feel the tremors shake our building. During the daylight hours that followed, we could see the aftermath of the night before — residential buildings brought down by explosives so strong that windows within close proximity would be shattered.

My father couldn’t bear to put his family through the terror any longer, so once the airports were operational again, he sent us back to our home country. He planned to return in a few years upon completion of his contract. Returning to my home was my second chance at life, though I didn’t realize it at the time. But, time is a constant and the years went by with no thoughts given to any sort of counseling for my family to readjust. It just become a story that popped up randomly, “Oh yeah, remember during the war...” and that would be it. No ever once asked “What if?”

While my father was finishing his contract in the Middle East, my family lived with my uncle. He would come home from work every day and beat my aunt; and as I had done in the past, I would only stand and watch. Call it trauma or a chemical imbalance, but I soon found comfort in smoking marijuana, cigarettes, and drinking alcohol at the age of thirteen. I know it sounds cliché, but I would do anything to get me out of the house.

After fourteen years of self abuse with smoking and drinking and a marijuana habit that turned into a cocaine habit, it wasn’t until a run-in with the law that I gave up the cocaine and marijuana and decided to seek help. I went to see a psychologist to get help for what is now identified as depression and anxiety. The pills I took for my depression helped me a lot, but the pills for anxiety were the ones that proved deadly.

Instead of dealing with my stress head on, I would take an anxiety pill. My father noticed my condition one morning and advised me not to go to work. I told him how important my job was and that I could not stay home. As a compromise, we agreed that he would drive me. As the day progressed, I kept taking the anxiety pills. Instead of calling for a ride I set out with a mindset that I would walk the thirty-three kilometers it would take to get home. As if taking five anxiety pills wasn’t a mistake on its own, I made a stop at the liquor store and purchased a bottle of alcohol.

Somewhere along the way, I finished it and then took the remainder of pills I had left. I woke up in my best friend’s truck. My hands were bloody and my face was scratched in various places. He took me to his house and his wife suggested he call for an ambulance. The paramedic asked, “Do you realize that if you had consumed anymore alcohol with those pills you would have gone straight into a coma?”

Now that I have provided the necessary background for this story, let me explain the “third chance.” As I sat in the emergency ward I was accompanied by my girlfriend. She placed her warm cheek against mine and said, “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” and all I could think was, Oh God, here comes a lecture.

Well “tomorrow” became today and can I tell you what the “lecture” really was — it was one of the sweetest things that anyone has ever said to me. She said, “Tell me everything. Tell me everything about your life. Your good experiences, your bad experiences, everything.”

I started to tell her, thinking this is the old “get it off your chest” routine. But, our experiences where so similar, and it became apparent to me that all those things I did to run away, I no longer had to do now. My “fix” is right here in front of me, and she wants to hug me and love me. Love is a healthy intoxicant and it makes everyone better. If I have hit rock bottom than here is my first rung on the climb up.

The only difference here is that each rung will be with her. May I be banished to the lowest pits of hell if I ever take another drug or drink alcohol again. I would be a fool to let this “drug” go. My third chance is love; may it take me peacefully to my journey into the hereafter.