A little background...

Hello out there! There have got to be many out there a lot like me. I'm an opiate addict, I'm a mom, I'm 7 months clean and still trying to sort through my head and my past. I'm 26 and since I am not unique I thought this might be a good way to share my story. This first post is just a copy and paste for the most part. I wrote a speech to read in my outpatient, and I also gave a copy to my primary care physician...it includes a little about how I became an addict, what happened, and a little about me as a person. I thought that would be the best way to start sharing my story with whoever is out there, if anyone will ever read this, if anyone will relate, if anyone will respond - I have no clue. I need this though, I need to write, I need to feel like I might be helping someone else, and I need to make a commitment - which is to write frequently, consistently, honestly, and to continue writing until I feel like I've reached a point of any real happiness, self-forgiveness, and healing. So here I go on this journey.... here's my speech, and I plan to write more tomorrow...if anyone is out there, please let me know :O)

I AM NOT UNIQUE
11/19/2009

Unfortunately my story is similar to that of millions of women and men across the world. Names, dates and specifics may vary from person to person; yet, there are more commonalities between us all then differences. By using the term “us” I don’t mean me and the voices in my head, I mean “us” addicts. I believed for the first 25 years of my life that I was painfully different from my peers, my family, and basically the entire human species. I thought of myself as a victim of circumstance, growing up with the idea that I was simply dealt a raw hand and that no one could understand me, the real me that is – not the me I portrayed to those around me. The idea of uniqueness may have contributed to my downfall as much as anything else in my life ever did. Even considering a low self-esteem, a feeling of isolation from those “normal people,” insecurity, and self-doubt it was my ego that made me consider myself so unique. Between that ego, my victim mentality, DNA, circumstance, and countless other factors there were plenty of signs throughout my life that could have prewarned me of what was lying ahead for me as I became an adult – but those signs all went ignored and didn’t keep me from being completely blindsided when things started spiraling out of control in my life.
Like people always say, hindsight is 20/20 and looking back I’m in awe over how naive I was and I’m stunned that I didn’t foresee what was going to happen in what was then my future. Because of the things I’ve learned and experienced I can only hope that my 20/20 vision of the past might be able to keep others from making similar mistakes in their lives. I want to tell my story, I want to hear other people’s experiences, and I want to educate families, friends, employers, teachers, doctors and addicts on all the things you simply cannot learn from a textbook. There are way too many doctors who only know about addiction from a short rotation they did in medical school. Because of that lack of knowledge countless doctors who take an oath to treat people, to help them and care for them, turn into more dangerous drug dealers then any gang member-selling crack in the ghetto. We trust our doctors, we believe in their education, and we often don’t question their instructions or advice. Many people believe that the letters M.D give superpowers to those that have earned the title and subconsciously we think of them as less then human then the rest of us. We trust them well before we’d ever trust another stranger with our children, parents and with ourselves. Because of our trust, because of our respect and because of our admiration for their intelligence we sometimes ignore our own reservations or concerns, and just do as they recommend. The majority of physicians that I consider to be worse then any drug dealer off the street are so without ill intentions or intentional carelessness. As a doctor they try to eliminate any pain or discomfort in their patients, yet, sometimes the cost is much worse then they or the patient realize.
People from a very young age have certain images in their minds, certain stereotypes, and specific ideas of what an addict is. There have been many studies that show that by the time we are in elementary school certain stereotypes are already concrete in our brains. Unless intensive work is done to alter these perceptions most of us live our lives unaware that these mental pictures are present and they remain concrete until the day we die. Ask someone to close their eyes and describe what they see when asked to picture a drug addict. Words like dirty, male, criminal, dangerous, homeless, and uneducated are among the many that you might hear as a response. Because of these descriptions that we hold in our minds we often don’t believe we could possibly be an addict if we don’t fit such a criteria. This is the main reason that those of us inflicted with the disease of addiction live in such a deep-rooted denial and never seek help. We still have jobs, or families or a presentable appearance, or we never have legal problems, we don’t inject heroin or live on the street…. so we simply cannot be a drug addict, right? Or what if what we’re doing is completely accepted by our families, society, and law enforcement? What if it’s not that stereotypical drug pusher that supplies us of our fix, but a wealthy man who wears a suit and has that all elusive MD title? This is exactly why millions of us are in the same state of shock as I was when my world began crashing down. We ask ourselves how this could have happened, how we could have allowed it to happen, how we could be so weak. We then ask ourselves if it’s possible to get better, to stop, and sometimes we are so consumed with hopelessness by the time we know what is really happening that we sincerely doubt that there is anything that could help us.
When that first MD prescribed me painkillers when I was 21 I knew very little about drugs. My mom was always a raging alcoholic, so I knew all about that. I was determined to never allow that to happen to me, to never become her. She disgusted me, well not her but her disease, so much so that I swore to be the exact opposite of her. At 21 I had just given birth to my infant son, and had been married for a little less then a year. I went to a local clinic in the town I was living in because I had tendonitis in my ankle. Since I have been walking I’ve had problems with my legs. I’ve walked on my tiptoes my whole life due to short heel cords I was born with. Along with a lot of teasing from my peers came a significant amount of pain at times. I still played sports and always worked jobs that were physical in nature, such as waitressing and cleaning. Due to my constant activity I would often develop tendonitis, which would cause inflammation and pain. Considering the reality of my pain many doctors would have tossed medication my way with plenty of justification. Yet, it wasn’t until I was 21, until I saw that specific doctor that narcotics were prescribed and my life began turning in a very different direction.
This physician not only began me on a regular script of hydrocodone, but on a significantly high dose, especially for someone who had zero tolerance to opiates. In the beginning I only took exactly what was prescribed and considered it an added benefit that not only was I pain free but I was also enjoying the other side effects. I felt a sense of euphoria, I felt comfortable in my own skin for the first time in my life, and I felt motivated to accomplish mundane tasks that I other wised hated doing. These pills were magical to me and I was not only without pain but more content then I had ever been prior. I believed that they made me a better mother, wife and daughter. My apartment suddenly was always spotless, my son was given unparallel attention, I was more lovey dovey to my husband, and I found myself often wondering why it took me 21 years to discover such magic. Of course in the beginning I never even had a shred of concern about becoming addicted either, I never ran out early, a doctor recommended it, and shit I sure as hell wasn’t my mom…why would I have worried? My personal stereotypes kept me completely in the dark from what was happening.
After a little while I did notice that my tolerance was rising and I was often doubling my doses, and soon learned what withdrawal was after running out a few days early one month. I felt like I had the flue, achy, hot and cold flashes, diarrhea and irritability, it was terrible. Did that scare me enough to stop? No, it just made me realize that I couldn’t run out early again. I made an appointment with my miracle doctor and asked for a higher monthly pill count and was easily appeased. Within a few months he raised my pill allowance two more times after that and never questioned me if I still ran out early and needed him to write me a new script.
I am not blaming this physician for my actions, my addiction! I will happily hold 90% responsibility, but I do believe that 10% is and will always belong to him…which is exactly why I believe stories like mine need to be heard by patients and doctors alike.
Within two years I was taking handfuls of pills at a time to attempt to reach the desired affect, the high that I once got from a single dose. I began stealing medications from my family as well as buying them from those stereotypical drug dealers, because no matter how loose this doctor was with his script pad I was still running out early every month and doing all I could to avoid the withdrawals. In two years I had become a full-blown addict but living in denial and justification. After all it’s not like I was a heroin addict, I always thought to myself. Plus, I’m a better mom high, more fun, patient, active…and I sure as hell aren’t like my mom…I’m not passing out, neglecting my child, throwing up on myself. So if I was all the positive and none of the negative then of course I didn’t believe that I was in any danger or had any real problem.
The withdrawals were getting more and more intense when I was without, and I was loosing more control of my life every day. I was also experimenting with every and any pain med under the sun along with my personal script. I would buy or steal vicodins, percocets, fentynal, methadone, morphine, and oxycontins whenever I needed too. My tolerance was sky high, what I would swallow or snort in a sitting would have easily overdosed a normal person 5 times over. My physical appearance was also deteriorating…I was loosing weight, I had huge dark circles under my eyes, I stopped caring about how I looked, and my face was sunken in. The people closest to me were also living in their own denial and the majority of them never imagined what was happening before their eyes. After all they all knew how against drugs and alcohol I was and if at any point it crossed their minds they had dozens of reasons to dismiss the thought.
I’m not about to get into all the details and events of those years. I couldn’t possibly explain ever little occurrence that contributed to what was happening or what was about to happen. Eventually the prescription medications weren’t capable of doing the job any more. Eventually the at home detoxes got so terrifying that I would avoid them at all costs. Eventually I had no pills one day and a friend offered me heroin. Eventually I began shooting. Eventually I was arrested an hour and a half away from my home with my son in the back seat because I took him with me to buy and use. Eventually I was detoxing in jail while my baby was in a strangers house in protective custody until his father could find him and bring him home. Eventually I was my own stereotype and it all began with a little oblong white pill that a doctor told me would make me feel better.
I am not unique, I wish I were. My story is the same as millions of nonstereotypical addicts that don’t believe they could possibly be an addict. My dealers were originally my doctors, my drugs were originally legal and my original stereotypes never included me. I am not unique, this problem is not unique and it needs to be understood for anything to ever change. Suburban housewives, corporate fathers, educated men and women are these generation’s junkies and our dealers are often our doctors. Our stories often begin with similarities and end with commonalities…many of us die, hurt other people, end up in jail and many of us recover. Knowledge can and will save lives, this needs to be addressed because I am not unique.