Charlene

My name is Charlene Antoinette Mobley Primas Manning, but my family calls me Toni. Even now, I wrestle with my identity, each name I carry is a reminder of the different lives I’ve lived, the people I’ve loved and lost, and the pain I’ve survived. Sometimes, I look at all those names and wonder who I really am. That question still echoes inside me.

My childhood was lonely and a bit harsh. My mother was just fifteen when she had me and every day felt like a battle for love and acceptance. I was a straight-A student, desperate to prove myself, but no matter how hard I tried, I was met with anger and rejection. I grew up in a family of educators, but I always felt like the outsider, the one who didn’t measure up. I started drinking at eleven, searching for something to numb the pain. By thirteen, I was having sex, trying to fill the emptiness inside me with anything that felt like connection. Addiction was already shaping my life, long before I understood what it was.

My mother put my brother and I out at age thirteen and again at age fifteen and both times it was because of my behavior and my acting out. We went to live with my grandparents, and I found myself in a new world—one where I could drink even more, where I was even more isolated. I filled soda bottles with liquor before school, skipped classes to chase after love and escape. At eighteen, I married a good man, but I was still broken, still running from myself. I tried drugs—marijuana, cocaine, freebasing—anything to keep the pain at bay. I loved the way cocaine let me drink without getting sick. It felt like I’d finally found the missing piece, but it was just another way to run from the truth.

Motherhood changed me. My sons are my greatest gifts, my first real connection to a God I could understand. Their birthdays are etched in my heart. I talk to them about everything, because I never want them to feel as alone as I did. I’m proud of them, proud that they’ve overcome so much and found their own paths. But I still worry about the scars my struggles may have left on them.

Recovery has been a long, winding road. I’ve been in treatment seven times, and my longest stretch clean was five years. I’ve relapsed, lost homes, lost myself. But each time, I’ve found the strength to try again. I learned that I have to do this for me—not for my kids, not for anyone else. If I put my recovery in someone else’s hands, I set myself up for disappointment and relapse. Today, I keep my story close because I know how quickly I could lose everything. Homelessness is always lurking, and I am too old to go back.

ISP saved me. When I moved into SOME- So Others Might Eat, I found a community that welcomed me, that saw the good in me even when I couldn’t. ISP isn’t just about addiction—it’s about attachments, but about finding freedom from whatever holds us back. Through ISP, I learned to say yes to opportunities, to share my story, to help others feel less alone. I’ve facilitated retreats, mentored others, and found joy in reconnecting with people. Sharing my story matters because it reminds us that we’re never truly alone.

Reflective spirituality is my anchor. I’ve spent years asking why, but now I focus on acceptance and gratitude. I use the ISP app daily, lean on short prayers and clichés, and trust that God will give me what I need. My purpose is to use my experiences to help others. Everything I’ve gone through is not just for me—it’s to help someone else. That’s my impact: showing that recovery is possible, that connection heals, and that every story matters.

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Charlene, Washington DC