Real Addicted Mon, 15 Jul 2019 12:11:02 +0000 en-US hourly 1 Feelings Sat, 13 Jul 2019 08:22:31 +0000 Continued]]> I saw my first therapist when I was young.

I still see a therapist. Going on thirty years old and it hasn’t gotten easier to speak about my life. In fact, it has only gotten harder. My counselor wants to start working on trauma history and the mere thought of doing so terrifies me to my very soul. It almost makes me feel like a child again, with how scared I am to venture down that road. I KNOW however, that until I do tackle those issues and talk about them with someone I trust, that I will always be on the brink of a relapse just because of how traumatizing it is to live with. How hard it is to think about it daily, not to mention dream about it each night.

We have to take care of ourselves. Nobody will fully understand the extent of the pain that we have experienced because they weren’t there for it. Sure, we can talk to them about it and they can sympathize and say “that’s awful, I’m sorry that happened to you.” But they will never fully get it or understand why it’s so hard to get over. Most people couldn’t handle the things that we have experienced, and live to talk about it. I do know that when I start to have these intrusive thoughts, I begin to feel more and more alone in life. Not because I don’t have people that don’t care but because I feel like nobody will ever understand exactly how traumatized I feel whenever I relive the past.

We HAVE to take care of ourselves. It’s a must. A priority. Especially those of us who struggle with not just substance abuse, but with a mental health disorder. We have to learn how to move forward rather then allowing our past to keep us stuck in one place, almost as if we are frozen in fear. Get up, brush the dirt off, and try to move on so that we can say that we made it through the worst of it and still came out stronger then ever.

]]> 0
Empty Shell Mon, 18 Feb 2019 04:22:31 +0000 Continued]]> I’ve come to realize, that who I used to be is not whats important. Who I was before this last relapse is not whats important nor is who I could be in the future. What is important is who I am now, during the throes of my current and out of control addiction, because somehow, the brink of my existence on this earth for much longer is growing more and more likely to finally end for good. I wish I could say that this is just my depression lashing out, more or less just hoping something or someone can save me from myself, but fact of the matter is it really isn’t. Ive had offers of help, from friends, my ex husband, my boyfriend, people from Facebook support groups, even the guard at the jail where I went to serve my sentence most recently. It isn’t like help hasn’t been offered…. But you know what they say….. Nobody will quit doing anything until they themselves are finally 100% ready to quit. And the majority of me wants to be done so bad. My life has literally done a complete 360 and honestly…. It hasn’t affected me nearly as much as I thought it would. That in itself terrifies me. If only for the simple fact that I feel like I should be devastated for everything that has transpired.

My marriage has ended, I got charges that has resulted in yet another felony conviction along with 2 years of probation, I’ve helped to create more anxiety for myself due to involving myself in an extremely traumatic experience not too long ago, I never sleep very well, I engage myself in adrenaline seeking activities that aren’t safe and are moreso life threatening just so so can try and feel alive rather then deadened to any sort of emotion….I’ve cut myself out of anything pro social and instead have become more introverted then I’ve ever been in my entire life, I have completely lost any sense of empathy for humans in general, and for some reason….. I find everything mildly entertaining the majority of the time. I have either lost my mind completely and this is what its like to be insane, or I am so far gone and beyond broken, that even if I wanted to fix my life… I wouldn’t be able to. Neither option seems soothing to my soul…. Or whats left of it.

I’ve grown cold towards people in general…. In fact, the majority of people in my life mean nothing to me. The people I do care for, I’m so terrified of ruining somehow that I push away from them so that at least they will not be harmed due to my self destructive attitude and activities. I long to meet someone, anyone, who has experienced this type of crisis to a T, and been able to make it out with their sanity still in tact, so that they can explain to me how to do it while hanging onto some semblance of normalcy and self respect, but have been unable to accomplish anything close to that…. Which sadly, isn’t shocking nor believed to even be attainable. I trust nobody and have zero faith in anything anymore and every time I look at myself in the mirror, I am disgusted with the emotionless, dead gaze that stares back at me.

My soul has been drained from my body and whenever I feel tears start to formulate and that familiar tug at my throat, warning me that I am about to unleash any sort of emotional pain, I grab the drugs that continue to chip away at the depths of my soul, and fuel the zombie that always ends up over taking my body…. Helping me to feel nothing. Completely wiping away any and all emotions I started to experience, and replacing them instead with the cold-hearted bitch everyone who knows me anymore, is used to dealing with.

My life anymore just consists of me shuffling through the motions in a body that I don’t recognize, controlled by a soul that has been overtaken by a drug designed to only steal the souls of those trying to kill their sadness. The cycle of abuse and psychological warfare compares to nothing I’ve ever experienced and nothing I would ever wish upon anyone else. My life before this isn’t whats important…. My achievements. My pitfalls. My lies. My truths. My loves. The things or people I’ve hated. My future isn’t important….. If only for the simple fact that chances are, I don’t have much of a future left. I know my family doesn’t deserve for me to go out like this…. They are going to ask themselves where they went wrong with me. For the first time in a while, thinking of something finally made tears come to my eyes. My family still is able to bring some sort of emotion alive in me…which briefly brings me hope… If only for a minute.

The demon inside me tells me that they will be better off when all of this chaos that is my life finally ends… So that they can finally lay to rest, the free spirited child they once knew to be so happy… Now just an empty shell of a human. I started out using because I was bored… Then it became something I used as a crutch to help curb the fucked off feelings of pain, guilt, sadness, and worthlessness. Now I use so that I feel nothing…. Because in all honesty, I would rather go through life numb then deal with any sort of negative emotion.

Who I was before my most recent relapse doesnt matter. A wife. A daughter. A friend. A sister. An aunt. A granddaughter. A student. An employee. A child of God. She doesnt matter because shes gone.

Who I could be doesnt matter.

And turns out… Who I am now… Doesn’t matter either. Another statistic. A felon. An addict. A lost cause. Another failed project. A junkie.

Once you’ve accepted what God has planned for your life, it gets easier to accept His terms. Only, maybe these were never His terms. Maybe they have always been mine because I never saw myself worthy enough to accept anything else.

Masks Sun, 10 Feb 2019 05:22:32 +0000 Continued]]> It took me years to realize who I really was and what my values and morals were. Some days, I’m still unsure as to who I am which is why I always keep a mask on. Those are the days that I’m fighting the hardest to stay above water. I try not to beat myself up over it too much, I mean, some people don’t have a clue as to who they truly are. I used to be one of those people. To self identify was more difficult then it should’ve been. I think it took me going through active addiction and experiencing so many run ins with my bi polar self, to finally figure it all out. Most peoples identities have been crafted into what they believe others want them to be, who they want them to be. They are very disconnected from who they’re supposed to be, who they really are deep down past the surface of the mask they place upon themselves. So that people will never know who they are or what they really want out of life. These masks that we place upon ourselves, keep us from what we want and need. Not to mention it keeps us from understanding much of anything pertaining to our true selves.

People are seriously lacking self actualization and not only is it disappointing, its maddening because it is causing us to miss out on our goals. It is causing us the refusal of getting close with anyone, for fear of being rejected or hurt. If we could teach our brains to be less intrusive, and more logical, then we could be the person, people, that we were always meant to be.

Unfortunately, a lot of us allow our brains to continuously take away from our souls, and it only seems to continue to progress, as if its inescapable.

Frailty Wed, 03 Oct 2018 08:22:32 +0000 Continued]]> They say that all drama begins with human frailty. Meaning, it begins with weakened morals. Our shortcomings. Our weak points that we pray to God we are able to hide so well, that even we ourselves begin to question whether they are really even there. It begins well before we become adults… and doesn’t end until our life does. Whether our morals align with our friends, family, co workers, or spouses…. We all believe that the majority of our beliefs are true to form and typically, most people try to follow those beliefs they have laid out for themselves, or had laid out for them since birth.

I used to believe that anybody who was stupid enough to become addicted to a dangerous drug deserved what they got. I used to tell myself that recreationally using wouldnt lead to anything serious. I used to tell myself I would never use needles. After using a needle for the first time, I used to tell myself that I would only do it on occasion and would never let it have control over me. I used to tell myself that no drug could ever control my thoughts, my life, my actions, that no drug could completely take the morals I was raised with and throw them out the window.

Its really easy to tell yourself something that you know isnt true. That you know is just you trying to make yourself feel better because, lets face it, you know before anyone else does, the shitty plan you are about to set in motion. The lie you once would have never thought about telling, now isnt that big of a deal. The drug you once would have never thought about doing, now you are only going to do it “once in a while.” The pain you would have never thought about causing to the person you love the most, is now seeming like it shouldnt hurt their feelings too bad. The cascading effect of the insanity of addiction and the lack of morals that lie therein. So when you really stop to think about it…..

All drama really does begin with human frailty.

Depression Mon, 17 Sep 2018 06:34:25 +0000 Continued]]> Lауіng in bеd, unable tо ѕlеер bесаuѕе my mind is spinning in a mіllіоn different directions and depression is seeping through. Thе last few dауѕ hаvе been еѕресіаllу hаrd, fоr a numbеr оf reasons. I аm trуіng tо ѕtау strong bесаuѕе it does mуѕеlf nо good to gеt ѕо depressed that I completely lоѕе myself in the mіdѕt оf it. But іt is hаrd nоt tо. Harder thеn it рrоbаblу ѕhоuld bе or wоuld bе. Hаrdеr fоr mе реrhарѕ bесаuѕе I’m bі роlаr аnd аnxіоuѕ. Sо while it may ѕuсk fоr thоѕе thаt dоnt hаvе a mеntаl hеаlth dіѕоrdеr, I fееl lіkе it ѕuсkѕ wоrѕе fоr those оf uѕ whо dо. It аffесtѕ uѕ dіffеrеntlу, in wауѕ thаt are tоо complicated to еvеn try and еxрlаіn. Hоw аrе wе ѕuрроѕеd tо dеѕсrіbе what’s gоіng оn іn оur hеаdѕ whеn we bаrеlу undеrѕtаnd it оurѕеlvеѕ?

I’m ѕо beyond past trуіng to undеrѕtаnd my own brаіn, thаt I’m ѕtаrtіng to think thаt thе mаnіа is аlwауѕ going tо bе lurking іn thе bасkgrоund, wаіtіng fоr thе реrfесt орроrtunіtу to соmе and fuсk ѕhіt uр. I’m rеѕроnѕіblе for mуѕеlf аnd mу оwn асtіоnѕ, juѕt аѕ thе next person іѕ. I know that I can’t blame hоw I bеhаvе соmрlеtеlу оn mу mental hеаlth but regardless of whаt peoples оріnіоnѕ аrе, іt plays a huge role in whу ѕоmеоnе асtѕ thе wау thаt thеу do. It еxрlаіnѕ whу ѕоmе people аrе so dіѕtruѕtful thаt they саnt еvеn truѕt thеіr own family. Why some реорlе are ѕо ѕсаrеd tо get сlоѕе tо реорlе, thаt they іntеntіоnаllу рuѕh thеm аwау, fоr fеаr of ending uр hurt іn thе еnd. Whу ѕоmе реорlе turn tо drugѕ to mеdісаtе thеmѕеlvеѕ, bесаuѕе thеу wоuld rather feel numb thеn go tо wаr wіth thеmѕеlvеѕ on a dаіlу bаѕіѕ. Sо many реорlе lасk thе understanding оf how traumatizing a mеntаl hеаlth соndіtіоn is.

Thеrе аrе days when we dоnt еvеn wаnt tо get out оf bеd, just bесаuѕе іtѕ easier to hіdе under the blаnkеtѕ, rаthеr then fасе reality. Thеrе аrе dауѕ whеrе life bаѕісаllу ѕееmѕ pointless. And then thеrе are days whеrе everything ѕееmѕ оkау. We dоnt сhооѕе tо fееl thіѕ wау bесаuѕе wе like the fееlіng. People hurt thеmѕеlvеѕ because of how they are feeling, bесаuѕе оf how fucked оff thеу fееl, аnd аrе unable to mаkе іt make sense tо the оnеѕ сlоѕеѕt to thеm. Thаt dоеѕnt еvеn tоuсh оn flashbacks that hарреn to uѕ аbоut еvеntѕ that have hарреnеd in thе past. Thіngѕ thаt nоrmаl реорlе tурісаllу еіthеr burу ѕо deep that thеу dоnt thіnk about іt, or реорlе whо hаvе endured enough counseling to bе аblе tо thіnk аbоut іt аnd it nоt аffесt thеm.

Then thеrеѕ the реорlе with dіѕоrdеrѕ who have flаѕhbасkѕ thаt seem so real, іt’ѕ аlmоѕt lіkе thеу are rеlіvіng іt again. Imаgіnе thе wоrѕt possible thіng thаt hаѕ ever hарреnеd tо уоu in lіfе аnd think аbоut hаvіng to relive іt daily. Depression has no bounds. And whеn іt doesnt hарреn while thеу аrе аwаkе, thеу hаvе nightmares instead thаt kеер thеm frоm resting properly. The struggle is mоrе thеn rеаl аnd unfоrtunаtеlу the majority of реорlе, еvеn thоѕе with similar dіѕоrdеrѕ, аrе unаblе tо understand еxасtlу what the person is gоіng through and hоw еxасtlу іt аffесtѕ them. It’s not thеіr fault, thеу juѕt еіthеr lack thе wаnt tо undеrѕtаnd or thе сарасіtу tо undеrѕtаnd. Bесаuѕе іn thе еnd, іt doesnt matter who уоu are. Wе all еnd up fаllіng dоwn аnd іt саn еіthеr mаkе уоu or brеаk уоu but сhаnсеѕ are, іf уоu suffer from a mеntаl іllnеѕѕ, it’s gоіng tо break уоu.

When it соmеѕ tо mental іllnеѕѕ, either which wау, іt’ѕ something thаt іѕnt еаѕіlу undеrѕtооd whісh оnlу makes it hаrdеr. It mаkеѕ реорlе fееl more аlоnе knоwіng thаt thеу саnt mаkе thе оnеѕ thеу love the mоѕt, undеrѕtаnd what they are gоіng through, the depression they are feeling, and why they hаvе сhоѕеn to make the dесіѕіоnѕ thаt thеу have. It’s not bесаuѕе оf lack of lоvе, it’s because оf lack оf understanding. Fіnd ѕоmеоnе whо hаѕ a mеntаl hеаlth disorder and аѕk them іf thеу аrе hарру thаt thеу have іt. I bеt уоu wоn’t fіnd one person who admits tо thаt. That’s because thе ѕtrugglе оf іt іѕ еnоugh tо соmрlеtеlу break ѕоmеоnе, in more wауѕ thаn оnе. Depression takes no prisoners. Coincidentally, neither does addiction.

The Hardest One Mon, 23 Jul 2018 20:22:32 +0000 Continued]]> Theres nothing more depressing then sitting down and writing a letter to a loved one with the thought in your head that they are to only read this in the event of your death. I say this from personal experience. The first letter I wrote to myself and it was probably the hardest one to write.


You knew what you were doing, choosing to use that demon drug again and again. And while that does no good saying that, I cant help but be mad at you. We had our whole life ahead of us yet you chose to succumb to your demons. You decided that we werent worth anything more than a shot of heroin. You told yourself that you would be fine because you were mixing it with meth. How could you forget how strong that drug truly is? We had so much to look forward to and now we are just laying in the morgue, pale skin with a hint of blue, hands clenched, the soul less expression in our eyes that had finally ended because the doctor forced our eyes shut. We left our family to grieve for us, to feel the pain of our decision for the rest of their lives. We left our pets wondering what they did for their human to just disappear. We left our co workers baffled that such a hard worker hid such a dark secret. And we left society to call us another statistic. Did you think that you could just do one more? I wanted more for us. Kids, vacations, memories that would stay with us until we were old and gray. You decided that we weren’t worth that and that the high was worth the risk. As I stare at you from above your lifeless corpse, I feel a tear slide down my cheek. I was the part of us that wanted more from our short life, you were the part of us that couldn’t handle the demons that lived within us. Your side won. And here I was paying the price. Because you cant have it both ways. You cant live a life wanting more from it if you are out there destroying the very soul that aches for it. Because you’re killing every part of you that was good. Every part of you that had positive thoughts and hopes and dreams. Eventually your dark side always wins and in this case, we paid the ultimate price.

Mania Fri, 06 Jul 2018 00:22:32 +0000 Continued]]> One of the hardest things Ive ever done in my life is move past a horrible experience and continue living when all I wanted to do was die. It wasnt until later on in life that I realized how bad these experiences were going to truly fuck me up and only add in to my addiction. The longer time went on, the harder it was getting to push away the intrusive thoughts that shoved their way into my head. Not to mention the flashbacks that happened during the day and the nightmares that encroached me at night. It was as if God wasnt done punishing me yet. At least thats how it seemed to me. I know now that God had nothing to do with these experiences, no, it was my choices that landed me in the situations I got into. I couldn’t really blame anyone but myself.

Wanting to literally die takes a lot out of you mentally. When you hate your life so much that you could care less if it were to end, when you purposely place yourself around people and situations that could get you killed, thats when you know you are truly broken. I was in that state for so much of my life that sometimes I feel the old me trying to claw her way through and my old thoughts start to push their way in again. Then my self worth takes another hit and before I know it, I start to feel manic and it all goes downhill from there. I wish that I could explain everything that goes on in my head but for the life of me, I barely understand it myself. I just know that now I do what I can to not completely fall back into my old self. I think if I lost myself one more time, I wouldnt be able to recover from it.

All I can do anymore is try to push through whatever is thrown my way. I have to remind myself that whatever I might be feeling, wont last and will end up going away. Taking it one minute at a time is sometimes more necessary then one day at a time.

Judgement Fri, 29 Jun 2018 22:22:32 +0000 Continued]]> When I was thirteen years old, I got into trouble with the law for the first time. I had been out drinking at a Christian school no less, during a Christmas party that was going on. My sister and I were planning on attending that school the following year and my mother wanted us to do something that involved the church. One thing I never understood was why we went to a Christian school when we were being raised Catholic. It had just always seemed odd to me but we were still looking forward to attending. We were even more excited about the party. At least I was. I planned on getting a buzz off something. After we got to the party, I began drinking with some kids I met. Hours passed while we stood under a tree, passing around a fifth. We didnt hear the sirens. Didnt see the flashing lights. Didnt even hear our parents screaming our names. After what seemed like only twenty minutes, we headed back to the party, convinced that we wouldn’t be found out. I didnt even see the cop talking to my mom until my gaze found my sisters through the crowd and she stared back, wide eyed and panicked. I felt my smile slip a little bit as my gaze wandered to the people standing next to her. It was my mother and a police officer. I felt my smile slip completely and felt nothing but fear. It was in that moment that my fear of cops started, that moment that made me immediately distrustful of them. Sure they were there to find me, but they were also there to give me an M.I.P. and make sure that I knew how much trouble I was in. Because of that incident, my mother sent me to live with my grandparents. Apparently I was too much for her to handle, and it was time to try something different.

It isnt fair to judge a group based off a few bad experiences. But the way I was raised, it was to automatically distrust someone of authority. Not how I was raised by my mother, it was how I was raised in the streets. This was my choice. It isnt like I had a horrible upbringing. It wasnt like I had junkie parents who couldn’t take care of me. My mother and grandparents worked hard to give me a decent life. My father wasnt around but that didnt stop us from getting basically whatever we wanted. Yet it still wasnt enough. I needed that adrenaline, that rush, that the streets bring to you. I needed everything that fell in line with it, the good and even the bad. Except the bad was worse then most people experienced.

After my first rape, I remember not wanting to call the police. It had been four years since the Christmas party incident and my partying had only increased. My rape happened because I had been partying and hadn’t been aware of my surroundings. I was anything but aware. The guy who did it, was some random guy who was friends with the guy that was sleeping with my neighbor. I wasnt even supposed to be at this ladies house. She was an old ex stripper who was known for being fast with men. Men, not boys. Mind you I was only seventeen. The two guys, Devin and James, who were over at her house were well into their late twenties. Still younger then her, but much more dangerous. I remember Devin offering me a beer and me gladly accepting it. I remember sitting there pissed off at my boyfriend, trying to get as fucked up as possible when Devin asked me if I wanted a line. “A line of what?” I remember asking. He told me it was cocaine and I readily agreed. He laid out two decent size lines and handed me a straw. I remember snorting those lines up like it was going out of style and immediately knew something was off. I remember feeling myself sway and then everything went blank. When I woke up, it was to a gun held to my head and Devin on top of me. I immediately knew what was going to happen and screamed as loud as I could. I scrambled away from him and opened the door, screaming in terror. He grabbed me by my waist, slammed the door, slapped his hand over my mouth and whispered “Shut the fuck up bitch. I will kill you. Then I’ll go next door and kill whoever is at your house. After I fuck them.” I felt tears escape down my cheeks and stared at the wall in front of me. My sisters room was on the opposite side. I was on the other side of the duplex, about to be raped and my family didnt even know where I was at. In that moment I began to hate myself. And it only got worse after the fact.

It took me two days to report what had happened and even then, I hadn’t wanted to. I remember rushing home as soon as I saw that he had fallen asleep, throwing up over the side railing. I remember sitting in the bottom of our shower, sobbing hysterically and scrubbing myself over and over again, mumbling to God. Asking Him why He had allowed this to happen to me. I wasnt a bad kid. Just misguided and wanting to be a teenager. Instead, I was having to deal with adult issues that no seventeen year old should ever have to deal with. I remember my mother brushing my hair on her day off, while we sat in the living room watching TV. Her hand had brushed my hair off of my neck and she saw the claw marks Devin had left. She asked me where I got them from and I remember lying, telling her I scratched myself. I still felt the after affects of the drug he had given me. There was no way it was cocaine. I knew what cocaine did. This drug had me feeling lethargic, and somewhat numb from everything. I think that’s why it took me so long to tell my mother what happened. Because at the time immediately after my shower, after my initial cry, I couldn’t cry any longer. I felt nothing. Two days later, that changed.

I finally decided to tell someone what had happened a few days after the incident. The first person I told was my mother. I called her at work sobbing, her repeatedly asking me what was wrong. I opened my mouth to speak and no words could come out. Only sounds. “Megan! Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” My mom asked in an annoyed voice. She was a nurse at a very busy emergency room and didnt have time to be dealing with something petty. She was used to getting phone calls from my sister and I bitching about each other. I remember finally managing to get the words out and when I did, I know that it hit my mom like a ton of bricks. Three little words completely destroyed both of us in that moment. “I was raped,” I whispered. I heard her draw in a breath and say “oh no.” She told me she was on her way and we hung up. The fifteen minutes it took for her to get home felt like the longest moments of my life.

When my mom got home, she called the cops, ignoring my pleas for her not to. The cops came, took pictures of my neck, along with my statement. Then we went and had a rape kit performed. Come to find out later on, the drug he had given to me wasnt cocaine. It had been straight heroin. White China. And the dosage he had given me could’ve killed me. They said I was lucky to be alive, in more ways then one. I remember sitting in that hospital robe, tears falling down my face every couple minutes. I was so disgusted with myself and could tell that my mom was too. I had gotten raped because I had been too concerned with partying, then just staying at home. It was basically my fault. That thought right there is what continued to destroy me throughout life, it’s what helped me to remain addicted to drugs. The cops who had taken my statement, had looked at me with pity and disdain. Just another drug seeking teenager whose mess we have to clean up. So much judgement was being bestowed upon me, all I wanted to do was go get high.

The way the cops looked at me for reporting my rape was the same way the cops had looked at me when they saw me come walking up at the party. Nothing but judgement, pity, and disgust. I felt just as alone throughout my rape incident as I had when I had gotten into trouble four years prior. Except technically, the cops weren’t here because I was in trouble. Except it felt that way. It felt like I was just a bother and that they were only here because by law, they had to be. I remember hating both of the cops who showed up to take my statement. I remember regretting telling my mother. I remember knowing deep down already, that Devin was going to get away with it and all of the pain was going to just begin all over again. Turns out, I’m pretty smart when it comes to guessing what’s going to happen.

I called the district attorney about a month later to see how my case was coming along. She was silent for a minute and then told me that there wasnt enough evidence to move forward with, and so they had to let him go. I felt my heart drop to my stomach and immediately felt nauseated. How could this be happening? Because you idiot, you waited two days to report it. What did you expect to happen? I went back and forth with myself and my thoughts for several moments before finally collapsing on my bed, crying softly. Once again, this was my fault. Why couldn’t I stop making stupid choices? I had failed at life. I had failed my mother and my sister. Worse, I had failed myself.

That rape did something to me, mentally. So did me using heroin on accident. The rape caused me to become distrustful of black men, however unfair that was. And the misuse of heroin had caused me to fall in love with it. In those moments of being numb, nothing in the world had felt better then that. I remember wanting to stay that way forever, wishing that the feeling would last just a little bit longer. It was in that moment that I knew I was going to end up being a junkie. And I didnt know how I was going to be able to escape it.

Lost and Broken Thu, 21 Jun 2018 01:47:06 +0000 I remember waking up from my appendix surgery feeling completely lost and broken. I was only 10 years old at the time and had never been through anything like that. Looking up to see my mother staring down at me, she seemed older then she really was at the time. I felt groggy from the medication they had me on. My body felt more broken then it had ever felt and my eyes weary. The look on her face was nothing I had ever seen before. She looked like she had just watched me die or something. I remember her leaning down to give me a kiss on my forehead. I remember her telling me she loved me. Tears streaming down her face as she touched my cheek with her lips.

That unconditional love is a rare thing, one that I have only experienced from my family and dogs. Something I never experienced from myself, if only for the simple fact that was who I hated the most in life.

When I came to after my overdose, I remember looking up into my mothers face and seeing that same look of terror in her eyes. I remember screaming at her and pushing her away, telling her to leave me alone…that I was fine. She had just watched me die, her own daughter, basically kill herself because this time it wasn’t my body that felt broken….it was my mind. Except this time, her eyes were mixed with disappointment, anger, and a lot of sadness. She had just brought her youngest daughter back from the dead. My mother had seen enough death in her career as a nurse, and here I was, killing myself in her home.

She may not have been the easiest person to be around at times but my mother was still my hero growing up. At times, she was a broken woman, but on the outside she appeared strong and resilient. She took care of my sister and I with no regrets and very little complaints. My mother loved us more than she loved herself and that showed me more than a few things. It showed me that unconditional love is possible but it also made me wonder. Was it possible to feel that unconditional love for someone other than your children? I thought I found that answer with my husband but turns out, he was going to show me exactly what it felt like to really be broken.

Outweighing the Pain Tue, 13 Mar 2018 03:22:32 +0000 Continued]]> I remember the aftermath of my first rape. I was in shock and couldn’t stop crying. How could this have happened to me? I remember sitting in my room, quietly sobbing as I stared out the window. I was only seventeen and still had no idea what was going to be coming. I remember in that moment how I felt. Lost, confused, dirty, and filled with anguish. My life had just taken a turn for the worse and I didn’t know how to go back to feeling normal. I just wanted to numb the feelings that were developing inside me. Anything that would take away the pain that I was feeling, emotionally and physically. Drugs provided this escape for me.

This last relapse of mine, I have cried more within these last nine months than I have in a very long time. I have experienced flashbacks to both rapes, and the only thing that was erasing those flashbacks was the heroin. Unfortunately, the heroin was stealing and killing my soul. I was causing pain around me to everyone who loved me, and only thinking of myself and my addiction. Not understanding what the issue was with my addiction. As long as I was functioning, why did it matter? Because I was turning into an evil bitch who nobody could stand to be around. I remember crying and not understanding why my husband and mother couldn’t understand where I was coming from.

When trauma is part of your past, you either deal with it or you run from it. I have continuously ran from it because it seemed easier than ever dealing with it. Who wants to experience trauma over and over? Unfortunately for me, flashbacks started and the nightmares only got worse the longer time went on. Now, I cant get a weeks worth of sleep without experiencing a nightmare. I dont even bother speaking to my husband about it anymore. What’s the point? The more time that passed with me using, and him watching his wife slowly become nothing but an empty shell of a person, there was nothing left to talk about, even if I trusted him enough to speak about it more then once anyways.

The only thing I regret in life is not appreciating it more. Not taking my time to grow up. I dont regret the drugs, even though they shaped me into someone I never thought I would turn out to be. Not the people. Even though a lot of them were pretty brutal. Not even the situations. Because those are what has taught me the most in life. The situations, good and bad. They taught me how to handle life on lifes terms, they taught me how most people are, and they taught me why its smart to love many, and trust a few. I try not to live with regrets because the pain of regrets far outweighs the pain of risk. I would rather risk myself, my mind, soul, heart, and life learning to make it through life the correct way, then just stumble through life believing it to be something it has proven that it isnt.