When a heroin and alcohol addiction lead you to the darkest places you've ever been, what can bring you back to the light?

Every return to work story reads differently. What follows is Denis Kinang's story, told in his words, of how - with a little help from his friend - he found the tools he needed to discover his own form of literary rehabilitation, learn to stop hating himself and recognise the purpose and pleasure in setting new goals – and achieving them.

Today, as I work on my manuscript and set about finding my niche in the publishing world, I acknowledge my profound gratitude, respect and admiration for the person who made it all possible. Emmy Simpson was the first person to read my work and believe.

Without her patience and persistence I could never have come this far.

About eight years ago I realised, after twenty-five years of drug and alcohol addiction, that if I didn't do something soon I would die.  I said to my doctor, “I'm not sure whether I use heroin because I'm depressed, or I'm depressed because I use heroin.”

(Interestingly, I found giving up heroin relatively easy compared to alcohol and nicotine.)

By relocating and severing all my contacts I was able to avoid temptation while I endured the withdrawal period.  I moved back to St Kilda, which some friends questioned because of the nature of the area.  But I was determined, and seeing other addicts in the street simply strengthened my resolve.

It was during this period that I had a second revelation, writing.

I began writing again as therapy.  By recording and analysing the fears and doubts, mistakes and disappointments over the years, I was gradually able to understand and put to rest the demons that had been tormenting me, gnawing away at my confidence and self-esteem.

The first step was to give myself permission to stop hating myself.  Eventually I started to like myself and, in the process, I rediscovered my love of literature. 

It seemed as though life was turning full circle and it was around this time that I first considered taking up my current studies.  However, the avoidance strategy I used with heroin was not possible when it comes to alcohol and tobacco.  These drugs are condoned even encouraged in our society.

I had always seen replacement therapies like methadone as a double-edged sword, the cure being as bad as the affliction.  So I confidently told my doctor I was doing fine and refused any kind of anti-depressant medication or counselling. The whole time I was drinking more and more.

Not for the first time, alcohol had become my replacement therapy and five years ago I was worse off than at the outset.  The state I was in I wouldn't have been capable of attending a class let alone completing a diploma.  I was on track for an alcohol-related acquired brain injury, and I had no idea.

Then I met Emmy Simpson, a wonderful, warm caring person who would brighten even your darkest hour and is the best friend one could ask for.  She works with adults with autism and was able to offer many helpful insights based on her understanding of cognitive behaviour therapy and obsessive compulsive disorders.

Emmy showed me that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  It's just that sometimes we need a little help finding the switch.  And there's absolutely nothing to be ashamed of if you do.  In fact it takes rare courage to admit that you're struggling.

It wasn't that Emmy turned the light on for me; the individual must do that for themselves.

What Emmy did was give me the tools, the method and the purpose.  She showed me where the switch was and how I could reach it.  She encouraged me, gave credit when it was due, but also expected me to put my money where my mouth is.  The strategy she suggested was deceptively simple.

‘You call yourself a writer,' she said.  ‘Why don't you keep a record of all your drinks in that little book you always carry around?'

Well, I took her advice and when I look at that old notebook these days I think, forget Stephen King – this is a really scary story.  Pages and pages that look like the tally of days on a prison cell wall.

The weaning process that followed wasn't easy, I stumbled more than once.  But, the writing was in the book.  The progress – and the setbacks – were there to be seen, and that became a powerful incentive. 

With honesty and perseverance success begets success and the process begins to drive itself, becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.

As I spent less time at the bar with a beer in one hand, I found that I had less of an urge to balance it with a cigarette in the other.  So, after thirty years, I was able to kick that habit too.

For the last three years I've been all but ‘teetotal' and I've almost completed that diploma.  If I do drink it's an occasional beer on a hot day or glass of wine with dinner, usually shared with my very good friend Emmy who would be the first to let me know if I was losing control again.

It occurs to me even as I write this that the greatest gift Emmy gave me was a challenge, something that few of us can resist.  It's part of the human condition to endure. No matter how weak we may feel, the mind is hard-wired to respond.  In the process I discovered that the light at the end of the tunnel is in fact a mirror.