- Alcohol
- Drugs
My name is Patricia. At 23 years old, I heard certain medical terms: fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue syndrome, hypothyroidism, rheumatoid arthritis and mono arthritis. I am 53 now. When I was 23 years old, single and the mother of two young infants under the age of three, I was working full-time as a restaurant manager in Anchorage, Alaska. I felt heavy in my mind. Deep down inside, I had been self-medicating with alcohol trying to manage the pain. It wasn’t working. But like all true alcoholics, I was hell-bent on finding the right combination to help me with my lack of energy and pain. Maybe if I only drink beer, maybe only wine or maybe I should try one shot of whiskey. God only knows what else I tried. I certainly don’t remember. I believe those moments lost were called blackouts.
The year was 1984, and my brother had been convicted of murder down in Texas. He was under the influence of crystal methamphetamine at the time. My brother had just turned 18. Returning home was not an option, as undefined hurt and rage from family dynamics were unresolved, deeply rooted and festering. I came from a large Irish/Polish family that was loud and full of false merriment. The bottle was a primary family member at our house. I can’t remember there ever being a time that a bottle wasn’t present. As a matter of fact, there were normally two: one vodka and one whiskey. Both were gallons purchased on post at the PX. The consumption of the bottles increased. It served to alienate me and motivated me to strike out on my own to find something better in life. I wanted quiet most of all. In my family, harsh words and loud fighting were the only ways to communicate.
Off and away I went. I went as far as I could with a second marriage under my belt at the age of 19. I married a military man, who was my best friend, and went to Anchorage, Alaska. I tell you all this because background is important. Later in recovery, I learned what made me self-medicate and why I became a legal addict that had progressed to illicit drug use with a felony conviction charge for possession at 50 years old.
Its 1987 and I am now married for the third and final time with three children and am still living in Anchorage, Alaska. By now, pain was my constant companion, stalking me and robbing me of my energy. I allowed twisted thinking to convince me that there had to be an alternative. I always had a jar of Vicodin, which took the edge off of the pain, but also dulled my thinking and stripped what energy I did have. I lived in a constant fear of discovery. I was afraid that others could smell or perhaps see my perceived weakness. I was a perfectionist and a highly functional alcoholic. But I was never a drug addict, or so I thought. I had prescriptions, I never doctor shopped and I didn’t even ask questions about the prescriptions. I didn’t want to hear about fibromyalgia or bone hurting diseases that I could not control. I was in control of everything and I managed everything in my life.
I was the oldest sibling out of four children, a girl raised as a military child in a dysfunctional household. My mother was Polish, and my father was Irish. Our house was always filled with strangers. Both of my parents loved to party and loved to entertain. Like many Irish/Polish households, I attended church regularly. I prayed every day for something to change at home, but it never did. Being the eldest of four kids, I was strong-willed and a perfectionist. I had been trained since birth to always make daddy and mommy proud. My mother was left alone with us for extended periods of time. It was very hard on her to have four kids under the age of nine. Never fear, I was mommy’s biggest helper and as such I would never do anything to bring shame or unwanted attention upon us. It was very hard for my mom since we spent much time overseas. We saw many great places, saw many an angry fight between my parents and never once felt emotional support. As a perfectionist, no matter what I did or accomplished it was never good enough. As a functioning alcoholic adult I heard that I was extremely smart, well-adjusted, bright, a quick learner, a self-starter and accomplished. But they didn’t know a thing about me.
Feelings were never talked about in our house. I knew that my mother cried a lot, that my dad was always gone and that I wanted to die. My first suicide attempt was at age 18 and there were several of them to follow. The hatred of self became stronger and stronger over the years, more and more deeply ingrained. I hid it so well like a dark dirty secret. I never ever told a soul about our family. I was afraid of my mother, her temper and her hands. Dirty secrets led me to a few stays in friendly, but secure mental institutions and gained me new medicine. It made me feel even worse no matter how many times they changed it. Stays at institutions taught me about labels and mental disorders and taught me the shame surrounding mental health issues. This was just one more thing to hide deep down inside of me.
I struggled with drinking and medication for the next ten years, trying every possible combination of drug therapy that was offered by physicians. My mental state was deteriorating. I had a fourth child, which brought more pressure. I got a college degree and had a struggle with mental demons that was so dark. I dreaded the start of the day. Upon rising, I would not know if the HOLE would appear. Yes, I had a “big black hole” so deep that no light penetrated and so cold and chilly that no human response helped. The walls of the hole were so slick that it took so much and so long to feel the whole start to disappear. It was so difficult to crawl out of that hole. The hole terrified me as I could never predict its start or end, and the amount of energy it took to hide it was unbelievable. My only close friend died from alcohol, and I missed him terribly. Another friend died and then another. They were all my age. My father-in-law died. I started hiding vodka bottles throughout the house, forgetting which were empty and which were full. I always bought more just to make sure I had my vodka. “I am NOT like my mother,” I often heard myself say. That’s why I went to work every day, working 80 hours a week, trying to let no one near me and making sure that no one observed anything wrong with me. Finally, the death of my father-in-law, my consumption of liquor and the pleas of my parents to return home, worked. We packed up and came back to Texas, after being gone for 23 years. The guilt I received from my parents about not knowing my children, the weather in Alaska, my health and my drinking had all become too much. I thought a new home would give me a new slate.
The year is 2000. We left Alaska and returned home to Texas. Arriving with my children and husband in Texas in a confused state of mind, the descent into my own private hell began to escalate. My health from the chronic diseases of diabetes, fibromyalgia and arthritis and my use of fentenyl patches, oxycotin and Klonopin, on top of 18 other non-narcotic pain pills, had left me bedridden a good portion of time. Working outside the home ever again became a taunting dream. My mother-in-law died, my mother died and then my father died, all within four years of our arrival back to Texas. I was lonely, depressed and lost. Every morning I would awake in terror not knowing if the “hole” would return. It taunted me, begging me to crawl. The hole was never far away. No sunlight ever reached it, and I never knew when it would return. I only knew that it would. I suffered in silence as I was not sure how to even begin to explain how I felt. I just knew when it was dark. I didn’t hurt physically, just mentally. There seemed no way out and no way to change things. I was overwhelmed and I wanted to die. My future seemed so bleak, only offering me continual pain. I longed to be active again. I wanted to be back in charge of my life again. I thirsted for levels of activity again to the point where I fantasized about it all the time. Here is where my thinking became so very twisted and thus began my nightmare of methamphetamine addiction.
Before reading any farther, I once again want to remind you that ever since I was little people told me I needed to learn finesse. It’s a skill I never learned. I didn’t care to learn it. Sugarcoating things caused a lot of confusion. My postings are very direct. They lack finesse! If you are faint of heart and do not care to read about or understand addiction, my blogs are not for you. I am telling my story not for shock value but in the sincere hope that some addict out there who is still suffering or some family member of an addict will gain some insight, courage or comfort from my words. I am telling my story, and that’s exactly what it is. It’s the truth about a woman’s journey to the darkest side of the world.
One day there was a knock at the door. I was so excited to have company. I eagerly opened the door, and we went to my back bedroom. This was normal because I was normally in bed due to the effects of prescribed pain meds. I was dressed, but my mind was dull. It lacked any form of exercise. As the visit wore on, a pipe was introduced. It was scary and foreign. However, it held a promise. It would give me energy. That day, for the first time in many years, I moved about the house. I cooked a dinner, I dusted and I felt no pain. I felt alive. My son had given me a wonderful gift, or so I thought at the time. It was the gift of energy. My son was an adult who was 25 years old. I say this with great shame. It was hard on my family seeing me decline. They wanted their old mom back.
From this point and over the next five years, my life spun quickly out of control. Nothing could stop me now. I went from a law-abiding citizen who never even had a speeding ticket to the lowest scum-filled abyss of my life. At first, I just took it once a day. But it quickly escalated. Soon I was selling my assets and anything else to get money for the methamphetamine. I protested that it should be legal. After all, it got me out of bed. I was free. In reality, I became a slave to the drug. I lied, manipulated and did illegal things to obtain my new devil, methamphetamine. I lost weight, and people commented on it. They also asked if I was okay. I guess my sleep deprived eyes showed the guilt and shame. Drug uses and felons were now coming over. I always had a full house, and the only reason they were there was drugs.
I became addicted to methamphetamine the first time I tried it. I was already addicted to alcohol, which I gave up for legal prescriptions. And now I exchanged that for the methamphetamine. I started having extreme paranoia. I heard things. My thinking was no longer dull, but was scattered as I couldn’t focus on anything. I had a million projects going on, but I completed nothing. My hair grew long. I used it to hide my face, as I ran in the trenches of gangs, felons and scum, chasing the drug. I stayed up for two to three days. I was afraid to sleep and afraid I would miss an opportunity. I lied to myself and my family. I became the most irresponsible person. I couldn’t be trusted to pay a bill. I cried and tried suicide when I sobered up from lack of the drug. My family was destroyed, with one son in a federal prison and another son in a state prison. I feel such shame even saying that today. I was the role model and, although none of my children were minors at home when the methamphetamine use started, they knew. Most of all, I knew that I couldn’t stop. I tried and tried. I knew I was destroying my life because I had seen so much.
At 51 years old, my life was centered on illicit drugs, gangs and the worst black hole I had ever fallen into. I had visual and auditory hallucinations, and my bipolar condition escalated to the point where I couldn’t use coherent sentences. I had become scum. My brothers and sister wanted nothing to do with me. I wanted nothing to do with myself. I hid every feeling I had. I was good at that. I hid everything I did, as nothing productive or good was done. The needle quickly followed. There is no lower place on this earth. At the time, I could see that but I did not acknowledge it. I prayed for death every single day.
One day, I got pulled over, and the officers were none too happy to find a methamphetamine pipe in my purse. I remember the cold steel of those handcuffs to this day. The officers talked to me as three cop cars descended. My car was impounded. The jail was cold, and I was scared. The cells were in a small underground facility. I don’t like closed-in areas. I spent the night, but as soon as I got out I got high again. My court date came, and I plead guilty to a felony drug possession charge. I was given an attorney who addressed the court and I received five years of felony probation.
The next night, I was determined to quit. Three days later, I was still vomiting. I begged for a rehab center placement. I got my wish and I got my life back at a treatment center in FL. It was a 30-day program, but I stayed 45. I suffered a stay in another friendly mental institution after entering rehab. I had to be in medical detox for two weeks before I entered the treatment program. I entered the program on December 10, 2010 and have been clean and sober ever since.
My immediate family is now all sober, and we are back as a family. My health is the best it has ever been. I take no narcotic medications. My medications are down from 21 types to 10. Now I am so grateful for every day that I take breath. My goal in life is to once again become a productive citizen and to continue living in a positive recovery orientated environment.
I maintain my sobriety with active attendance to a recovery group three to four times a week. I am like a newborn baby learning how to live clean and sober. After all, I haven’t been like this since I was sixteen years old. Every day I meditate, I thank my higher power and I pray. I have suffered a major heart attack since becoming sober and have had a stint placed in my heart. God saved me. My chance of survival through that experience was 1%. The doctors and nurses said I should be dead. There is something more that God wants me to do. They say to maintain sobriety you have to give it away, and this is my way of giving it away.
I have given my name to my story freely. There is no anonymity when it comes to a human life. One addict helping another addict is powerful. I share this with a heavy heart as it has brought up the past, reminding me of self hatred and shame. But I must confess that after telling you this story I feel a strange sense of freedom enveloping me. The power has been removed from my past by voicing my past to you. It’s one addict helping another. May I never forget that my name is Patricia and I am an addict.
Who even would have thought that I could be sober? I would never have thought. Every day that I wake, I open my eyes slowly. It seems too good to be true. I am cautious as I slowly open my other eye. Immediately, relief floods my senses. I AM SOBER AND CLEAN. I immediately thank my higher power, as there is no greater gift I have been given. I gave the care of my life over to my higher power. My life was out of control and Lord knows I couldn’t control it. Now every day that I awake, the first thing I do is get down on my knees. I have been clean for 27 months now. It’s a dream come true. It’s a dream that I could not have accomplished without my higher power, of that I have no doubt. Prior to that, I was hell bent on destruction of self through methamphetamine.
PART ONE: THE FIRST SIX MONTHS OF LIVING CLEAN
In the first months of sobriety, I compared myself to a newborn baby. I was one since I had self medicated my entire life. All my life skills had to be re-learned. My emotions that I had hidden so deeply came up to the surface like a volcano. Being unpredictable, I never knew if I was going to start crying or laughing. Emotions were something I had not dealt with. They would pour out of me. I was like an unreliable flood gate. There was immense guilt over what I had done in the past and what I could not remember doing. Everything seemed so painful. I remember the second day home. I put on all my makeup and then I got into the shower and washed my hair. I would put on my shoes and then see my socks still sitting on the bed. I was in a fog a lot of the time. It seemed thoughts came out of thin air. My responses to things that were happening seemed slowed, as if I was in a slow motion tunnel.
After being released from the treatment center in Florida, I was indeed a newborn baby. I was learning to walk again with baby steps, tiny baby steps. One day at a time and one minute at a time. Many times, I would sit through a trigger or an urge to use by watching the second hand on the clock. I would count the seconds as they moved by till I finally got through another minute of staying away from the drug of my choice, methamphetamine. I knew that if I used again, I would die. It wasn’t an option being on probation. Knowing that still did not stop the urges. They would come when I least expected them. I noticed a pattern. I went from being hungry to angry to lonely to tired, each stage brought forth more triggers and urges. I had to change my whole way of thinking. I noticed the urges were strongest when I did not have something in my hands. I carried a lighter everywhere with me. It helped because it kept my hands busy. It was like a pacifier. When I first got home from rehab, I was afraid to go out and afraid that I would see one of my old running buddies. I hurried to places, keeping my head down and avoiding eye contact. The world through sober eyes was a bit much for me to deal with. The paranoia had disappeared, but in its place was a lack of confidence. When I was out in public, I thought my forehead contained a big sign that says, “DOPE ADDICT.” I didn’t trust myself or anyone else. I once again was afraid that people would find out I was an addict.
About six months into living clean, I noticed rainbows everywhere, figuratively. I viewed the world through rose-colored glasses. I had made it six months so I thought that nothing could stop me now. I had a new routine down: shower, do makeup, drink coffee, etc. All my old friends and acquaintances were gone. My thinking was changing. I was no longer afraid of all the challenges of living sober. I began to eagerly anticipate change. I knew that if nothing changed, nothing would change. I had tools at my side: a big book, a recovery group and a higher power who would take care of me if I turned myself over to him. I picked up my sixth month key tag and six month coin.
Every day was getting easier. I now knew my triggers and stayed away from them. The urges were gone. I was in a new stage of sobriety. I started working the steps. Most importantly, I took things very slowly. I did not answer a question right off the top of my head like I used to. I found that I had to pause and think about my reply. My brain was becoming normal! The nightmares about using had finally stopped. I had horrible nightmares where I would wake up shaking, only to find that it was a dream. I noticed small changes. Others called the changes miracles, and they were. I started looking people in the eye. I was not as afraid to go out in public. I was learning people skills again. One thing that amazed me is when I first heard myself really laugh. It startled me. In active addiction, all my emotions were hidden, including joy and simple laughter.
Sixth months into sobriety, I no longer cared who knew I was an addict. I had learned that my sobriety had to come first. I had learned at this stage that my higher power was my guide to sobriety. Amazingly, I did not hurt. I learned to rock, and movement keeping my joints limber. I learned to pray. I learned the true meaning of humility. I learned the meaning of phrases like “Easy does it” and “One step at a time.” I learned that addiction is a disease just like RA, fibromyalgia and manic depression, all of which I could learn to live with.
PART TWO: 12 MONTHS OF LIVING CLEAN
I no longer opened my eyes in fear in the morning. No longer am I afraid when I awake. This is a new feeling. Prior to this, I always woke up cautiously. Old habits die hard. Now upon awakening in the morning, I was no longer confused. I woke up eager and full of hope, anxious to see what the new day would bring me. Every day I tried to learn new things about living clean. I am not saying that every day was filled with rainbows. No, there were good and bad days. But at least I knew the good days were outweighing the bad days. My health was becoming so much more stable, and my mental status was no longer shaky.
It was a wonderful period of confidence. I thought, “I can do this.” I was attending meetings four to five times a week and embracing my program of recovery. The only thing that really bothered me was I was so out of breath and still so very tired. Being tired was a huge trigger for me. I prayed fervently. I asked my higher power to remove my urge to self medicate. I knew that recovery and living sober was to be my new way of life. However, in all honesty, being so tired left the urges.
It was Halloween and I had a cold. My chest was so tight, I coughed continually and my stomach felt upset a lot of the time. I stopped in to the emergency room, and they decided to keep me overnight. What a Godsend that was.
My chest hurt, and every breath was a struggle. Constant, continual coughing and congestion were robbing my lungs and body of oxygen. A deep heavy pressure filled my chest. My chest felt so very cold. Each breath I took filled me with more coldness. Time passed, and I began to feel dizzy and nauseated. I felt as if someone had placed a band of steel over my chest. I felt a panic begin to rise emotionally as I struggled gulping for oxygen. Each breath became more and more difficult. My lungs could not fill as a stabbing pain began to throb in my chest. My vision blurred, and my head throbbed. I felt caught up in a vise grip of terror as I felt the coldness of my breath and the tightness throughout my body. The tightness began radiating from my chest to my jaw to my arms. My ears began to roar as I struggled for consciousness, scrambling to make sense of it all as the hazy red curtain unfolded over my eyes. I could not comprehend what was happening.
My thoughts raced as I was lost to the blackness. I was alone. I struggled to move, unable to even blink. As my ears rang, they were joined in a harmony of alarms and sirens. A tunnel of darkness was weighing down upon me. I felt so alone and so very cold. There finally was silence. I was no longer afraid. I felt a floating sensation engulf me as a blinding intense light seemed to welcome me. I felt extreme warmth engulfing me and I was free of pain. I no longer hurt. I knew instantly that, although I was no longer afraid or alone, I was leaving something behind. I felt at peace.
Shadows started to invade my sight, as I felt myself spiral back through a vortex of darkness. The lights were gone, and it was cold again. The pain had returned. The bells and whistles seemed to get louder and louder.
At last, a voice pierced the veil of darkness in the light. I sensed someone asking me questions. Someone barked at me, “Keep your head left!” I felt the return of warmth and a stabbing pain in my groin. My brain struggled to capture and recognize the fragments of light, warmth and muted conversation. Then there was more stabbing pain and more voices saying, “100% blockage…widow maker…massive heart attack.”
The coldness slowly was lifted, the light was no longer surreal and the steel band was loosening. I breathed deeply, feeling the warm oxygen fill my heart and lungs. I awoke in a fog of pain. I was only 51 years old. What had happened? I awoke again, surrounded by white coats. My groin was on fire, and someone was pushing on my groin over and over again. A doctor patiently explained that I had had a massive heart attack with 100% blockage in the LD artery. How could that be? I was puzzled over the fuzz of pain and confusion. I had a stint placed in my valve. I would need to take medication for the next 12 months and I would need rehabilitation. My mind shouted, “WHAT?” I was in the best health I had been in years. I’d been through detox, rehab and sobriety, and now they are talking about cardio rehab.
As I started to recover, I spent seven days in intensive care, where they carefully explained my new lifestyle. This meant another major change, another rehabilitation and more medicine. At first, resentment became a familiar feeling, an old trigger. I felt anger about why this was happening to me and then depression as I felt sorry for myself. I sunk back into darkness. The black hole was back. I cried a lot as I felt I had done everything right. Why should I have to suffer so much? Why this huge setback? It wasn’t a setback, although it took me a month or so to see that. I began to see that it was time to take the next step of putting my program of sobriety into action. Why was I so self-centered? Could I not see that I had been spared? Why was I so fearful again? Isn’t fear just resentment turned backwards? I had changed my thinking. But now it was time to take my thinking to another level, a level of applying what I had learned as my foundation and moving forward.
Thank you, God, for allowing me to have the heart attack in the hospital. This is why I am alive today. Thank you, God, for helping my heart grow even stronger than before as now I have another new lease on life. As I struggled to re-learn, I was constantly afraid. Every missed beat terrified me. I was afraid that I was going to die. It was hard for me to understand, why at this stage in my recovery, I had a heart attack. With time, I later learned that we are never given more than we can bear. I learned new meaning about turning your life and your will over to a higher power. I had to put into practice all the 12 steps. I had to learn to give my fears and my life over to my higher power so that I could resume life again.
One of the things I learned is that, if I hadn’t had a recovery group and prayer, I don’t know where I would have been. God, my higher power, took care of what I could not take care of myself. I was ALIVE! I learned to keep a gratitude list. Every day I made a note in it, adding something new. I learned that recovery is based on action. Attending meetings and meditating were not enough to stay sober and clean. I had to do something else every day. I learned about service, about reaching out to other addicts who still suffer and about being grateful. Yes, I was grateful for my heart attack.
At a gym, I can now ride a bike for 10 to 12 miles. I can walk on a treadmill for half an hour. I am now in the best shape I have ever been, both spiritually and physically. I am living proof that miracles can and do happen. All you need for a miracle is the will.
I have a page devoted to recovery. Please feel free to come and visit me at https://www.facebook.com/HopeInRecoveryThroughLoveLightLaughter
ღ LOVE LIGHT AND LAUGHTER ღ
~Patricia~