The Addict's Child is an Addict

I don't think it is fair to only speak of my mother's addiction when I have struggled with my own addictions. I don't want people to sing my praises without knowing the whole truth: I am an addict. True I don't do meth or any of the other so called "hard drugs". My addiction has been a quiet struggle that surprises most people when they hear of it.

While living with my mother I knew I didn't want to be her. In my mind as long as I stayed away from meth and the like I would be fine. As a child I didn't understand you can become addicted to many things. I smoked my first cigarette at age 10, tried marijuana for the first time at 11 and had been quietly drinking with my mother for as long as I could remember. The only thing I did on a regular basis was smoke cigarettes. They were easy to steal seeing as how all my friend's parents smoked. Not to mention this was before they started putting cigarettes behind the counter. Part of the reason I started smoking was peer pressure. I wanted so much to fit in with my friends I would go along with anything. The other part was my mother didn't smoke. Always seemed strange to me that she didn't, afterall she was a drug user and an alcoholic but she refused to smoke cigarettes. She also didn't smoke pot. My mother is all about stimulants with the exception of alcohol. My smoking came to an end when my brother and I were adopted.

I managed to keep from smoking cigarettes until high school. Sadly I developed another addiction. I started cutting myself on a regular basis. It started out with me cutting when I got into some form of trouble. My new parents only used spanking when the misbehavior was severe. Most times I got a stern talking to and loss of privileges. But in my mind this wasn't enough. I had spent most of my childhood being beaten for the smallest misstep so it only made sense to me that if I got into trouble I should feel it physically. I started out cutting my legs above the knee because I hardly wore shorts. This progressed to carving images in my skin. As time went on I started cutting more and more and I didn't care where or who saw. I believe my adopted parents knew about this and they tried to get me help where they could. Along with cutting I started talking pills. For a while it was just Tylenol PM to help me sleep. Then freshman year a friend slipped me a Vicodin. I started taking those when I could. I loved taking pills. It took the edge off my pain and I could justify my habit by thinking it least it wasn't meth. Of course my parents found out and again did their best to help me through it. Sophomore year I switched from pills to marijuana and cigarettes. To me pot wasn't a big deal because everyone was doing it.

My junior year I started at a new high school. I wanted to get away from the friends at my old school and try to get my head together. During the first month of my junior year my adopted mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. I fell off my little wagon. Her illness was too much for me. While they had caught the cancer early she still had to have major surgery and chemo. I often look back at this time and scold my past self. Instead of being strong for my adopted mom I shut down. I started cutting more and more. Everytime I was sad, angry or hurt I would cut. If I was at school I was sneaking off campus to get high. I refused to see my adopted mom's scars, go to chemo with her or see her without her hat or scarf. It would have made it too real for me and I was doing my best to pretend none of this was happening. It was while my adopted mom was sick that my cutting was found out. A girl at school had noticed something funny about my arm and got me to fess up. She then took me to my guidance counselor who called my adopted dad. Once again I was given help that I didn't utilize.

My addiction to pills stabilized into recreation over the next few years. I never actively went seeking for pills. I only took them if I was offered by friends. I continued to smoke pot as a way to dull the pain. Strangely I never dated someone who was a pot smoker so I often ended up fighting with my significant other about it. There was quite a bit of alcohol use in my young adult life but always at parties. I never drank just to drink.

After a particularly bad break up I decided enough was enough. I was holding on to anger and pain from my childhood. I couldn't get rid of it because I kept numbing the pain. So I decided it was time for change. I moved into a local woman's shelter where I would be on a strict schedule with no way for me to be able to participate in my normal activities. I loved living there. I was finally able to forgive my mother for my childhood and loads of other offenses that had been done to me over the years. I was doing very well while I lived at the shelter. While I was living there a friend in California confessed to me that she had tried to kill herself and felt totally alone. I decided her need was greater than mine so I left the shelter and moved out of the state. Once in California things got worse. I realized I couldn't help my friend unless she made some changes to her life. By the time I realized this it was too late. I had no job, my driver's license had been suspened due to unpaid tickets and my car had expired tags. I was stuck. I know I could have called my family for help but I seem to have inherited my mother's pride. So I stayed in California. In due time I started smoking pot again. I justified it by saying it was for recreation, that because I had my issues under control it was ok to smoke. I also started taking pills again. It started with painkillers and progressed to mood stabilzers.

The day after christmas 2008 I tried to kill myself. I don't remember being depressed or even wanting to die. The whole event was surreal. My new boyfriend had just dropped me off at home. I was in my room watching a movie. On my nightstand was some anti-nausea pills I had obtained legally from my doctor after fighting an infection that made me sick. I grabbed the bottle and swallowed all that was left, about 8 pills. I sat there for a minute and came back to myself. I remember panicking as I realized what I did. My roomate was home and so was my best friend that lived 30 feet from my backdoor but I didn't call either of them. Instead I called a friend that I only knew from work. He picked me up and dropped me off at the hospital. Once there I told them what happened. I even brought the pill bottle so they would know exactly what I had taken. I ended up having to drink charcoal and spent the night in ICU. While in the hospital they got me connected with Behavior Health. I was set up with a therapist and a psychologist. I'm not really sure what the difference between the two is but through them I was diagnosed borderline bipolar and boderline anorexic. I remember laughing at the diagnoses thinking I could never do anything fully. I was prescribed Lexepro and Lamictal for my depression and Trazadone for my insomnia. The meds helped for a while but I was taking other pills on top of these. My boyfriend had a prescription for Vicodin so he tended to share. On top of that I was taking any other mood stabilizers I could get my hands on. Any given day I had five to six different pills in my system.

Life continued this way for about 8 months. I was having trouble with my insurance and wasn't able to get the pills I was prescribed. Once I ran out the world turned upside down. I spent three days crying for no reason. My poor roommate found me curled around the toilet sobbing and throwing up on the third day. Not knowing what to do she called 911. When the cops showed up they gave me two options: get up and go to the hospital on my own or they would call an ambulance and they would 51/50 me for three weeks. For those that don't know what that means I would have been put in a mental hospital for three weeks. I managed to get myself off the couch and to the hospital. They were able to give me one of my normal pills. Once I was out of the hospital my roommate called my best friend to take me to my hometown for a few days. While I was home my grandfather offered me a place to live and a chance to gain control over my life. I didn't really need to think about it. I wanted to be near my family and be around friends that didn't do pills. I needed that support system without telling them why I needed them.

I have been pill free for just over three years. I have only taken pills when the doctor places them in my hand. After having my daughter I didn't even want to take anything stronger than ibprofen. There have been a few times that I long for a sleeping pill or if I am having a stressful day a mood stabilizer. I have been able to resist these urges. Nothing is worth the pain of pill withdrawl. While I still hate feeling my feelings I do it anyway. I haven't cut myself in over 3 years as well. I don't claim to be cured of my affliction but I have control over it. I won't ever let addiction rule my life.

Taya