I was so ashamed of my anxiety and depression that I spent 20 years smoking weed just to cope with social situations. Then I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia, and narcotics were thrown into the mix.
During the next ten years, my life slowly stopped. Once my disability payments started, I stayed home as much as possible, gradually cutting myself off from friends and even family.
My son kept me going for a few years, but as he started to grow up and need me less, the time seemed to drag on forever, yet my aversion to going out and interacting with people grew fiercely.
An active member of JROTC since his freshman year, he received a prestigious award a few weeks before graduation. He never invited me to the ceremony, because he thought I wouldn’t come.
It broke my heart.
He joined the Marines a few months later, and I began wondering why I was still here. It felt like I was in a slippery, black hole that every attempt I made to climb out was met with nothing to hold on to, and I just slipped down further.
I began missing doctor appointments, but instead of reaching out, my doctor simply discontinued my Fentanyl prescription, and I went through a brutal withdrawal. I didn’t sleep for three days.
I discovered online shopping and began having my basic necessities delivered. I paid my bills that way, too. In fact, it got to the point where the only time I ventured out was to go to the corner ATM, to withdraw my weed money. My dealer didn’t take plastic.
I sunk so far down that I could barely see the light anymore. And when that light finally flickered out, I didn’t see myself anymore either.
When my son came home from boot camp, he was so horrified by my appearance that he insisted I look in a mirror. My reflection revealed a stick figure with dirty hair and dark circles under the eyes. My son stood behind me, a single tear streaming down his face.
I broke his heart.
I never knew I could feel such excruciating pain and survive. I just couldn’t do this anymore.
I wanted to live like a normal person. I wanted to bring my son some measure of joy. I wanted help. I had hit bottom, but I didn’t even know it at the time.
My Marine took over.
He flushed my weed down the toilet and cleared my apartment of all my paraphernalia, throwing it in the dumpster. When my dealer came by, he put the fear of God in him, warning him to never come back.
Next, he cleaned the whole place, even the windows, and he opened the blinds so the light could come in. He went to the grocery store and cooked for me.
And we talked, oh how we talked.
After I got a little strength back, I went into a 30-day program, and he went overseas. And we lived happily ever after, right?
It wasn’t long before the blackness started to surround me again. Instead of letting it snowball, I called the rehab, and they put me in touch with a therapist.
If it wasn’t for therapy and antidepressants, I wouldn’t be alive today.
That was six years ago. Since then, I see my therapist and attend 12-step meetings regularly. I also keep a daily journal, and practice the healthy coping mechanisms I was taught.
And when I see any blackness, I open my blinds and let a little light in.
If you or a loved one is suffering from alcohol or drug addiction. Please call us today at (877)-447-4977 and speak with one of our experienced and professional intake advisors about different addiction treatment programs.