I Live My Life from a Heart-Centered Place and with Intention

I guess it’s always good to start at the beginning…

In retrospect, I don’t think there was anything fundamentally wrong with my upbringing. I inherently knew there was something wrong with the world, no matter how badly I wanted to see the best in people. I wasn’t an unhappy child—I was lost, but not unhappy.

My parents worked full-time jobs to provide for my sister and I. I was the youngest. I was lonely, and I had a nervous disposition. There was a void as early back as I can remember and my perception of love was distorted– it felt like a burden. I thought in order to love, you had “to fix”, be “perfect”, be “in control”. Those ideas followed me all through life and were at the root of every toxic relationship I experienced.

I have been through enough therapy and treatment that if I really wanted to bore you with the psychoanalytical diatribe that is part of my story, you would see that it doesn’t encompass who I am and why I am writing this today. I sought love through all types of validating efforts, but none that were true to myself. I made poor choices and could have never imagined the ripple effect and consequences that would come later in life as a result.

My friends, or at least the ones I kept close, were beautiful souls who were also lost. It’s interesting to look back and to have been surrounded by so much light that was so suffocated and stifled by trauma. I found escape early, I started drinking at 9 years old– not every day, but to the point of a blackout when I did. Moderation was never in my vocabulary. I was stealing and lying. I was chasing something I couldn’t quite get my hands on, ever. It was frustrating and I did it over and over again.

The drinking became more regular once I was in high school and other drugs came into play. What I told myself then was that I was a kid and eventually I would get it together, but that just isn’t how it worked. I got involved in an abusive relationship, which only perpetuated my inability to function. This is how it went for several years, and every time I was faced with any kind of pain, I numbed.

Aside from my guardian angels, there were two things in my life that allowed me two survive active addiction; the release I received through chemicals that deluded me into thinking I had it together, and the fact that I kept my love for the arts close to remind me there was always color.

I was introduced to opiates after countless car accidents. I also had a tremendous amount of pain during my monthly cycle and they started to prescribe me painkillers under the impression that I had endometriosis. I would later find out that this was not the case, but I had already mastered doctor shopping. I was on heavy painkillers and sedatives and drank whisky and wine (it made me feel fancy).

By the time I landed in my first treatment center, I had overdosed and it took me three days to come to a conscious state. I weighed 95 pounds and was trying to retrace a nine-month blackout. I was desperate, sick, and knew I wanted to get help– so much so that I talked my way out in 21 days because I was the best student ever!

I did, however, do some of what they told me. I got a sponsor, I got to meetings…I did most of the deal. It lasted for a while, but I was still lost and totally stuck. I had no sense of self or what I wanted for my life. I kept doing what everyone else told me to do (with a lot of resentment). I did what I thought would make everyone else happy (also with a lot of resentment).

I was still a victim, my perception was still so, SO messed up, and I just sabotaged everything when it became too much again. There were more car accidents, more abusive relationships, and an exorbitant amount of grief from losses I had experienced. And then, one day I met the love of my life…heroin. After that day, nothing else mattered; I would do anything for it. I would hit bottom… after bottom… after bottom. More detox, more treatment, more detox, more therapy, more detox, more court cases, more detox, more jail time, more detox, more violations.

I had sucked up all the air in the lives of my family and the people who tried to help me. I had nothing left. I committed myself to a long-term center because that was the only roof over my head I would get. The truth, too, was that was exhausted. I had been running for so long that the next possible stop was six feet under. I didn’t want to die– I just didn’t know how to live.

This was a big shift, but it didn’t prevent me from picking up again. After a little over a year I left and was put on a plane that brought me to North Carolina. I went from a microcosm of reality where I felt safe and into a reality that slapped me so hard across the face it was jarring. Transitional care is vital and I fell through some pretty heavy cracks. I wanted to be a woman in recovery and I plugged myself in enough at that time that there were people in my life, in this new city, that rallied around me and got me back on the right path quickly. I will forever be grateful.

The problem for me was that I wasn’t familiar with utilizing that “tool box”—the one that is so frequently discussed. In real life, that toolbox wasn’t what I was used to. But I did know how to get high and numb. It was easy for me to revert back to something that had been ingrained in me since I was a child.

I want to be careful with how I articulate what I am trying to s say… I needed every day I got in long-term treatment. At what point, though, is it appropriate to advocate for yourself once you start to find your voice? The lines got very blurred for me and I think it was because while I was starting to get better, I was still spoken to like an afflicted person. I was treated just enough to still be sick. I didn’t forget, I was so aware of the fact that I was pissed. I wasn’t empowered– I was limited. I was reminded constantly of those limitations.

I remember at the time of my relapse that I was encouraged to return to a particular sober living structure. I was told that I would be safe (or more safe) there. I didn’t want to go back to a sober living that wanted an insane amount of money a month to keep me safe. Life isn’t safe. It never had been and was never meant to be. If I was going to live, I needed to figure it out, not hide. At the same time, I didn’t want to repeat my mistakes and I knew I couldn’t do it alone. I had an arsenal of support and I needed to be vulnerable to it now more than ever. I became connected on a very spiritual level and everything slowly began to unfold in a way that, even under the most chaotic and difficult times, was serendipitous.

I found beauty in my life, but I am still a cynic. This life will always take work and that work gives me purpose today. None of it comes easy, though. I think that where I am at spiritually has a lot to do with how I manage life– some days are better than others. When I started to live in recovery, the universe propelled a monster fireball into my path. And the fire burns in incredibly painful ways at times, but I hope it never goes out.

That fire is fuel for me, it humbles me, reminds me to live my life from a heart-centered place and with intention. The more I continue to get to know who I am, the journey out of my head and into my heart isn’t as scary to navigate. I have a lot of faith and I have a lot of help. I have 24 hours to make the most of one life.

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