- Alcohol
- Drugs
My name is Debbie, and I am an alcoholic and addict. My first drink was at six years old, when my grandmother gave me a hot toddy. She would give them to me, when I was sick with a cold. I acted like I didn’t like it, but I actually did like it. I was first drunk at nine years old. My first drug was at nine years old as well, because I was hanging out with a group that was four years older than me. I was molested at six years old by a sheriff who lived across the street. He always gave me candy, when I went over there. I never told anyone. I kept it to myself until I got sober.
At first I only drank and did drugs on the weekends. By 13 years old I drank or used drugs every day. I started hanging out with bikers. Some of our group became members. I started doing crystal meth and was heavily into it. I dropped out of high school after only three days. I thought I was too smart, and I wanted to drink, do drugs and ride on a Harley.
My family then moved to a new state to keep me away from doing drugs and drinking. My dad worked on a farm for my grandma and grandpa, but it didn’t work out, so my dad was offered a job as a jailer. My mom was the cook for the inmates. After the cops and sheriffs were done with their shifts, they would come to our house and drink, until they were drunk. A couple of the cops would make moves on me, and I didn’t say anything again. At 16 years old I moved in with some friends, and we got away with a lot of things because I was the jailer’s daughter.
We lived in a dry county, and the closest place for liquor was 60 miles away. We eventually started bootlegging on the weekends and picking up alcohol for the cops. My parents moved back to Arizona, and after that cops were trying to catch me doing something illegal. I moved in with my girlfriend, and one night three guys broke in and came into my room while asleep and drunk. I woke up to a pillow on my face. I could hear a bunch of whispering, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. As I was fighting, they would push the pillow back on my face, and I would pass out. I fought harder after the third time with the pillow on my face, and I kicked one of them in the genitals. I broke one of their arms, but they kept beating me. The police came to take my statement they asked why I didn’t play dead. I told them that I didn’t want to get raped again. I went to the hospital. I had three broken ribs, two cracked fingers, cuts on my face and my entire body was black and blue. Cops came to the hospital and said they thought it would be a good idea for me to leave the state of Texas, so I did.
I started hanging out with my biker buddies again and started shooting dope. They had an intervention with me and told me to not come around, until I cleaned up and got my shit together. I got worse and never went back to the old crowd. I started smoking crack and fell in love with the drug. Nothing and no one mattered to me more than my crack. I started going out with a guy and got pregnant with my first daughter. He didn’t want anything to do with us. I didn’t do drugs, but I drank the whole pregnancy. I met another man and got married. Those eight years I smoked pot, drank and did crank. I got pregnant with my son. I got divorced, and I started smoking crack again. A lot of dangerous thing happened to me that I won’t talk about. I got pregnant again, smoked crack nonstop through the whole pregnancy and delivered my daughter at 6 1/2 months. Child protective services (CPS) was involved and wanted to take her away from me, because she was addicted. The hospital told CPS there was nothing wrong with the child and let me take her. After a month of her being in the hospital recovering, I got to bring her home. CPS was involved for 6 months. When she was 18 months, I had kidney failure among other things. The doctors told my mom that I wouldn’t make it through the night. The called the chaplain, and he asked if I wanted to say anything. I said I was too mean to die, and I didn’t need him. I made it through the night. The only people that came to say goodbye were one friend, my mom and my sister.
I was in ICU for 21 days, and, 20 minutes after I got out of the hospital, I was calling my drug dealers. Only one out of the five would sell to me. I was arrested, when I only had a dime of crack on me. I had the chance to do one year of probation, drug court and drug counseling. I went to jail four times for the same charge, and finally my probation officer told me to go to jail or rehab. I told him I wouldn’t last a week.
I was in a cocaine coma the first few days in rehab. I sobered up, and I have been in recovery since then. I started working for the same program I went through. After 2 1/2 years my health started dwindling. I had to quit my job. I was released from probation in 2005. Everything I lost in my addiction I now have back. My oldest daughter hated me. She called me Debbie, but now she calls me mom. My son was a part of my early recovery and is a part of my life now. My 16 year old struggles with ADHD and depression, but considering she was born addicted she is doing fine. I have two beautiful grandchildren who I am allowed to share my life with. I have been raped, kidnapped and severely abused, but I am a survivor, and I did recover. My name is Debbie, and I am a proud addict and alcoholic.