Translator: Phuong Cao
Reviewer: Queenie Lee I work as a co-director at a substance abuse and co-occurring
mental illness treatment agency. And not a day goes by
that I take that for granted. In 1999, I was paroled from prison
for the second time, for the ... second time. Apparently, once wasn't enough for me. Yeah, it's pretty scary. That's me. All told, I'd spent
over eight years in prison, on probation or on parole
for numerous felony drug charges. For ten years, I woke up
smoking crack every morning and went to bed
smoking crack every night. I spent most of my time trying to escape the helpless, hopeless
reality of my life by getting high. On the worst day, I remember selling an 8,000-dollar car
that my mom had given me - that I loved - to my crack dealer
for four 20-dollar rocks. That memory is so painful that, actually, this is the first time
I've ever shared it publicly. I came as close to giving up on life
as one can without jumping off, but something extraordinary happened
to me the second time I went to prison. About two months into my sentence, I got a letter from my ex-wife telling me that my mother, the person I profess
to love and care about more than anyone in the world, had had a heart attack and was likely going to die. This wasn't my biological mother, who had abandoned me
shortly after I was born, but the real mother who had raised me
as her own for all of my life. I was forced to look at what kind of person I had become, and the person I had become
was not easy to look at. Because I had become the son who would not be there
to comfort his 77-year-old mother, laying all alone
in a stark hospital room, when she needed him the most, because of my selfish need
to escape my realities by getting high. In a moment of brutal honesty, I had to admit I had been living a lie. I was not the loving son,
or the faithful partner, or the supportive father,
or the good citizen that I had been telling everyone
including myself, for years. It was then that I decided that I needed to try to change my life into something that I and my mother, wherever she might be, could be proud of. And a tiny seed of change
was planted deep inside me. So after my release from prison, I decided I would go back to school, because I figured what better place can a middle-aged,
240-pound, black, ex-convict go (Laughter) to blend in (Laughter) than a white-bred community college with a whole bunch
of 20-something coeds. (Laughter) But I was fortunate because at the local
junior college where I landed, I ran into two instructors
that changed my life. It was my interactions
with these instructors that helped me to regain the self-worth
and purpose and meaning and confidence that my drug use and drug-related
lifestyle had stolen from me. I'll never forget the moment that I realized that I understood that I could create my own miracle. It all started when I went up to one
of Professor Sina's office hours, fishing for some special praise because that had become
my new drug of choice. She listened to me, described
some super cool thing I had just done, and with no pomp and circumstance, she looked at me and said, ''Isn't it amazing, B.J., what a person can do
when they start believing in themselves.'' And then, as if nothing special
had happened, she turned back to her desk
at what she was doing. While I walked away from that office hour, dazed and confused,
and wondering what had happened, I was also a little pissed
because she hadn't fed my new habit. But I was forced to think about
what had happened and what did it mean. And importantly, that seed of change
that was deep inside me started to stir. A couple months later, while taking a test, Professor Miller walked by my desk and dropped off
an application that I later discovered was to the masters of counseling program
at Sacramento State University. So after the test,
I hurried up to his office hour and ... ran into his office and held up the application
and very obtusely said, ''What's this?'' And without hesitation, he responded, ''I am quite confident
in your ability to read, so I'm sure you can
figure that out on your own.'' (Laughter) So I brilliantly followed that up
with an equally obtuse question. I said, ''So do you think I can do this?'' And with patience but no special fanfare, he looked at me and said, ''Of course.'' ''Of course.'' And then, he too turned back
around to his desk, signaling that we were done. (Laughter) And again, I stumbled away
from an office hour, dazed and confused. But this time, the seeds of believing in myself that had been planted
in my garden of self-doubt took root and started to grow. In a moment, I realized that the only person left
to believe in me, that needed to believe in me, was me. As my tears started to well up in my eyes, for the first time
since I had left prison, I felt free. After three years, I finally felt free of the mental
and emotional shackles caused by the shame and the pain and the despair of my years of drug use. For years, I had been -
I and people like me - we had been told, ''Once an addict, always an addict.'' ''Once a criminal, always a criminal.'' ''Once a loser, always a loser.'' But I realized that was only true
if you believed it. I have learned the hard way
how paralyzing self-doubt can be. It contributes to people
choosing misery over joy and emptiness over fulfillment and imprisonment over freedom - and unnecessarily so. In 2006, only seven years after I walked off
the yard at Corcoran State Prison, I walked across a stage, and I was conferred my doctorate
in clinical psychology. (Applause) And sitting in the middle of the third row was a woman, who had spent countless, sleepless nights
worrying about her son. That woman was my then 85-year-old mother, who did not die while I was in prison, (Applause) but lived to see me become the man
she always believed I could be. Prior to 1999, this was my life. without hope or purpose. Today, this is my life. Now, I want to say here
that I'm often frustrated when I hear people attribute
a person's successful recovery or rehabilitation to a miracle, as if their hard work and perseverance
had nothing to do with it. I needed to say that because it was regaining
my belief in myself that gave me the power
to change the direction of my life. And it's what allows me to now provide hope to others
facing similar challenges. Because I'm living proof, I'm living proof that a person's past
does not have to define their future. Now, you don't have to go to prison (Laughter) to learn the lessons I have. In fact, I really wouldn't recommend it. (Laughter) But know this. We do have a choice whether we want to have our past define us or refine us. And as I tell the thousands of individuals struggling with addictions
and other painful life challenges that come through our clinic: You don't have to wait for a miracle. You can create your own. Thank you. (Applause)
