Alcohol and Prison Almost Took My Life, But Fatty Liver Disease Forced Me to Change

I didn’t think much about my liver. I didn’t think much about my health at all. The truth is, for a long time, I didn’t think much about life. Alcohol was my world, my coping mechanism, my prison before I ever landed in a real one. My name is Darek, and this is how I hit rock bottom, found out I was dying, and somehow managed to survive.

I’ve been to places most people only read about. By 30, I was already on my way to becoming what people call an "old soul"—but not in the wise, philosophical sense. More like a guy who’d seen too much, done too much, and had nothing to show for it. I’d spent my teenage years drinking, and by my twenties, alcohol was my daily routine. I was in and out of prison for petty crimes: bar fights, DUIs, petty theft. I wasn’t a hardened criminal, but I was lost. The bottle had its grip on me, and every time I thought I could break free, it pulled me back under.

“Prison didn't scare me, but the diagnosis that followed did.”

I’d been locked up again—this time for almost a year. By the time I got out, my body was wrecked. I felt like I was 60. My hands shook, my skin was yellowish, and my stomach had grown hard and swollen. At first, I thought I’d just put on weight from the lousy prison food, but when I couldn’t even button my shirt, I knew something was seriously wrong. Still, I kept drinking.

One night, after another binge, I passed out and woke up in a pool of my own vomit. Layla, the woman who somehow stuck with me through all of it, drove me to the hospital. I’ll never forget the look on the doctor’s face when he came into my room with the test results. He didn’t mince words. “You’ve got fatty liver disease. At this rate, you’ll be lucky to make it five more years.”

“Hearing the words ‘you’re going to die’ changes everything.”

I had no idea what fatty liver disease even was. I thought liver problems were something only rich guys or celebrities got from years of drinking expensive whiskey. I was just some nobody drinking whatever I could afford. But there it was—fatty liver disease, and worse, it had already progressed.

The doctor went on about how my liver was already in bad shape and that if I didn’t stop drinking immediately, it would lead to cirrhosis or even liver failure. He warned me about jaundice, ascites, liver cancer—all the terms I’d never bothered to understand before. I sat there numb, staring at the floor. I wasn’t crying; I wasn’t angry. I was just...done. I was 34 and being told I might not make it to 40.

“Prison was one kind of hell, but battling this disease was something else.”

Getting clean from alcohol wasn’t easy. Actually, that’s an understatement—it was torture. Layla stood by me, but she couldn’t do it for me. Detox was hell, but the fear of dying from liver disease kept me going. I’d spent time in the worst places, surrounded by the worst people, but this was different. This was my own body attacking me, and there was nowhere to run.

It wasn’t just the detox—it was the shame. I couldn’t walk into a clinic or a doctor’s office without feeling like everyone was judging me. I could hear the whispers when I walked in, people assuming I was a "junkie," or the looks of disgust from nurses who figured I did this to myself. And maybe I did, but that didn’t make it any easier.

“Losing everything taught me how little I had to begin with.”

My friends? Gone. Most had drifted away when the prison sentences started stacking up, but those who were left disappeared after my diagnosis. Layla stayed, but even she had her limits. There were nights when I could see it in her eyes—she was tired, angry, and fed up. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she left.

And then there was the isolation. I wasn’t just sick; I was alone. My liver wasn’t the only thing dying—so was everything else around me. The calls stopped coming. I didn’t hear from my old drinking buddies, not even the few who had stuck around. The worst part? I didn’t miss them. What I missed was the bottle.

I remember standing in front of the bathroom mirror one morning, looking at my yellowing skin and the bloated mess of my abdomen, and realizing I was barely holding on. If I didn’t make a change, I was going to end up back in prison, or worse, in a coffin.

“The hardest fight I ever fought was for my own life.”

The turning point for me was the second hospital visit. After months of trying and failing to stay sober, I collapsed at home. Layla called the ambulance, and when I woke up in the emergency room, the doctor looked me dead in the eye and said, “If you keep this up, you’re not going to make it.”

That’s when it clicked. I realized I had a choice—keep drinking and let it kill me, or fight back, really fight. Not just for Layla, not for the few people who still cared, but for me. It wasn’t an easy choice. Alcohol was my crutch, my escape, and without it, I had to face the pain I’d been drowning for years.

So, I fought. I started attending support groups, working with a counselor, and, for the first time in years, I took my health seriously. It wasn’t just about quitting alcohol anymore; it was about saving what was left of my liver, and saving myself in the process.

I won’t pretend I’m cured or that every day is a victory. It’s not. I still have moments of weakness. There are days when I crave the numbing warmth of alcohol, but then I remember what it took to get here. I remember the nights in that cold prison cell, the doctor’s warning, and Layla’s exhausted face when she thought she was going to lose me. And that keeps me going.

I’m still here. My liver isn’t perfect, and I’m not out of the woods yet, but I’ve got a shot. That’s more than I could have asked for two years ago.