The Night I Should Have Died (But Didn’t)

⚠️ If you’re struggling right now: you’re not alone. Reach out to someone you trust or local emergency services. I’m telling this story because I survived it, not because I was stronger. But because someone reading this might need to know they’re not the only one.

Prelude: When “Fun” Became Maintenance

It didn’t start with the sea. It started with me mistaking destruction for freedom.

I thought nights of coke and booze until sunrise meant I was alive. I thought overdosing was just part of the deal. I thought waking up in strangers’ beds, blacked out, was just “the travel lifestyle.”

But there’s a point where “fun” stops being fun. It becomes maintenance. You’re not chasing a high anymore; you’re chasing normal. And even then, “normal” is hollow.

The night I should have died was just another night of “maintenance.” But it ended in water.

Scene One: The Flat

It was a friend’s place. Not really a party. Just three of us. Booze, coke, the usual soundtrack of nervous laughter and paranoid rambling.

Me and my girlfriend at the time were already at war. Shouting. Crying. Throwing words we couldn’t take back. Both addicted, both sick, both convinced the other was the problem.

The room reeked of sweat, stale beer, and that chemical tang of too much powder. I remember looking around and thinking, this isn’t fun anymore. This isn’t anything anymore.

But I kept shovelling it in. Because that’s what you do.

Scene Two: The Walk

By dawn, my body was vibrating. My jaw ached from clenching. My head was a mess of rage and emptiness.

I left. Walked out alone. The streets were quiet. 6AM light, that cruel bluish dawn that makes everything look worse.

Inside my head:

• One more line.
• One more drink.
• Or nothing at all.

My body was on autopilot, but my brain was screaming in static. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to face myself. I didn’t want to be.

So I walked toward the sea.

Scene Three: Into the Water

Shoes off. Cold sand underfoot. I stepped into the surf.

Then deeper.

Then up to my knees.

Then up to my waist.

Then my chest.

Then my neck.

I can’t swim.

The water was freezing. The sky was pink and gold with sunrise. I remember staring at it and thinking, I don’t want to see another one.

I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t panicking. I was just… numb. Terrified and numb at the same time. That special hell where your body screams and your brain doesn’t care.

I could have let go. Tilted forward. Slipped under. No one would have stopped me.

And the truth? In that moment, I didn’t care if I did.

The Scariest Truth

People think the scary part is nearly dying.

It’s not.

The scariest part is not caring if you live or die.

Addiction doesn’t just take your health, your money, your relationships. It takes your ability to care about yourself. It makes oblivion seem easier than tomorrow.

That’s the most terrifying theft.

Scene Four: The Ledger

Let me list the costs, because we like to romanticise chaos:

• Overdoses. More than once. Hospital visits. Oxygen masks. Adreanline shots. My body saying “enough” and me ignoring it.
• Arguments. Endless screaming matches with partners I loved but couldn’t stop hurting.
• Fake friendships. “Best mates” at 2AM who vanished by 11AM.
• Loneliness. The kind that gnaws at you even in a crowded room.
• Shame. The mornings after, laughing it off while hating myself inside.

We called this freedom. It was a cage lined with glitter tape.

Scene Five: The Crack Where the Light Came In

I didn’t decide to get sober because I was strong. I surrendered because I was broken.

The shift came when I finally said the words out loud: “I can’t do this. How do you do this?”

I asked someone who was sober. And instead of laughing, they told me the truth. They showed me the path.

I stumbled into community almost by accident: meetings, phone calls, texts, people who didn’t flinch when I admitted how f*cked I was.

I laid down a rule: don’t ever offer me anything, even if I beg for it. That saved me more times than I can count.

Some people left. The right ones stayed.

Scene Six: Bonus Round Living

That night should have been the end. It wasn’t. Which means every morning since has been a bonus round.

Now, chaos without collapse looks like this:

• Morning coffee and writing this blog.
• Boxing, sweat, adrenaline that doesn’t kill me.
• Building my van.
• Growing a business.
• Traveling with people I actually remember.
• Dancing sober at raves and actually feeling the bass instead of numbing it.
• Friends who need me. Not because I’m fun when I’m wrecked, but because I’m me.

Do I miss the feral old version of me sometimes? Yes. But he was killing me. Now I get to live.

The Lesson I Want You to Steal

Addiction told me the only way out was death. Sobriety showed me the way out was truth.

Not a perfect life. Not a beige cardigan life. A life with chaos, fun, meaning, without collapse.

The water didn’t take me that morning. And because of that, I get to write this now.

If you’re where I was. Neck-deep, ready to let go. Tell one person the truth. Just one. That’s how my second life started.

Final Word

That night should have been the end of my story. Instead, it became the start of the next chapter.

Every sunrise since feels like a bonus round. And I’ll keep playing until the game runs out.

➡️ If this story hit you, read the origin story next: Why I Built Wander Sober.