- Drugs
- Faith
I grew up the daughter of a Pentecostal pastor. Church was not an option for me. It was a way of life. I never did “get it” though. I tried to be who I was expected to be, but I never really measured up. My parents were very strict. It did not have the desired effect though. The more they pushed me, the more I rebelled. I never really cared much about consequences, or at least that was how I explained it. The fact was I learned early on how to cover up, hide and lie. The only ambition I ever had was to be “big”. I thought if I could just grow up and do what I wanted, my life would be perfect.
I moved out as soon as I turned 18. I married at 19, and for 4 years I lived in hell. He was an alcoholic and was very abusive. I stayed as long as I did, because I thought if I could just be a better wife he would not treat me that way. I lost the only child I ever carried, when I was 22. After that I changed in a lot of ways, and I gave up on life in a lot of ways. I didn’t care about much of anything anymore. As long as I had whatever made me happy now, that was fine with me. If something didn’t make me happy, I turned my back and walked away. I married for the second time at 24. I left him six years later, because once again I had married an alcoholic with no ambitions other than hunting and drinking beer.
I married for the third time, and that lasted two years. I blamed that failed marriage on him too. What ruined it was meth. Up until then I only smoked weed and drank a little here and there. There were times I spent my last dollar on weed, but it never took over my life. As far as alcohol went, hangovers weren’t worth it to me. I was the kind of drinker who tied it on for birthdays or a night out at the club once in a blue moon but never developed any desire to do it every day. Meth, however, became my life.
From the age of 32 to 39 I lived to get high. During that time I lost everything I had, went through bad relationship after bad relationship, sold drugs to support my habit and basically became someone I never imagined I would be. I found myself living in an apartment with no furniture and no electricity. My boyfriend ran off on a binge, and I had my first episode of trichotillomania (pulling my hair out). I finally had enough one day and called my family to come get me. I stayed clean for 18 months. I didn’t know the difference between being clean and recovery. I mourned my old life the whole time.
One day I told myself that I was “well” and that I could finally use again without it messing up the life I had rebuilt. Off I went. I did pretty well that time around, I thought. I kept it together and was basically a functioning addict, and I was okay with that for the most part. A couple of years later I met husband number four. He did not do drugs and never had. I thought he was my salvation. I thought I could stop, and he would keep me clean. Of course he did not know I was using when we met nor did he know when I started using again a few months after we married. The old me was back, lying, hiding and covering up. The longer it went on the more reckless I got with it. I spent all my free time with my friends getting high. Eventually I lost a very good job I’d had for four years, and he got tired of being alone. I blamed our breaking up on him cheating on me.
When he left me I was devastated. I started pulling my hair out again when I lost my job, and it got even worse when my husband left me. I am still fighting that battle today, although I only do it occasionally. My husband was my safe place and my stability, but I lost him, and I lost the home I had waited so long for. I didn’t sleep for a month and not because of drugs (I couldn’t afford them). I thought I was going to lose my mind. I went home to my parents and got a job, but all I did there was sleep, work and cry. Before long I went back to my old stomping grounds and moved in with my using friends.
For the next year I moved from place to place working and maintaining my life, taking care of myself and paying my own bills, but eventually working started cutting into my using. I quit my job and started selling dope to support myself and my habit. It is scary now to think what could have happened to me. One day three young men kicked in my door and held a sawed off shotgun on me and demanded my money. They knew I was dealing dope and came to rob me. They didn’t get any money, but they beat me up with a baseball bat. I could have died so easily that day, but that still didn’t stop me. My hair pulling had escalated to the point where I had so many bald spots I shaved my head. I figured if I couldn’t get ahold of it, I couldn’t pull it out.
Two weeks later I found myself sitting in jail on a trafficking charge with a $50,000 bond. I stayed in jail for six months before my bond was lowered enough that my parents could get me out. I swore I would never do dope again, but almost as soon as I got out I relapsed. The next four months were a scary time. I found myself in places and situations that disgusted me, and I was terrified the entire time that I would get arrested again. My boyfriend took all the charges and got drug court. I got high one more time the day after he got out of jail. I told him I did it, and I also promised him I would never do it again. I had a couple of weak moments a couple of weeks later and had a beer and smoked a little weed, but on August 10, 2012, I went to a recovery meeting with him just to support him, but by the end of that meeting I knew that I had found the people who would teach me a new way to live.
I will be 14 months clean in a few days. I still have days here and there when I just wish I could go get high. Most days I’m just happy to be alive, free and clean. My boyfriend, whom I plan to marry soon, has a little over two years clean. I would have that too, if I had not used when I got out of jail. I’m very grateful for what clean time I do have. I am changing and growing in so many ways. I still have a long way to go, but by the grace of God I am going to beat this thing!