I know I haven't exactly been great about doing this whole blog thing....to be fair, I have another blog (on Tumblr) that I update prettymuch every day. Except that one represents a different side of me. The side I show to the whole world. I don't talk about my addiction. I don't talk about my problems. I talk about politics..and law..and fashion...the things I love. There's nothing wrong with that. I love that side of me. I guess the issue is that it's the only side I show. My best friend struggles with a lot of her own issues, so for the most part I just try to be there for her and not burden her with my own problems. My father is up to his eyeballs in a nasty divorce, so I'm not going to burden him. My sister is a bit on the judgemental side. And my (ex?) boyfriend- well, that's complicated, to say the least. I basically rely on myself, all the time. In a way, I'm proud of that. I'm an extremely independent, self-sufficient person.
I digress. What I actually wanted to write about was my sister, and an argument I got in with her this past weekend.
As you know now (unless you live in a deep, dark cave) Amy Whinehouse died. I know most people feel she had it coming with the way she lead her life. And they're probably right. But for some reason, her death really hit me hard. Not because I was a huge fan- I never even owned her CD. I guess part of it was because I was PMSing (yay for estrogen!) and in the middle of a depressing breakup (3 year relationship) and dealing with the feelings of abandonment I've been supressing (my mother walked out of my life relatively recently). So I was in a vulnerable place.
But I think those were only contributing factors. For some reason, that day, I saw myself in Amy Whinehouse. As pictures and videos of her intoxicated beyond belief flashed across the TV screen, I saw the person I might've become, had I let my addiction grow stronger. It made me feel really, truly sorry for her, and all the people like her. People that haven't gotten past that first hurddle of sobriety. Staying clean is hard, but it's a helluva lot easier than being an addict. Being 100% honest, it also made me scared. What if I did relapse. What if I let myself become that person I fought so hard to get rid of?
As I was watching the news, I mentioned to my sister that I felt sorry for poor, lost Amy Whinehouse. My baby sister, being the person she is (aka the most uptight, judgemental 16 year-old you will EVER meet), promptly responded,
"Well she brought it on herself. I don't feel sorry for anyone that dies because of drugs. They deserve it for using them."
Harsh words. Especially harsh because they were directed at me.
My sister was 13 when I checked into rehab. She was horrified and embarassed and angry. She never came to any of the family counseling sessions to try to understand what I was going through (to be fair, none of my family did). She just resented me for messing up. At the time, I completely understood her resentment. Although I guess I assumed, with time, she would forgive me. With that in mind, I've always made a point to let her know that I'm staying clean, doing well in school, and working. I try to let her know I'm doing okay now.
My sister's never told me she's proud of me for turning my life around. While it stings a little, I guess I expected it. But what I didn't expect was the level of resentment she still holds 3 years later. Every chance she gets to make a dig about "loser addicts", she goes for it. She makes sure I know how disgusted she still is by me.
Most of the time I just brush it off. I tell myself as she gets older and understands the world better, she'll actually be proud of how far I've come. But that day, it really hit me hard.
So I guess I want to say this. I'm sure there are many, many people out there with relatives that are addicts. I know it is a long, difficult road that you sometimes have to veer off of for your own sanity (my mother is an addict, so I understand). I'm not asking anyone to put up with an unapologetic addict indefinitely. But I do ask this- if you see any hope; any willingness at all from that person to turn their life around- help them! Recovering addicts don't need judgement, they need love.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
The basic point...
First things first: Hi, my name is K. and I am an addict.
I've never been an open book. In fact, I have often shut out the people closest to me in my most dire times of need (more on that later). So keeping a blog that actually involves my personal life is not something that comes to me easily. Why do it, you ask? No single answer. My best friend, herself recovering from an eating disorder, keeps a beautifully honest blog that is cathartic for her and inspiring for others (including me). She is constantly examining herself and- most importantly- making sure she is still actively recovering. It has made me realize that I have let my own recovery slide. Not that I have relapsed- I haven't. But at some point I stopped actively participating in the process.
I guess the real catalyst was the big slap in the face I got earlier this week. My little sister had fairly major surgery and was given pain killers (my drug of choice). I just assumed I would be okay. But when I saw her clearly under the influence of the pills- when I saw the bottle sitting there- I found myself pulled towards them. Suddenly, cravings I had long suppressed came bubbling towards the surface. It scared the shit out of me. But in its own way, I think it was a good thing. It made me remember that I am a recovering addict- not a recovered addict. Tense is important there. If I don't pay attention, it may creep back up on me. I have too much to lose to let that happen.
I doubt anyone will really read this, because I have no intention of posting it on facebook. For some reason, I am much more comfortable with the idea of strangers reading this than my friends. At least for now. I think it's little too raw. I'd love to get to a point where I'm willing to make this not-so-annonymous...but not for now.
I don't want to turn this into a novel, but every addict has a story, and I feel like I should tell mine. Or at least the sparknotes version. I was very type-A when I was younger. Straight A student in all honors classes, speech team, debate team, editor of the school paper, mock trial, etc etc etc. I went to an all girls high school where competition was encouraged to an unhealthy level. I ended up driving myself into the ground trying to be perfect. By the middle of my sophmore year, I was losing hair, losing weight, gettnig sores in my mouth- I was killing myself with stress.
Around the same time, I met a rebel with tattoos, piercings, and big brown eyes that made me melt. For now, he'll just be 'M'. I would have followed him off of a cliff- he was my first everything. Long story short, the bad boy did what bad boys do and I was left in pieces. I had never dealt with anything like that before, and just didn't have the coping skills I needed. M is important- he profoundly affected my life path. He introduced my to drinking; he made me realize I could blow off steam by getting intoxicated (to be clear, I blame him for nothing. I ultimately made the choices I made).
I feel like, before I continue, I need to explain my home situation. While my parents were still married at this point, they had a violently unhappy union. The fights they got in often ended with the police showing up and locking myself in the bathroom having a panic attack, unable to breath.
My mother was an alcoholic & addict herself- she was profoundly unhappy, and generally did her best to make sure we were all as miserable as she was. I had an intensely dysfunctional relationship with her- I wanted in the worst way to be close with her, but I was just never good enough. She would scream at me for hours- every problem in her marriage/life was my fault. She said didn't have the life she wanted because I was born. Basically, the standard unhappy house-wife routine...amplified with alcohol, drugs, and bipolar disorder. Unfortunately, because of lies my mother told me, I resented my father and had no relationship with him at all for years.
Back to the rebel. He broke my heart and I fell to pieces. Unfortunately, my parents had no idea what was going on because they were too caught up in fighting with each other. The only way I knew how to cope with my heartbreak was to just numb it out completely. I just wasn't in a place in which I could handle my pain. I started going out and getting shitfaced drunk every chance I got. Many nights I spent vomitting, passed out, and blacked out.
My mom had bottles of literally hundreds of pain pills lying around the house. As my partying spiraled out of control, I began to take a couple here and there to take the edge off of my hangovers. I always told myself I'd keep it umder control. But soon enough, I was also taking them when I went out drinking. Then, it was whenever I had a headache. Then, it was whenever I was feeling down (which, at that point, was almost all the time). I was very quickly losing control. I think I knew it, but I just didn't really care. I was so deeply unhappy- at least when I was fucked up I didn't have to feel any of it.
I distinctly remember the moment I completely lost control. We were packing to leave for a family trip during my Jr. year. My mom had these patches laying out. Knowing my mom, I figured they were something that'd make me feel good. I read the label, but I didn't recognize the name- "fentynal". For those of you that don't know, fentynal is several times stronger than morphine. It's basically purified heroin- meaning the high hits you faster and is more intense. It's an extremely powerful and deadly drug. Once I went down that road, there was no easy way back.
I'm not going to go into great detail about my time using- I'm sure I'll bring up specific moments throughout my later posts. Point is, I was using a combination of percocet and fentynal for about 2 years. Towards the end of my senior year, it all came crashing down and I got help. After MANY false starts, I finally did get clean (with a lot of help- that I'm definitely going to talk about more later).
My journey since then has been extremely difficult. For the past few months, I've finally started feeling like I'm truly in a good place. For so long, I had completely lost faith in myself and completely lost hope in my future. I'm now about to transfer to one of the top UC schools and get to live in a city I love. I'm working a full time job and actually showing up. I have a great relationship with my father. I have surrounded myself with people that are good for me.
There's been a lot that's gone wrong, but there's been a lot that's gone right also.
More details on all of that at some other point, though.
I've written more than enough for now.
I've never been an open book. In fact, I have often shut out the people closest to me in my most dire times of need (more on that later). So keeping a blog that actually involves my personal life is not something that comes to me easily. Why do it, you ask? No single answer. My best friend, herself recovering from an eating disorder, keeps a beautifully honest blog that is cathartic for her and inspiring for others (including me). She is constantly examining herself and- most importantly- making sure she is still actively recovering. It has made me realize that I have let my own recovery slide. Not that I have relapsed- I haven't. But at some point I stopped actively participating in the process.
I guess the real catalyst was the big slap in the face I got earlier this week. My little sister had fairly major surgery and was given pain killers (my drug of choice). I just assumed I would be okay. But when I saw her clearly under the influence of the pills- when I saw the bottle sitting there- I found myself pulled towards them. Suddenly, cravings I had long suppressed came bubbling towards the surface. It scared the shit out of me. But in its own way, I think it was a good thing. It made me remember that I am a recovering addict- not a recovered addict. Tense is important there. If I don't pay attention, it may creep back up on me. I have too much to lose to let that happen.
I doubt anyone will really read this, because I have no intention of posting it on facebook. For some reason, I am much more comfortable with the idea of strangers reading this than my friends. At least for now. I think it's little too raw. I'd love to get to a point where I'm willing to make this not-so-annonymous...but not for now.
I don't want to turn this into a novel, but every addict has a story, and I feel like I should tell mine. Or at least the sparknotes version. I was very type-A when I was younger. Straight A student in all honors classes, speech team, debate team, editor of the school paper, mock trial, etc etc etc. I went to an all girls high school where competition was encouraged to an unhealthy level. I ended up driving myself into the ground trying to be perfect. By the middle of my sophmore year, I was losing hair, losing weight, gettnig sores in my mouth- I was killing myself with stress.
Around the same time, I met a rebel with tattoos, piercings, and big brown eyes that made me melt. For now, he'll just be 'M'. I would have followed him off of a cliff- he was my first everything. Long story short, the bad boy did what bad boys do and I was left in pieces. I had never dealt with anything like that before, and just didn't have the coping skills I needed. M is important- he profoundly affected my life path. He introduced my to drinking; he made me realize I could blow off steam by getting intoxicated (to be clear, I blame him for nothing. I ultimately made the choices I made).
I feel like, before I continue, I need to explain my home situation. While my parents were still married at this point, they had a violently unhappy union. The fights they got in often ended with the police showing up and locking myself in the bathroom having a panic attack, unable to breath.
My mother was an alcoholic & addict herself- she was profoundly unhappy, and generally did her best to make sure we were all as miserable as she was. I had an intensely dysfunctional relationship with her- I wanted in the worst way to be close with her, but I was just never good enough. She would scream at me for hours- every problem in her marriage/life was my fault. She said didn't have the life she wanted because I was born. Basically, the standard unhappy house-wife routine...amplified with alcohol, drugs, and bipolar disorder. Unfortunately, because of lies my mother told me, I resented my father and had no relationship with him at all for years.
Back to the rebel. He broke my heart and I fell to pieces. Unfortunately, my parents had no idea what was going on because they were too caught up in fighting with each other. The only way I knew how to cope with my heartbreak was to just numb it out completely. I just wasn't in a place in which I could handle my pain. I started going out and getting shitfaced drunk every chance I got. Many nights I spent vomitting, passed out, and blacked out.
My mom had bottles of literally hundreds of pain pills lying around the house. As my partying spiraled out of control, I began to take a couple here and there to take the edge off of my hangovers. I always told myself I'd keep it umder control. But soon enough, I was also taking them when I went out drinking. Then, it was whenever I had a headache. Then, it was whenever I was feeling down (which, at that point, was almost all the time). I was very quickly losing control. I think I knew it, but I just didn't really care. I was so deeply unhappy- at least when I was fucked up I didn't have to feel any of it.
I distinctly remember the moment I completely lost control. We were packing to leave for a family trip during my Jr. year. My mom had these patches laying out. Knowing my mom, I figured they were something that'd make me feel good. I read the label, but I didn't recognize the name- "fentynal". For those of you that don't know, fentynal is several times stronger than morphine. It's basically purified heroin- meaning the high hits you faster and is more intense. It's an extremely powerful and deadly drug. Once I went down that road, there was no easy way back.
I'm not going to go into great detail about my time using- I'm sure I'll bring up specific moments throughout my later posts. Point is, I was using a combination of percocet and fentynal for about 2 years. Towards the end of my senior year, it all came crashing down and I got help. After MANY false starts, I finally did get clean (with a lot of help- that I'm definitely going to talk about more later).
My journey since then has been extremely difficult. For the past few months, I've finally started feeling like I'm truly in a good place. For so long, I had completely lost faith in myself and completely lost hope in my future. I'm now about to transfer to one of the top UC schools and get to live in a city I love. I'm working a full time job and actually showing up. I have a great relationship with my father. I have surrounded myself with people that are good for me.
There's been a lot that's gone wrong, but there's been a lot that's gone right also.
More details on all of that at some other point, though.
I've written more than enough for now.
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