This is the story I’ve never told, of the life I never thought I’d survive. Within these green blue eyes are sparks of secrets disguised by color, and within my voice are screams disguised as melodies. Today is the day I release these secrets, these screams, these disguises. And hopefully help some of you, who are a little or a lot like me. Bare with me as I take you on this journey. And before you get your jiggles jumbled thinking this is for attention, I want to let you know, it is. But not for me. I’m writing this for sexual abuse victims. For victims of domestic violence and toxic relationships. I’m writing this for those who suffer, for the people who have a tape measure around their waste so much they use it as a belt, for the people who cry themselves to sleep and make themselves bleed hoping to find proof that they’re still alive. I’m writing this in hopes that one of you, will relate to my words, and see that you’re not alone. I’m writing this in hopes that one of you will seek help, or stop thinking people who suffer from mental illness are just looking for excuses to act out. I’m writing this to show you there’s hope. And to hopefully, give you some of mine. I’m writing this to bring attention to the ever crippling realities of mental illness, and the ever growing strength and hope that’s waiting for all of us at the end of the tunnel. SO…let’s go.
I don’t know how to say what I’m about to. I guess that’s how every story begins..with a mosaic of ideas that are so intricate, they refuse to be outlined. I guess I’ll start by introducing myself. To the store clerks of my vastly developing yet slowly disintegrating town, im the girl who’s name isn’t as relevant as her label. A thief. To the neighborhood moms and dads, i’m the girl they warn their children not to be. When you look at my face, you may not think that I am the breathing source of pain for many people, including myself. But I am. I’m The accidental first born of a lost woman addicted to drugs, the sorrow of a daughterless father, the flesh of a neglected past. I am the circles under the eyes of half the people you saw today. a faint memory to some, a beacon of light to others. To some I am as strong as the ocean, and to others, im nothing but my empty words. Nobody sees the chains I am dragging as they grind against the pavement I leave behind me. Nobody expected me to become an addict and an alcoholic by the time I was 15, but I did. Nobody expected me to try to kill myself, but I did.
May 28th 2018 my dad found me foaming from the mouth on the bathroom floor. I had chugged as much bleach as I could find. And chased that with hydrogen peroxide and gin. I should have died that day. But I didn’t. In fact I didn’t even need to get my stomach pumped. That’s not the first attempt either..or the worst. I really can’t tell you how i’ve survived half of what I have. Especially The last 6 years. But I can tell you, I did. I’m alive. I won’t ask god why. I’ve learned i’m not always entitled to answers. But I trust whatever higher power is out there pushing me to write this. Whatever this may be.
I was exposed to suicide at a very young age. When I was 7, my adoptive mom developed an addiction to prescription pills, Vicodin, Percocet, ambien…I was kept in the dark as far as the details went, but I have vivid memories of my mom overdosing that haunt me to this day. I didn’t know why she did it, but I knew She wanted to die. Which really hurt me because she was my best friend, and the only sense of peace I had at the time. I remember her locking herself in the closet and sitting on the other side of it banging on the door sobbing, begging her to let me in because I knew she was trying to kill herself. She was in and out of hospitals, and institutions for the next 3 or so years…until she was diagnosed with cancer.
I don’t know which was worse. Watching my mom die from cancer, or watching her die from mental illness. But I do know, I lost her. And it sucked.
As her battle with cancer started looking more hopeless, I was caught cutting myself at The middle school. I’d been secretly and increasingly depressed. I’d never thought about cutting myself. The thought of it repulsed me and I looked down on people who did it. Until those people, were my friends. They would glorify it in a way; how it made them feel better. It seemed like they were proud of themselves.
Perhaps it was my growing numbness and confusion. My mom was dying and I honestly had no idea how to process it. I had no emotional skills, and no idea how to cope. Nobody really trains you for that kind of thing…
One day before school, I had my friend wait downstairs while I went to “grab something”. I grabbed a knife..cut my leg and promised myself I would never do it again. But it was all I thought about that whole day at school. Because for the first time since I could remember, I actually felt something. And I wanted more of it. When I got home, it was all downhill, and thus began my addiction to self harm. Some girls at school eventually found out and told the counselor, and the counselor didn’t tell my parents. But she did tell them that they should be worried about me. My parents caught on, luckily, and brought me to a therapist the next day.
Over the next year I was diagnosed with depression, anxiety, and anorexia. An approximate 3% of the population is diagnosed or suffering from an eating disorder. That’s about eight million people in the U.S alone, and I was one of them. I was obsessed with my weight, calorie intake, and being as skinny as I could.
I feel like a lot of people think people with anorexia just want to be “skinny”. But for me, and many others, that isn’t the case. What I really wanted, was control. I was 12 years old, had no idea where I came from, my mom was dying, I didn’t get along with my sister, I was having serious drama and conflict with friends at school and I felt like everything was falling apart. Not to mention this ever growing battle against myself and my own dark thoughts terrorizing my head. I had no outlet. So I made my own. Cutting, Starving, Throwing up. I would stay up all night exercising, I’d run until I spat out blood, sometimes even passing out on the sidewalk Or trail from pure exhaustion. And yet I kept going. I felt like I finally had control and the potential to prove to myself that maybe just maybe, I could do something right. Maybe that logic seems entirely ludacris. I used to think so too….until it was all I had. Little did i know, these actions weren’t fueled by stupidity, i was sick, mentally, physically, and spiritually sick. Did I want to be such a burden on everyone around me? No. Did i feel as though i had a choice? No. If only I knew i were sick back then, I think things would have gone a lot different.
October 4th 2013, my adoptive mom lost her battle with cancer. My aunt broke the news to me, and all I said was “okay’. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t reacting the way normal people do. Shouldn’t I have been sobbing? Shouldn’t I be furious at the world and everyone inside of it? Well deep down I was. But I covered up my feelings so intensely, for so long, that my body refused to show emotion. No matter how much I begged. I had seemingly lost all sense of reality and self. I logically knew where I was and what was going on, but I could never seem to process. I always just felt this numbness, and at night, it was replaced with uncontrollable sobs that I fed to My pillow. This is a side effect of trauma, and a symptom of depression. Isolating my inner emotions, and being involuntarily and subconsciously dissociated with my own inner feelings and my outer circumstances. It’s a defense mechanism, with a filthy price.
By now I was going to Tahoma junior high. And I spent most of the day in the counseling office. Mostly so I wouldn’t freak out in the classroom. Im grateful they let me take up space in the office, but thats all I really did. They’d listen to me…but it wasn’t enough. I needed serious help or at least a little guidance and I didn’t get it there.
After a serious downfall with my friends that I didn’t know how to handle, and an investigation for sexual abuse and neglect in my home, I moved to Twin Falls Idaho to live with my grandparents.I needed a change in scenery, because though i didn’t want to ask for help, I knew i wouldn’t survive my own mind in the circumstances I was in. I attended school at Twin Falls High for the rest of the semester, completely starting over. I was put on an immense amount of prescription pills to “control” my mental illnesses. It only made me worse. I had impulsive tendencies, and after being taunted by homicidal thoughts induced by my meds, I started self medicating. Taking more anxiety meds than I was prescribed. Half the time It didn’t do anything. But for some reason my mind craved a change in being..a change in feeling..a change in chemistry. To the point where I would take more just because it was..different. I honestly couldn’t give you a definite explanation for why i was this way. Why I always did what i wasn’t supposed to, but i was soon to find out.
Life went by and after coming out as bisexual and leaving the mormon church, I moved back to Washington to be with a girl, who I thought was the love of my life. Little did i know, in those moments of baffling butterflies and starlit puppy eyed conversation, that my entire life was about to be thrown into what i would describe to be; the ever gaping jaws of hell. I threw my own family on the shelf to spend time with this girl, whom i thought was the best thing to ever happen to me. She helped me in times of need, she held me when the world seemed dark. She would sing to me, make me laugh. We cried together, we learned and grew together and getting to live in the universe we built together, was everything to me. I guess that was my first mistake. Handing over the wheel to someone else, who would ultimately gain complete control over my mind, my feelings, my hobbies, my time and how i spent it, while being convinced that’s what i needed, and being led to believe by my deceptive emotions, that it was healthy. She began to grow sick, quite rapidly. She would have panic attacks every few hours, that left her crippled on the floor screaming out to a god she didn’t believe in to make it stop. We could only hope it would. But it didn’t. About a month into our already extremely intense relationship, We got into a petty fight about my friends and how i thought she was controlling. She told me to tell my stupid friends that we were over, and i did. I lost my mind.
I was 15, had no idea who i was and for the FIRST time in my life i thought that i had it figured out. I finally got my car driving when she was behind the wheel. I had created a world i loved with her, and now that she was gone, i had no idea what to do. The world i made was now empty, a shriveling shell of what i thought would never die. And i lost control.
I was sent back to a behavioral and mental health hospital just two days after the break up. I spent 9 or 10 days in the adolescent unit, listening to all of these stories about drugs, mostly pot, and how great it was. In fact, i was the only kid in there who had not tried it.
The day i got out of there, i smoked weed for the first time. I would say i “tried it” but it didnt end there. I hated it, and swore i would never do it again. I was also taking 13 meds twice a day, and mixing these didn’t go very well. But i kept doing it. Then eventually, I got bored of this and decided to drink. My friend handed me a water bottle, and without even asking what it was, i drank the whole thing. I knew it was alcohol from the first sniff 5 feet away. But i didn’t care. I got drunk and i loved it. If only I knew then what I know now.
Abby and i got back together somewhere in the midst of this and eventually she started drinking and smoking weed again. I saw nothing wrong with either of our actions for a really long time. Until it got out of hand. I was always off hanging out with my friends and chasing the next drunk and the next high. To be honest, my drug of choice wasn’t the drugs at all. It was toxicity, destruction, and most of all chaos, which i guess can be traced back to my childhood trauma, and my growing, neglected mental illnesses. I broke up with Abby again, because i felt that she was controlling, but looking back i think i was scared that she intervened with my rapidly developing using habits. And the last thing i wanted to do was quit. You see, when i picked up booze and pot and cigarettes, i had finally gained what i thought was control, by giving it all away. You cant loose what you dont have, right? Right. So this continued, and got worse and worse. My dad would get calls from the Maple Valley, Kent, Covington, or King County police at least once a week stating that they had found me somewhere in a drunken binge, or I was somewhere I shouldn’t be (Stolen cars, parking lots, parties, etc.) and he needed to come get me. He would also get calls from my, at the time, best friends telling him i was passed out, blacked out, covered in my own vomit or having a mental breakdown. But I never had to deal with it, because i never really cared or remembered. So i kept going.
*The following content contains details that may be triggering to sexual abuse victims*
Everyone’s parents always tell them not to talk to strangers. But what if the strangers have something you want? Something you need and can hardly live without? Something like…an ID proving they are of age to buy weed, alcohol, cigarettes. Something like, the money to buy these things. And the kindness of heart to share with under age girls, like me. You see, to me, these sounded like acceptable reasons to get into a 23 year old mans black honda civic outside of a gas station, give him my number in exchange for cigarettes and keep talking to him so he’d keep providing.
That went well. Until the day that it didn’t. Me and two friends invited this man over to my friends house while his parents were out of town. He bought a 60 dollar bottle of vodka. And hell mikes hard lemonades, beer, some svedka and a bunch of weed. I think there might have been jack but i don’t remember those details of the night. My mind is too occupied by what happened after bringing this all home.
My two friends were more adapted to this culture than i was at the time. They could slam bottles and not feel a thing. So I should have known something was wrong, when after one or two shots each, they passed out. One of them looked me in the eyes as she was falling into a comatose like sleep, and told me she was scared, and felt really weird. I couldn’t shake her hard enough to wake her up. Same with the other one. And all the sudden, it was just me and this man, who was feeling more and more like a stranger to me. Who was i with. What had i done. What was going to happen to me. My mind was swirling and empty all at once. He told me to drink, so i drank. I wanted to pass out too, or at least drink away this echoing siren going off in my head. I just wanted to disappear. After a few drinks, i felt odd. That’s the only way i know how to explain it. I remember him yelling at me to go upstairs so we don’t wake them, and i remember feeling like my jaw was sewn shut. I had no energy to speak or hardly move. I went upstairs to find him in the bed of the guest room. He told me to sit down, and when i declined he aggressively said it again. I knew he had a gun, so I sat down. He grabbed me and pulled me into the bed, and revealed that he was naked before stripping me, and telling me i needed an examination. He proceeded to rape me. And forced me to stare at his erection for 5 minutes before i escaped and ran downstairs, desperate to wake my friend before he got down there. I messaged my dad in this time period, begging him to come get me even though it was 4 in the morning by now. I didn’t give him a reason. He trusted me, even though he shouldn’t have. Tom came downstairs and laid on top of me. I tried fighting him off, and kept telling him to lay somewhere else but he refused, and by now i was terrified of him. He called me mommy and asked me to rub his head to sleep. So I did. I was shaking, scared, holding back tears until he fell asleep. I waited under his body for a few minutes before crawling out from under him and forcing My friend to get out of her slump. Luckily for us, my dad had randomly woken up 5 minutes before i texted him, and was on his way to get us from down the road. We snuck out the back door and stumbled to the car. I didn’t tell either of them what had happened.
In the United states, one in five women on average will experience rape in their life, and one in seventy one men will experience it as well. Statistics show that 51.1% of women who are raped, are raped by an intimate partner, and 40.8% by an acquaintance. In 8 out of 10 rape cases across the US, the victim knew the perpetrator. These statistics don’t sit well for me, nor do they go against my situation. The raging trust issues i had before and after this, are still an issue i work through every day. These issues got much worse after i drunkenly admitted to my dad, what had happened, and a police investigation was opened. You’d think there would be justice, and there should be, but there were so many aspects. If you’re reading this, and you’re scared to speak up, I want you to be a lion. I want you to roar and show no mercy for what was done to you. Rise, love, and fight for the peace of mind you so rightfully deserved to keep. I wish I would have had that strength, but little old me was a push over, made of eggshells that cracked as i let the world walk upon me.
My homeboys house was searched by police for evidence, and during the process they found his step dads collection of marijuana plants. Needless to say, the harassment i was receiving made me question even my own trauma. “Kill yourself You dirty fucking whore”
“You wanted it, admit it”, “because of your attention seeking ass, i don’t have a plug anymore. Are you happy? You should die.” Were some of the actual messages i received, that day alone. My abuser was arrested and put in holding for only one night, and everyone turned on me. I even had my closest friends send me messages of that sort, and tell me his story to rehearse so that it would match in court. They told me; Tell this story in court, or you’ll regret it.
I eventually dropped the case from all the pressure. I got a temporary protection order. And continued to abuse substances; by now it was all that kept me calm. Don’t do what I did, whoever did that to you does not deserve to live free.
This theme of drinking, smoking, lying, going in and out of my relationship continued more and more. School started, I showed up twice, drunk off my ass and never went again. Partly because my priorities were screwed, partly because I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning, partly because I didn’t want to see the faces of the people I thought were my friends, as they laughed at me in the hallways.
I switched to an alternative school which was basically designed for developing addicts and hoodlums like myself, to pass and graduate. I got away with everything there, even beat a kid up for degraded my trans friend, and all I got was a 10 minuet timeout until they made the kid apologize to my friend and I. I can’t tell if that’s how manipulative I was, or if that’s how badly the school system failed me. Either way, I didn’t care. I’d go to school, high off my ass, and write songs in my journal all day pretending it was for one of the assignments they never gave me. And I passed with flying colors. This gave me the illusion that I was a “functioning alcoholic/addict”. Which, for the record, doesn’t exist.
It was now 2017, my ex and I got back together a while ago, and my stealing habits had died down a lot. Maybe because now, I got the same rush from her that I did from stealing. Studies and observation show that people with addict mentalities, tend to swap one addiction out for the other, so when the glorious “love of my life” would come back, I could ditch some of the behaviors I would use to distract myself. But, I was still partying and slowly killing my body.
I’d been doing cocaine for about a year now, and managed to keep it pretty hush hush.
I was what i’d now like to call, a selfishly deceptive bitch. For a while, one of my friends had been taking me to a ”trap house” where I made plenty of new friends and had a seemingly endless supply of alcohol and drugs. I thought I was in heaven, but heaven quickly turned into Hell one night. I’d met up with a few of my ”homies” and they we decided to go to a party at the trap. I should have known it was going to be bad, when the first person I saw was none other than my rapist from 2 years prior. I was so deep into my addiction, that I just decided to drink until I stopped caring he was there. To some, this is insane. But that’s what addiction does to you, it drives you to insanity. Addiction, is a disease, despite common stigma of it being solely a choice. Let me break it down for you real quick. A disease is defined by; a dysfunction of an organ with a progressive set of symptoms. In diabetes for example, the dysfunctioning organ is the pancreas, and the symptoms can be anything from thirst, hunger and frequent urination, to poor wound healing, weight loss or weight gain. These symptoms get progressively worse if not treated. For addicts, the organ dysfunctioning happens to be in the brain, specially the central nervous system. The part of our mind that is supposed to help us make logical decisions, is dysfunctioning rapidly, and instead of telling us to do things like sleep, drink water or eat, it tells us to cause rapid destruction. Typically, this is fueled by a blockage between the receptors, causing frequencies to stack up, if you will, and eventually the only things that get through to the reward system and clear them out, is the next fix. And those “fixes“ are the progressive symptoms, whether it be stealing, drinking, doing drugs, being violent, gambling or even lying and cheating. Hence, most addicts, no matter their Drug of choice, display criminal behaviour, and have previous or developing histories of mental illness.
Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, we can tell that my judgment was impaired even before I drank. My mind was hard wired to do whatever it took. I pushed past my rapist, walked into the party, and proceeded to drink, and drink and drink.
At one point he came up to me, stating “not to be creepy, but you’ve gotten a lot hotter since you were fifteen.” Mind you, he was creepy, I was in a relationship that finally seemed to be working, I wanted nobody else BUT the girl I was with, especially not my rapist. I instantly knew I was going to need more alcohol to handle this situation. So I had somebody go get me another bottle, then proceeded to down the entire thing quite rapidly. Shortly after, the friend who had driven me there pulled me aside. He led me down the hallway and into a back room.
What I’m about to tell you may be triggering, but I’m hoping that by painting out all of these red flags, I can help to prevent this from happening to one of you who may be reading this. I should have left long ago, I shouldn’t have followed him down the hall. But what happened next, was not my fault. He had me sit down, next to another friend (who knew I wanted nothing to do with him) and then walked away. The other friend and I were sitting in a dark room for half a second before he grabbed my face and began to force himself onto me. I pushed him off telling him no, I’m in a relationship, I won’t have anything to do with this. The door to our left swung open, revealing the infamous ”coke room” and they invited us in. Thank god. The day is saved! Or so I thought.
When I walked in, I saw one girl I knew, which lead me to believe nothing would happen. They told me to sit down. They closed and locked the door, and as I looked around me, all I could see were the men lining the perimeter of the room, resembling hungry dogs ready to tear apart my flesh. The next thing I knew, I was being Passed back and forth. I was grabbed by my neck as one of them spat in my mouth and the other pulled my hair while doing as they pleased with my body. By the time it was over, i got dressed and ran out of the room sobbing. My girlfriends gonna hate me. Nobody’s gonna believe me. Nobody’s gonna understand. Why did I let that happen? I was blaming myself for not knowing how to react to a situation I thought I’d never be in again, or at all. These thoughts only spread more rapidly as I walked out to see one of my best friends screaming at me “YOU’RE A FUCKING WHORE! I can’t believe I’m under the same roof as you! YOU SICKEN ME. You have 24 hours to tell your girlfriend or I’ll do it for you.“ The room spun slowly now, the voices blended in with each other, the faces all looked the same; hungry, angry, ready to tear my flesh. I looked around desperately for my friend who had driven me, only to find out he left as soon as he brought me back there. It was all a set up. The girl who had assisted in the men getting their way, came over to me and told me to just admit what I had done. I wanted to vomit, and not from the alcohol. I spent the next week at my girlfriends house, afraid of the world, sobbing, shaking violently while she mocked me, texting other guys and laughing at her phone any time I started to cry.
She’d get mad at me for not controlling my tears, so I’d go outside and cry in the middle of the street outside of her house. I just wanted to die. I had survived the two rapings now, I’d survived an ambien overdose that could have easily killed three grown men, I’d survived so much and yet I felt more dead than I would in a grave.
A week or so after, I finally left her house and was able to go back to my dads. She was always hanging out with my friends, dabbing THC oil and having the time of her life while I rotted away alone. I thought she would be here for me. I thought she would care. I couldn’t really blame her though, I’d probably feel some sort of way about it too if I were in her shoes. One day, she came over. She was having a hard time, and I was ready to be there for her. I made her food and brought her tea. She decided she wanted to take a dab, so she pulled out her rig and her glass dabber, a small narrow glass piece, that was used to scoop the oil and place it on the rig. She dropped the glass dabber. And it broke in half. I picked up one half but couldn’t find the other. I sat down, and she began to cry. I held the broken, dagger like object in my hand and nervously started rubbing it against my hand. I never dealt with things by staying still, I would always fidget, so this wasn’t really out of the ordinary. She grabbed it from my hand. Held it up above her head, and screamed “I’LL FUCKING STAB YOU.“ Now, I know what you’re thinking, but I swear I can’t make this shit up. The love of my life. The girl I’d do anything for. I looked into her dull eyes that used to look like the stars, and I said ”no you wouldn’t.”
Those were my famous last words. She did.
She pierced my leg, then pulled down, creating a deep cut in my leg. Apparently, had she have lifted her arm any higher, she would have hit the main artery in my leg and I would have bled out internally regardless of stitches. It didn’t stop there. She proceeded to cut her hand and rub blood on her face before allowing me to use her phone to call for help, which is also when I discovered she’d been cheating on me. This, was the worst 10 minutes of my life thus far. I was baffled. I could hardly react. Her dad picked us up, and upon getting in the car she said to him, ”I stabbed ally so we need to go to the hospital.” Her Dads response? ”oh. Okay.”
We made up an elaborate lie about how we got in an argument, I ran upstairs and was gonna cut, then she walked in, scared me, I flinched and cut deeper than planned, and she felt bad so she cut her hand open. The doctors bought it. We were two incredibly manipulative people, and to this day I wish I would have told the doctors the truth. Because honestly, it would have saved both of our lives.
If you’re ever put in an unfortunate situation similar to that, don’t lie to protect your relationship. Your relationship isn’t protected, and if anything, by not allowing your lover the opportunity to get help weather or not they want it, you’re hurting them.
The next day, she hit me for something my friend said to me. And I broke up with her. I was back on the run, back binging, and I thought I was living my best life despite being suicidal as all hell.
Over the course of the next 9 months that my ex and I were broken up, I was drinking every day. I was taken advantage of at a bonfire while i was passed out drunk, asleep in my friends car. But at this point I wasn’t phased. I was constantly partying, drinking, and running away from my problems however I could. I had several girls living in my house with me on and off, because like me, they didn’t want to face the struggles that came with going home, and sometimes they truly didn’t have one. By february, I got back together with my ex despite toxic warning signs and circumstances. We got drunk together, she cheated on her boyfriend with me, and within a few days we were back on our bullshit. This would be the last time we got back together. We were fine for about a month. And rapidly, we both spiralled into a seemingly endless snowball of destruction. I started doing molly again, which lead to both of us doing coke, and if we couldn’t find it we would chop up her adderall and snort it when nobody was around. One night, she ended up going to jail with her father after a dispute between her and her step dad turned violent. She claims she was innocent, and to an extent I can see her side, but ultimatley it needed to happen. I drank the whole time she was in jail (all three days) awaiting her return. When she finally called me I was expecting her to be distraught or sorry, but she was happy. She told me she met the most amazing heroin addicts and she fit in so well. She had a truly amazing time.
Now….what the hell. I honestly hung up on her, partly because I was selfish and partly because i was baffled. There was also a lot we had been dealing with. I had gotten drunk and cheated on her while blacked out, confessed to her in tears, and she proceeded to tell me she slept with one of the guys from the party I was abused at a month prior and wasn’t going to tell me. She said she only did it so she could get more cocaine.I was shocked. It partly made me feel better for what I had done, but obviously I still felt bad, and now even worse.
Hen she came home from jail, We made up and got drunk, and she moved in with me due to a restraining order prohibiting her to go home. All she would talk about was how badly she wanted to do meth and heroin. It truly broke my heart. I did everything I possibly could to change her mind and help her in any way I could. I had seen the light within her so many times, and I knew there was a REASON i fell in love with her so strongly. She was everything..and she gave it all to the drugs as I did the same. Slowly, then quickly, we were nothing but sad and empty shells of who we were when we fell in love. The only thing harder than having a loved one die, is having the person you love most die mentally, emotionally, and spiritually before your eyes, and then screaming into the void as they slip through your fingers into the deadly trap of hell. She eventually walked out of my house, to go to meth and heroin. She broke a promise we had made to each other to never do it again. And I sobbed as the love of my life, willingly got into a car that would lead her to death. My wrist was sprained and my body was badly bruised from trying to stop her from leaving the night before. She beat me senseless for it. I broke up with her, knowing she had made a choice she wouldn’t come back from. It was, and remains, one of the hardest things i’ve ever had to do. But there comes a point where you have to realize, no matter how much you love someone, no matter how much history you have, no matter how many nights you dream about them and wake up in tears reaching for their presence, you have to walk away. I suffered serious grief, and I’m still dealing with it to this day.
That night, I got drunk with my friends, and saved some gin for the next morning.
MAY 28 2018
I woke up, drank some of the gin, broke up with her in person, went home, drank the rest and proceeded to drink bleach, followed by a chaser of hydrogen peroxide. This is when my dad found me, foaming from the mouth on the floor, and I was taken via ambulance to the hospital.
Upon arriving, I was labeled a miracle. They didn’t even have to pump my stomach. But they did have a harder job…fighting my insanity. As I looked at the clock, in the empty room that was now way too familiar to me, each second that ticked by was like a knife in my heart. She’s gonna die. I need to get out of here. She’s probably fucking someone else. This is all my fault. I have to save her. Today, December 13th 2018, I heard something I ish I would have heard 7 months ago. “You can carry the message, but you cannot carry the addict.” To me, this means that despite our efforts, we wil only be as helpful as they will allow us to be. I described that time, as me screaming and screaming for her to stop, without taking into consideration that she couldn’t hear me. But, she can see me. So truly, I can set an example and I can carry on doing what I’m doing. I must spare my voice for those who can hear, and demonstrate my proof in recovery for those who can see.
I hadn’t yet figured this out, so what did I do as panic filled my bloodstream? I screamed. I cried and i began to run out of my room, only to be stopped by doctors, and thrown back onto the bed as they held me down. I was sobbing violently, and screaming terrible things at these doctors who knew something I didn’t, i was terminally and life threateningly sick. They tied my arms and legs to the bed, so I began to spit at them. They put a mask over my face So I began to hit my head violently on the bars I was bound to, while screaming that they were horrible people, and if they didn’t let me out, the love of my life was going to die. They put a vest on me which strapped to the back of the bed, prohibiting any movement. One doctor later told me that in all of his years working there, they had never had to use such restraints before. Nobody expects me to be such a flaming burst of violence, but I was sick. I was addicted, I was an alcoholic, I was heartbroken and confused. I felt I was dying, and wanted to speed up the process.
I was involuntarily taken to fairfax, and it was my first time in the adult unit. My whole stay there, i remained the youngest patient, and I met several people with amazing stories. I think I may publish the journal I kept while in all these institutions…it really was one hell of a something. There is one experience I will bring up and talk about, because it truly was the beginning of events that saved my life. A man who was leaving the day after I arrived, heard me talk about my alcohol use and drug abuse. He came up to me and handed me a blue book, I had to look closely to read the title, Alcoholics Anonymous. I almost laughed. He told me the book changed his life, and that I needed to read it and then pass it along to someone else. I thought he was crazy. But I ended up reading it while I was there. Suddenly I..switched. It was like the lights turned on in my head and I could see. It talked about addiction being an allergy to substance, a disease that was far more than moral corruption. The book encouraged the reader to make amends to any person they had harmed while suffering from insanity, and to find a higher power. After being mormon, I was far from a believer in God. I was taught to fear him, and treated as his slave for the majority of my life. But I somehow developed my own personal relationship, with my own individual God. I talk to him often even to this day.
I had set up appointments for out patient care with the drug and alcohol counselor while I was in there, but I didn’t follow through for quite some time. Upon discharge, I had vowed to myself that I was cured, and that I would never pick up again. Within about 3 weeks, I started smoking weed again. I was under the impression that by doing so, I wasn’t doing any harm whatsoever. But I was quickly proved wrong when the day before my 2 month mark of being free from alcohol, I drank. I swore to only take a sip or two, but when my friends would turn around, i would steal more sips. As much as i could. I was instantly thrown back into the insanity of drinking, and it only got worse. They say your addiction picks up where it left off, and that couldn’t be more true. I was drunk every day, all day, I dropped out of my GED program, I started doing coke again and I was evil. I set up an appointment to go to IOP, intensive outpatient treatment. I met with her once, and then before our next meeting scheduled for a week later, I had relapsed on meth. I told her what had been going on, and that I’d been taking extra anti anxiety meds, mixing them with alcohol and getting high off them. She told me she had to let me go, that I needed more help than she could give me. At this point, I was powerless. Nobody really liked me anymore. I didn’t talk to my family. My biological siblings had cut me out of their life after informing me I was a horrid example and a bad person. I was sick.
Most people eat breakfast when they wake up. Not me. I’d wake up confused, sometimes in places I didn’t recognize with people I didn’t know. And I’d spend my day trying to figure out what happened the night before. I’d spend my days apologizing to the people I had lied to, or physically hurt in my drunken binge. But even after assaulting my best friends, I kept drinking. I felt as though my use was against my will. I was merely a puppet to my addictions.
The next thing I knew, I ended up on a 5 day alcohol, and meth bender with some people I shouldn’t have been with. I can’t recall the details of the bender, but I still have videos on my phone that taunt me, I look back at them when I feel myself justifying another drink. I never want to be that shallow, hopeless, hurtful shell ever again. I was toxically out of control.
This bender lead me to make a life changing decision. I decided I was done being a slave to my disease, I was done being the person I swore I would never be. I was tired of hurting everyone I loved, letting them all down and breaking every promise over and over again.
I went home, and detoxed myself for a day before realizing the extent of the impact this addiction had taken on my body. I thought I was going to die..and for the first time, I didn’t want to. I wanted to live. Actually live. For the first time. I realized that for the past 6 years I had been running, non stop, away from my own mind and imaginatin. I hadn’t even stopped to breathe and suddenly, for even a moment, I stopped and I was terrified that I couldn’t catch my breath. Had I really let my selfishness get the best of me? Was I really that bad of a person?
After sweating, freezing, hyperventalating, having terrible joint and muscle pain, tossing and turning trying to get my heart to stop beating so rapidly out of my collapsing chest, I had a friend come over. The same friend that was ruffeed three years ago while I was taken advantage of. The same friend that had been there for me through thick and thin, the same friend I had hurt so many times. She encouraged me to call lakeside milam, the rehab center I swore I would never go to just because of what I’d heard about them. She didn’t tell me it was them, she just handed me the phone and once they said “Hi lakeside milam how may I help you?” I hung up the phone. Somehow, by the grace of God, I got the courage to call back, and make an appointment for an assessment. I went to the assessment, and they told me the same words I’d been hearing for months, “if you don’t stop, you’re going to die. Your addiction wants you dead, and I don’t think you deserve to suffer in it’s grasp anymore. You owe this to your family, and to yourself.”
I went. I spent the next 30 days in intensive treatment, where I finally broke free from the chains I had given myself. I finally recieved the proper education I needed about my condition and what was going on inside of my body. I finally took back control, and im happy to tell you that I’m still clean and sober. My ex? She still suffers. Many of my friends have died, from addiction, from recklessness, and from suicide. Many of my friends still aren’t fully trusting of me or healed from the damage I did, and I cant blame them. I’m happy to say I can finally breathe, I feel emotions good and bad but at least I know they’re mine and they aren’t synthetic. I can look people in the eyes without lying. I realized, I wasn’t a bad person trying to get good, I was a sick person trying to get well.
Whoever you are, wherever you are, I want you to know I believe in you. I want you to know that if you weren’t worthy of this life, you wouldn’t still be here. Sometimes all you have is the sky above you and I know how lonely that is. But I promise you, the sky can be enough. The sky understands you even if nobody else does. Cling to whatever you can, whatever you need to. The ground beneath your feet is willingly holding you up, because it wants to. The space around you is fully allowing you to be there, and it accepts you however you are in any moment. If you don’t see a purpose in yourself, find a purpose in something. Anything. And trust, that we were each put on this earth for a reason. Somebody needs to hear your laugh. Somebody needs to see your smile, and hear your story. One day, when you get through all of this bullshit that you KNEW would be the end of you, you’re going to shine so brightly, you’re going to be living proof that anything is possible and you’re going to save lives, just be living yours. I love you. You’re precious. If youre sick, if youre stuggling, if youre giving up, look up to the sky and know that it’s going to be okay. It takes action, it takes bravery, it takes nights of screaming and sometimes nights of saying nothing at all, but I swear to you, and I bare my deepest utter testimony to EACH of you, that you will not only survive, you will grow, and the world will cower at your brilliance. Don’t give up. No matter what.