Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

My right-hand man, Brady, was in the front passenger seat. His Mac-11 rested casually in his lap as looked quizzically over his shoulder at me.

I was lounging in the back seat, getting chauffeured around by another of my close confidants, Hailey. We were on the way to pick up some pretty Serious Weight, celebrating in the process. Our revelry wasn't for the drugs we'd soon have, but for my tenuous, and quickly waning grasp on "freedom." I had just been released pending trial on a several drug-related felonies -- for the third time in as many months. The court's ax was falling. Part of me knew prison wasn't far off. I couldn't escape the ominous feel of its approach. Apparently those around me felt it too. So we resolved to party while we could. Our poison? QuadrupleStack ecstasy. And some Oxycontin. And a little meth. But those last two were already pillars of our existence. Status quo. The X was the real treat. But it wasn't working.

Brady handed me another quad-stack over his shoulder. I popped it with little confidence it would have any affect. The only other time I'd tried X it did nothing for me. Now, four quads in I was pretty sure this time wouldn't be much different. Fifteen minutes later, I was starting to get impatient.

He handed me another one and I knocked it back like I was swallowing a Skittle whole. Not even a second thought given.

We took care of our business and headed back to my house. During the forty five minute drive, I popped an Oxy and took a few hits from the bubble. Right before we got to the house I threw back one last quad-stack, just for good measure. Why not? The damn things didn't work anyway.

When we pulled into my driveway what I saw shocked me completely still. I stared with my mouth half-open for a whole minute. Then I went ape-shit. The garage was wide open, tools were everywhere, my Bronco was half torn apart, every door in my house was gaping, and I could tell from where I sat it was in Worse condition than the garage. It looked like a tornado tore through my whole property. That tornado was a 6 foot 5, 320 pound schizophrenic giant named Chris. A meth bender apparently pushed him over the edge, and he took it out tweekin' on all my stuff. I came unglued. His size was irrelevant his condition of no concern. I got right up in his face and made it abundantly clear I was gonna sweep the disaster around us up with his face if he didn't fix it 20 minutes ago.

Then it hit me. The garage started spinning in 3 different directions at once. I let go of Chris' shirt collar and staggered into the work bench next to us, barely saving my face from bouncing off the vice, People were talking, but their voices were under sater. Then they were coming through a mega phone. Brady's baritone reverberated in my head, nearly blowing my eyes from their sockets.

His reply was so loud I recoiled in pain. Then shit got really weird. Voices came from every direction - loud, soft, screams whispers. I couldn't think straight. I couldn't see straight. For a moment I sas conscious of the fact that I was going crazy, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to hold onto my sanity. Then it was gone. I lost all control and was swept into utter chaos in the asylum of my mind.

As you may have guessed, I eventually regained my place in the land of sanity. The fact that you're reading this now is pretty good evidence that I have at least most of my faculties about me. By the grace of God I'm able to share this story with you. There were many hours those around me questioned whether that would ever be a possibility. The few momentary threads of semi-coherent thought I managed throughout that 36 hour trip only served to convince me I'd finally stepped over the edge. When I was finally able to sew a few of those threads together, and then a few more, and few more as insanity slowly started to recede, I knew inarguably that I had a problem. I nearly killed myself with reckless ingestion of ecstasy, my blood was saturated with Oxy and meth, my (now former) wife was staying at her parents, my house was blown apart, I pushed my business partner away, and I was facing LOTS of drug-related criminal charges. Clearly my life had become unmanageable. I had a drug problem, not to mention some significant issues underlying it, that needed to be addressed.

Sitting in jail a short time later, called to answer for all my outstanding charges and begin paying my debt to society, I reached out to some of those I'd burned on my downward spiral to apologize. One of those was my former business partner and mentor. Turns out he's in recovery, too. One thing led to another and he became my sponsor. Over the next year or so we worked the 12 steps of AA together through the mail, and stayed in regular contact thereafter. His presence in my life has played a significant role in the transformation I've wrought from the last 6 plus years behind bars.

Sadly, not many prisoners are blessed with the same opportunity. Though AA and NA have a presence in prison, there are relatively few from the fellowship who come in to sponsor meetings. Not nearly enough to meet the need for Sponsors to mentor the 65% of men and Women behind bars who experience some form of addiction. Using Corrio Messaging as a platform to connect willing sponsors on the outside with sponsees on the inside has the potential to create a large positive impact on society. Prisoners could find a new, better quality of life; communities could be positively contributed to, instead of stolen from and saturated with drugs.

As a former addict with over 6 years clean, a laundry list of accomplishments, and a quality of life I never before thought possible, I support it whole heartedly.

- Spencer O.