My story is one like many others.
I grew up in a relatively loving, albeit broken home, where education and achievement were highly valued. The fact that I still haven’t finished college continues to be a point of contention.
I didn’t meet my dad until I was in my early 20s, and so much of my identity was wrapped up in this it caused its fair share of pain. I’m biracial, and the years I spent growing up in a small college town in Idaho, my race and absent father tee’d me up for endless jokes and stereotypes. Because of course it did.
At the time I met my dad and siblings, I was attending cosmetology school, engaged to a not so closeted bigot, and getting VERY comfortable with my drug use.
I’d been dabbling in recreational drugs since before high school. I started drinking at 12, smoked weed the first time at that age as well. My fury at having to move from the bustling Portland area back to Idaho and general teenage angst led to countless parties, introducing psychedelics and ecstasy along to go along with the drinking and smoking. My friends were always considerably older, so all of this seemed totally normal to me.
I didn’t realized how fucked things were until I got older.
During those early years I had experienced physically and emotionally abusive boyfriends, narcissists, groomers, gaslighters, and “let myself” be used up for the sake of feeling like I belonged somewhere. Anywhere, really. Beaten, broken, and bruised… but I was “accepted.”
By the time I had given up on traditional college (the first time) and decided to go to cosmetology school, I knew my way around substances pretty well. So when a teacher started handing me her prescription pain killers to get me to come to class, once again, it seemed normal. At this point I was struggling with what would finally be diagnosed as fibromyalgia, along with consistent migraines, depression, PTSD, and anxiety, so if I could numb something, I was going to.
The painkillers and benzos started getting mixed with adderall, then cocaine, and it got to where I needed something just to get out of bed. Then came the dope.
First time I was introduced to heroin…initially I wanted nothing to do with it. That was too far.
Pretty quickly, that “fuck no” turned into “ehh fuck it, why not.” I decided to try it in the most non invasive way it could be ingested, and surprise I didn’t hate it. In fact, I didn’t hate it enough to keep “trying” it, mixing it with blow and just having a grand ol time.
I still remember vividly showing back up to this persons house and seeing how out of their minds they were between the dope and the blow. I just watched them, seemingly in slow motion and remember thinking “I don’t want this for me.”
I walked out and essentially cut them out of my life.
That could’ve been the end of it. I wish it had been. But I found myself working closely with yet another person with an opiate prescription willing to “share.” I told myself just enough to manage the pain and no more.
I couldn’t tell you how long that went on for before meth was introduced to the picture. And that shit RAVAGED my body — it was causing the worst flare ups of my life, spasms, constant pain, not to mention the nausea and headaches. So what’s the next logical solution?? Increase the pain meds.
At some point, that same teacher I hadn’t spoken to in years by then reached out with an offer I couldn’t refuse. More drugs. Xanax specifically. And once I cracked that fucking it SLAMMED open.
The most fucked up deja vu — it started small, and just rolled on downhill. As they do, things gradually escalated until I was fully hooked on heroin and meth. Evens ya out to do both, didn’t ya know?
This time it took a lot more to stop me.
It took a LOT of fuck ups. Then more fuck ups. And yet even MORE fuck ups. It took me causing an indescribable amount of pain to my partner and my family, and everyone who cared for me. It took me spiraling down into the darkest holes of my life, and I still couldn’t stop.
Even a car accident that left me scarred and my car totaled, even the risk of losing the love of my life, my job, my home, everything. I still didn’t stop.
In a lot of these stories you hear about that one moment that changed everything. I don’t have one of those. My “come to Jesus” moment was more of a series of tiny “wtf” moments. The decision to finally get clean for real is honestly pretty fuzzy. I remember that teacher getting me to come to a meeting with her, at which I sat and cried and said nothing. I remember calling every single detox center in town and being turned away for one reason or another. I remember standing outside the inpatient center at the crack of dawn, waiting for help and being turned away yet again.
And I remember the final YES.
I had a dear friend help me through all of this, take my gear to dispose of, stand with me in line, everything. I remember my partner supporting me every step along the way. I remember how awful it was. And how amazing it was. And how fucking scary.
Now here I am. I just celebrated 3 years in July. I’m healthy, I’m happy, I’m thriving. I’m finally working in the Non Profit sector, I’m running my own business with Limelife, I’m in a healthy relationship, I’m building safe friendships, and I’m fucking HAPPY.
These 3 years have been some of the hardest of my life, but every step has been worth it. I’m somewhere in life I never really believed I could be. And now I get to share everything I’ve learned along the way with you.