My name is Alexander Wolff. I was raised in Scottsdale, Arizona, with an identical twin, an older sister, and a younger brother and sister. Recovering addict and alcoholic. My sobriety date is April 10, 2020. I suffer from addiction despite growing up in a good household in one of the wealthiest cities in the country, where all my necessities and most of my wants were met and my parents were willing to help me. This disease affects people from all backgrounds. My battle with addiction began in sixth grade, when I got suspended for drinking at school. I don't think one event started this addiction, but multiple tragedies and the escape drugs and booze afforded me made everything feel tolerable My physiological and mental addiction to feeling okay stems from this feeling I keep chasing. Alcoholism turned into opiate abuse, stealing tramadol from my family dog, who took four a day after a failed hip operation. By high school, my addiction was complete, yet I had to act clever, friendly, and motivated while feeling like I couldn't fit in. I preferred downers but used uppers for vigor. I regularly got into bad situations and didn't care what I was on as long as I felt high. Upon graduating high school, I was completely independent for the first time; I failed all my classes within a month of starting my freshman year. I had no more excuses to hide my addiction. I abandoned life and dropped out of college, requiring my parents to rescue me from the streets and offer me a choice: attend a program or leave them. I'm flying to St. George, Utah, for a "failure to launch" program. During this program, I continued using drugs, and one day I looked in the mirror and could not see myself; I was so skinny that I looked like I was on the verge of death. That moment is when I did the hardest thing and asked for help. I went on to a wilderness therapy program in Utah, and then a follow-up transitional living program in Tucson followed my sober living. At the end of my stay in sober living, I had been in treatment in some form for almost two years. I grew as a person in those two years; I worked on myself in therapy, went to 12-step meetings, got a sponsor, picked up chips, started volunteering, and began being of service to others. It had taken seven years of addiction and two in treatment until I was 21 in order for me to recognize myself. I found myself working in treatment a few weeks after I turned 21 at the program I attended in Tucson; this was the first time I truly felt like I was having a positive impact on people. I tried to go back to school, but it was hard, and I found myself failing. I made the move back to Scottsdale and gave it another chance while continuing to work in treatment. I am proud to say that I have graduated with my associate's degree, am pursuing my bachelor's degree, and plan to attend a master's counseling program after that. I struggled with being myself, trauma, and addiction, and without the guidance of a good therapist, I would have never seen the light at the end of the tunnle that others could see for me.

Mental health and its stigmas are one of our society's most crucial issues. A poor understanding of mental health has led many down a path they never sought out, myself included. My struggle with mental health is my own, much like how it is unique to everyone it affects. Growing up I had a good childhood, a stable home, and good parents and I was a happy child as told by all my family. Something switched when I was in fifth grade that I cannot pinpoint, a piece of me left that I still can't seem to find. I have struggled with witnessing a sexual assault of a sibling, that was the key event that led me to my struggle with substance use. I would spend the next years of my life from ages 11 to 19 drinking and drugging myself with whatever I could find, afford or steal to try to fix this part of myself that I could not accept. This part of me I am still not certain what it was but I knew I could not talk about it, I felt like I could not tell my family or even the therapist they made me see about this deep-rooted discontent with myself out of fear of what they would think. This fear of being seen as mentally ill consumed me, I would do anything to hide it while trying to find a way to feel normal. This stigma followed me for years, it truly controlled every aspect of my life, I had no friends because of the disconnect I was feeling, I felt alone at home, picking fights with my siblings and parents because I just felt like I was going to explode on the inside. This all-consuming feeling I still can't quite describe with words, with years of healing and therapy and proper connection to others I have healed but I still can't quite describe that feeling, that pit that I feel like I still have in my chest. I know from talking with others that many have a similar feeling or experiences but it changes from person to person.