I Have Replaced Substances with a Savior Who Loves Me

“I loved you at your darkest.” –Romans 5:8

Hi, I’m Megan, and I’m an alcoholic. I have been clean and sober since May 30, 2014. (That’s 22,456 hours to date, but who’s counting?)

I was thirteen years old when I had my first drink.

My three best friends and I snuck a beer out of the refrigerator at my house, took a few nasty sips, and poured the remaining beer down the toilet. I was not impressed.

At age 15, I was on a school trip and had my second encounter with an illegal substance when I tried cocaine for the first time. I don’t remember a whole lot about that evening except that we stayed up all night and watched some movie with a guy in a wheelchair wheeling himself into the ocean.

That same year, I was in a physically and emotionally abusive relationship. I was later sexually assaulted by that same boyfriend. I didn’t tell anyone about it, but I immediately sought a way “out of my head”. I soon discovered that alcohol was the best way to achieve that escape.

The first time I got drunk, I took shots of warm vodka and chased it with a sports drink. I didn’t get sick or black out. I think I just cried the entire night and woke up with blood on my shirt… except I wasn’t bleeding. All I knew was that all the crying and unidentified blood aside, I couldn’t wait to do it again.

From that point on, every weekend was a party. If there wasn’t one, we made one. At that time, I had a close-knit group of friends. We were the “party girls”. We smoked cigarettes in the school parking lot and split our money for weekend fifths of whiskey and vodka. On Sunday mornings, I slumped down in the church pews, saturated in perfume, hoping that no one would smell the alcohol excreting from my pores.

Two years of weekly binge drinking later, I somehow managed to escape high school and head to college. In college, I drank daily, smoked weed, and developed a pretty gnarly addiction to amphetamines. I ended up having a huge falling out with my roommates our junior year because of my out-of-control behavior when I was drunk, which happened pretty much nightly. I ended up getting kicked out of school because of my grades, begging my parents for a second chance, and re-entering the following semester.

After that, stopped using Adderall and stuck to drinking and smoking pot. A lot. At that point, drinking and drugging were just fun ways to pass the time. I thought that I didn’t have a problem with drugs or alcohol. I thought that I was just more fun than everyone else.

The week after I walked across the stage with my degree, I started my career investigating child abuse and neglect. I was too young and so emotionally immature that I just couldn’t hang. I ended up going to my doctor and leaving with a prescription for Klonopin because of anxiety. I started taking those regularly and discovered that when taken with alcohol, I could achieve quicker and stronger buzz than drinking alone.

I had only been abusing Klonopin for two months when I began blacking out on a nightly basis. I ended up cheating on my boyfriend of three years, who I lived with. Needless to say, that relationship ended. I was devastated. I wanted to be numb again.

At the time, I thought that the problem was not my thinking or my drinking, but the Klonopin. I “knew” what I had to do; switch to Xanax. I soon took Xanax before work, at work, with dinner, snorted them at the bar, on the bar, etc. I loved not feeling and not remembering anything. I also really enjoyed my stressful job, and decided that I could no longer use illicit drugs for fear of being drug tested. Therefore, I sought legal drugs.

Prescription pills– I had a pill for everything. I had amphetamines for ADHD, benzodiazepines for anxiety, antihistamines for sleep, antidepressants for obvious reasons, beta-blockers for increased heart rate, and the occasional narcotic pain reliever. I carried these around in a little monogrammed pouch (drug addicts don’t carry their pills in monogrammed pouches, duh) and misused most of those medications on a daily basis.

That following January, I was sexually assaulted by a male acquaintance while I was in a blackout. I went to the hospital, had a rape kit completed, and began court proceedings. The next few months were a blur of meetings with my therapist, drug dealers, and detectives. I got a bad case of the “eff its” and started on the cocaine train again. I went from guy to guy looking for someone to love me back to life. I developed a raging and very expensive cocaine addiction accompanied by a diagnosed heart murmur.

I never stopped to think about all I had begun to lose. I had no self-esteem, and that problem was masked by promiscuity and drugs. I had dwindled down to 94 lbs. When questioned about my weight by my therapist, I stated that I wanted to disappear. I was in a volatile relationship. I had become a trashcan junkie. I did anything and everything that was around or that I could get my hands on. I began behaving incredibly irrationally (more so than usual) and began seeking drugs in dangerous places from dangerous individuals. I wanted to escape– and if that meant indefinitely, I was ok with that. I had no connection with God. I said the occasional foxhole prayer when I was drinking and driving that I wouldn’t get pulled over. I prayed for the vomiting to stop most mornings and for the drugs to work their numbing agents quickly. That was the extent of my relationship with God.

That May, I found that my sexual assault case was not going to be tried. Every bit of life I had left escaped me that afternoon. I don’t recall much of that next week. I know I drank all day, snorted molly (which I later discovered was actually meth) and spent my evenings crushing pain pills.

There was one specific night that I was alone and coming down off of whatever I had taken. I began having suicidal ideations. I took a handful of Tramadol and slept it off. May 29th came and I resigned from my career. I was done. I was tired. I was losing all of the things I had once kept in that mental inventory of “I have this; here is why I am not alcoholic”.

On that day, I could not numb myself. No drug or drink would take away the pain I was feeling. I took my bottle of Xanax and emptied the bottle in my hand. I poured them into my mouth and washed them all down with a swig of beer. I didn’t care if I woke up. The last thing I remember is laying down in my floor sobbing, wondering who would end up finding me dead.

I woke up in a hospital bed with my parents beside me. I was in and out and mostly slept while physicians monitored for seizures and respiratory failure. After I had stabilized, they had me committed. I woke up periodically the following day, still recovering from the insane amount of drugs and alcohol I had consumed the previous day. On the second or third day, I spoke with my mom and dad on the phone.

My parents were supportive and loving and I would not be sober today if it weren’t for their encouragement and belief in me. I needed them to bring me a few specific clothing items. I also asked them to bring me my Bible. I don’t remember thinking about asking Mom to bring it to me; the words just kind of came out.

The following day, they visited and brought my requested items. I sat in my room and began to read my Bible. I wish I could remember what I read but I honestly have no idea. I just know that the peace that I felt with The Gospel in my hands sitting in my hospital bed in such a time of despair is inexplicable. The next few days, I immersed myself into my Bible and I remained in constant conversation with God. I am pretty sure this is when I began Step One. (Also, I gained 3 lbs. Yay!)

I could probably write an entire book on my hospital experience alone, but I’ll spare you the details of a week in the psych ward as an addict going through delirium tremens while being banned from cigarettes and having to use nicotine patches. (You can thank me later). I was eventually discharged with an agreement with the psychiatrist that I would either enter into an inpatient treatment program or move home with my family and begin an intensive outpatient treatment program. I opted for the second option.

I left that day feeling hopeful for the first time in many years. While I had been in the hospital, my parents, sister, and friend Adam had moved me out of my apartment. I went home and had an intake appointment at a center for chemical dependency the following day.

I remember sauntering in there with no clue as to what being in recovery meant. One of my initial goals in treatment was to be able to drink normally. (I wish I would have known to pay attention to the worker’s face when I made that comment). I started the program and a requirement was to attend three 12-step meetings a week.

I attended my first 12-step meeting with a pad and paper in hand and wrote people’s quotes with their names in my little book. Clearly, I was oblivious to the whole “anonymity” thing. I picked up my first and only white chip that day. I remember everyone hugging me and telling me to “keep coming back”. I thought, “wow, these people really like me and want to see me again!” (Did I mention that ego is a huge character defect of mine?) But I did. I kept going back. And going back, and going back. I sometimes went to three meetings a day. I did my 90 in 90 and was feeling fantastic.

I started running and working out daily. I put some healthy weight back on, my skin turned back to a normal color, and I was substance free! I was happy and healthy, but I was scared out of my mind. I had no idea what life as a sober 24-year-old was supposed to look like. I would NEVER be able to drink? What about toasting at my wedding? What about communions (mind you, I am not of a religion that uses anything other than grape juice, but still)? How would I celebrate birthdays or 420 or Cinco De Mayo; how would I cope with sadness or have fun? I had many unanswered questions. Fortunately for me, I was more fearful of remaining the same than I was of changing the things they told me I would have to change, which was everything.

For eight whole years, I had not been sober for more than a few days at a time. Finally, I started building relationships again. I got plugged into a 12-step fellowship and into a local church. I was surrounded by support from family and friends. My parents began attending their own fellowship for loved ones of alcoholics. A beautiful friendship blossomed between my friend Adam and I, and he proposed to me a week after I celebrated six months sober. We were married one year later. We moved to the mountains and I got back into the field, and now work with children in foster care at a residential living facility.

Looking back, I am sympathetic to those I crushed on my path of destruction. I am thankful to those that stood by me. I have forgiven those who have harmed me. I am still burdened by some guilt– some feelings of resentment and some pain that I am sure will take a long time to heal. I have grieved the loss of drugs and alcohol, because they were my best friends for so long.

Today is different. I have replaced substances with a Savior who loves me, who loved me enough to save me. I had to have everything ripped out from under me in order for me to come back to Him. It takes what it takes, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I also figured out that feeling feelings was ok. They pass. I am thankful for tears and laughter today, because I didn’t feel anything for so long.

“I would rather go through life sober, believing that I am an alcoholic, than go through life drunk, trying to convince myself that I am not” -Anonymous

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