Fractured and Fighting

I am a 39-year-old male. Relatively healthy and active, yet grappling with a severe alcohol addiction. In December 2024, I rolled my ankle and broke my fibula, leading to surgery during which a plate and screws were placed internally to aid healing. Unfortunately, the ankle became infected, marking the beginning of a harrowing journey. Now, here I sit in PAM Specialty Hospital near Sloan’s Lake in Denver, CO, five months later. After enduring nine surgeries, battling through two external fixators, navigating hospitals and hotels, taking antibiotics, and so much more, I believe it’s time to chronicle this extraordinary journey. While I may present it lightly, this experience has been an emotional, physical, and spiritual roller coaster—filled with mental breakdowns, unexpected victories, lost relationships, and an internal struggle that shifted almost daily.

I don’t even remember the actual step that broke my leg in the first place. I had been staying in a halfway house under the rule of law and trying to get my life back together. I received sentencing last October for my fourth—and thus felonious—DUI. The judgment handed down was two years in community corrections (also known as a halfway house) in lieu of prison time, plus classes, fines, community service, etc. I was to report to jail in Eagle County in the high country of Colorado and wait for a bed to open at one of the halfway houses down closer to Denver.

For five days in Eagle County Jail, I waited for a bed to open at a halfway house in Adams County, which would be overseeing my punishment. After an agonizing three days in holding with nothing but cinder block walls, a steel toilet, and a David Baldacci novel as company, I moved to Gen Pop—general population. Being one of only two people who spoke English in our eight-man pod, conversations were scarce. Thankfully, my cellmate was the other English-speaker. He was an older gentleman who kept things neat, went to bed early, and helped me learn the schedules of meals, rec time, laundry, and cleaning. He also could carry on a conversation with the lonely white boy awaiting transfer. I tried to get to know my cellies the best I could, since I wasn’t sure how long I’d be spending there. Just as I felt like I was settling into a groove—helping with cleaning, watching Godzilla movies on TNT, and learning to tell time in Spanish—my name was called. A bed had opened in Adams County.

I was processed out, handed a bus ticket, and told good luck. No instructions on where to go or when I needed to be there. WTF?! Not twenty minutes ago I was incarcerated, and now here I stood with freedom, no formal guidance, and a bus pass back to Denver. I did what any good alcoholic would do: procured a half pint, bought a vape. Then I set off for the bus stop to board the Bustang to Denver.

Suddenly reality set in and I knew I needed to find out where the hell I was supposed to report upon arrival. Thank God for in-seat chargers on the Bustang, because I needed juice to keep my phone alive as I searched for anything that might tell me where I was headed. I finally found a phone number for the Adams County community corrections coordinator, who informed me that I was to report to the Adams Transitional Center on 62nd Ave, off Washington St in Denver. Since I was given no instructions on how to get there, it was up to me to make it before 4:00 p.m.—or else. Though they never did say what the punishment would be if I didn’t make it.

Arriving at Denver’s Union Station, I Googled and Apple Mapped my way via public transportation to my new lodgings. Fresh off the 7 bus and walking down 62nd Ave toward my destination, I wondered what was in store. Upon entrance, I was welcomed by a courteous staff who had not been informed of my arrival and therefore had nothing prepared for a new intake. They did, at least, have room for me, and I was assured the rest would get figured out in the coming days. I received the nickel tour and was pointed in the direction of my room and bunk. I took it upon myself to attend a scheduled group at the center led by recovery coaches who had been through the system themselves and understood what needed to be done in early-day halfway house living.

Adjusting to the new living situation was aided by my roommates. I was in a room of seven, and most of the guys had been there long enough to share some tips and tricks. Being on a top bunk, I learned how the top of a locker could serve as a bedside table, was shown how to get chores done efficiently, was even told the exact height of a plastic bin to buy that would fit snugly under the bottom bunk for maximum storage. More than anything, these guys helped me feel comfortable in a place that was way outside my comfort zone. There was no judgment from anyone—in fact, I was hardly ever asked what I had done to land there. eople were coming directly from serving prison sentences; some, like me, were sentenced straight to the halfway house. But everyone was trying to help each other get through it and maybe start a new life.

As I became more comfortable, I began to get a clearer picture of what was expected in the program. Getting a job, navigating public transportation, working on assignments, and doing chores became the daily to-dos. A few of us who came in on the same day kept pretty close, checking in daily and helping each other with assignments, documents, or tasks for the facility, court, or just life in general. We celebrated each other’s wins and tried to learn from the things that didn’t go our way.

Time ticked by, and I was already closing in on a month at the halfway house. Life was starting to feel a little bit more like what I had known before—but I didn’t spend enough time focusing on my recovery or staying sober. Getting things in order that I thought would keep me on the straight and narrow was a nice distraction, but ultimately they couldn’t fill the emptiness I still felt inside.

Daily routines and checking off boxes made it seem like I was on the right track, but in hindsight, I was just going through the motions. My heart wasn’t in it. Restlessness, irritability, and discontent—the three beasts I knew all too well—snuck in subtly and silently. Happiness became dependent on my external circumstances instead of coming from within. It became far too easy to focus on the shit streak of my recent life instead of taking pride in the small victories.

And like so many times before, I figured it was up to me to get myself out of that rut rather than ask for help or show any “weakness.” It was only a matter of time before my untreated mindset would lead me to self-sabotage and fuck up anything I had going for me.

 And that’s exactly what happened — just not in the way I expected.