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Meth Addict's Personal Stories

  • Jan
    20

    There Is Life After Meth

    There Is Life After Meth

    I am an addict. I think that I have always been an addict looking back but maybe not. I think that I will always be an addict although I hate to put myself in a box. Maybe I should say that I will always have to be mindful of myself, and continue making choices that don't involve drugs. This is my story... I have to start at the beginning because I don't know where else to start! I'll try to keep it simple though....

    My parents were divorced when I was two. Of course I have no memory of this. I actually have very few memories of my young life at all. My dad was a dealer and user of sorts. He used to have me make bindles to keep me out of his hair. My mother remarried when I was five or so to a terrible man. Aside from being a hateful man, he was also a dealer and addict. My mom became addicted to coke; heroin, whatever else, and I took care of my younger brother and sister. He owned a bar and I spent a lot of my childhood in it, keeping company with addicts, drunks and "undesirables" if you will.

    She left him when I was ten or so. I remember bits of the night – it was a terrifying night for me. He was also a violent man and tried to stop us from leaving. She took me to my grandparents and left me with them. I didn't see her or know really what had happened to her for at least six months. She went to her parents and she tried to heal her wounds and beat her addictions. From what I've been told by my aunt (who helped her) she almost died. She did recover and turned her life around. I've always felt fiercely about my mother – I love her.

    I was moved around a lot from family to family. Always ended up back with my grandparents, but I was a trouble maker. I got kicked out of school a lot, and was basically just a mess. Ninth grade I started partying in earnest, drinking mostly, but then started smoking pot. If someone had other kinds of drugs, I would do them. This is how I went through high school. Got kicked out of a catholic school my senior year and went to a re-entry school in Seattle. There I discovered crack. Smoking crack and being a menace to my loved ones.


    I moved around some more and settled with my mother and her new husband (a wonderful man to this day) in Oklahoma. Got a job in a kitchen and was smoking pot first thing in the morning and throughout the rest of the day. At work, after work and at home I functioned fine when I was stoned it didn't affect my work and my mom had no idea.

    Then my boss gave me some speed one day and I loved it. Not like coke. I never really liked coke. I worked 14 hour days happily and partied all night. This went on for a couple of years. Looking back I'm not sure if it was meth. I think it was just speed, crank. I just snorted it.

    This lifestyle caught up with me and I had a breakdown of sorts. They say I'm bipolar and I was having a manic episode. I was very happy in this crazed state. I didn't need the drugs anymore because I was high on something within myself. I gave all of my dope to a gas station attendant. I did all kinds of really bizarre and crazy shit during this time. My mom didn't know what to do and tried to work around me. Just not wanting to see that I was sick I could understand and talk to animals and God whispered in my ear. I was here to change the world. I didn't eat, I didn't sleep, I labeled rocks I labeled everything. I wrote in a code, I gave all of my jewelry away or buried it around Tulsa. You get the picture! I was crazy. This went on for about a month. I was very thin and very sleep deprived and one day I just collapsed. My mom took me to the hospital and they had me committed to a psychiatric unit. I hated it. They gave me drugs that immobilized me; they gave me drugs that made my mind numb. They gave me drugs. I hated it. My only goal was to get out of there. That took me about three weeks. I was "better" in three weeks. Pretty amazing huh.

    I wasn't better just pretending. I moved to Texas with my boyfriend. Again I worked in a kitchen, again I got turned on to speed and again I loved it. I got a second job. I worked all of the time. I didn't party as much as before, and basically stopped using other drugs in favor of speed. I mostly did it by myself. My boyfriend was an ass, a mooch and he wasn't even working, I was supporting us. I left him and moved to California with my girlfriend.



    In California guess what? I again got a kitchen job! But this time I got turned on to meth. If I loved speed, then I worshipped meth. So much better. I got a second job telemarketing. For a while I got a third job in another kitchen. I used by myself or occasionally with my girlfriend. She was married and we all lived in a beautiful apartment in San Clemente. I was happy. After a while things started to get hard for me.

    I wondered at times if I was addicted but convinced myself that of course I wasn't! I quit one of my jobs. I fought with her husband. He was a marine and said that I was jeopardizing his career. I told him to fuck off. I quit another job. I spent most of my time at my dealers place. He liked me. Probably because I wouldn't have sex with him and always paid for my shit I was kind of scared.

    I ended up rolling my car, quitting my job, and being told by her husband that they were getting another apartment and that I wasn't invited all within about a month. I didn't really care. To hurry this along my girlfriend was very worried about me and although I told her no matter what happens or how you feel about this (my use) don't call my family she did just that. She called my father and told him that if he didn't come and get me soon I would die out there. He was in California the next day. He brought me back to Montana, but not until after I went over and got an 8-ball for the road. I got one more ball through the mail, did it and then sort of got my shit together. I moved to another town in Montana.

    That was in 1994. I got a job in a book and music store this time and made some really good friends, I partied and occasionally did some meth if it was around, but these friends weren't really into that so I didn't know where to find it. I did really well at this job, I was moved into a management position, and I befriended who was to be my future husband. I still battled with my depression and took medication, and I always kept my ears open for a connection. I thought that if I ever did start using again regularly - I would be smarter about it take better care of myself you know master it and make it work for me. Right.

    In 1998 I got married to this wonderful man who had been such a good friend to me, and whom I loved deeply. We bought a house and proceeded to get on with married life. Later in the year, one of my younger sisters was having trouble at home with her mother and was going to run away. I wanted to take her in. I talked to my husband about it and although he was somewhat reluctant, he agreed and she came to live with us. Come to find out she had been using meth fairly regularly and had a lot of connections. I started using regularly again as well only this time I had a lot more at stake than I ever did before, so I really tried to stay on top of myself and keep my use hidden.

    My husband and sister did not get along at all. It was a strain on our marriage, but more than that it was a strain on me. At this point I knew and accepted that I was addicted, and the strain came from trying to pretend to be something other than what I was, an addict.  Also from trying to defend my sister (but not too much) because he knew that she was using. The shame I felt at the time was in the fact that I was using with her, and yet I was supposed to be helping her, and I was keeping all of this from him. She moved out and got her own place after about a year, and we both continued using on a daily basis.

    This went on for three years. I had gotten to know my sisters connections and was using more and more. I had given up caring about my husband the man I married and loved with all my heart. My friends who didn't use I wouldn't hang out with them anymore, and eventually they stopped asking. My job I had been at that job for seven years by now, I could do it in my sleep and do it well. I got away with a lot of bullshit towards the end. My family none of them (besides my sister and grandmother) lived here so I didn't really have to worry about that. My health I just chose to not even think about that. In the end all I cared about was not running out of meth. I very rarely did. It was eating me up body and mind and I didn't care. I had also started smoking it; something I said I'd never do. If anyone asked me about anything why I was so thin, why my hands were raw, why was I crying any number of things you would ask of someone who appeared to be falling apart I would lie. Meth made me into an easy and convincing liar among other things.

    My world was caving in around me and I knew that I wouldn't be able to hide this much longer and to be honest I was really fucking tired and unhappy. I was scared. More than I've ever been scared in my life actually. I was amazed that no-one could figure out that I was extremely addicted and needed help FAST. In the past, my dad had always helped me out financially. My mom; she's always helped me out emotionally. I didn't want to go to either of them and say hey, I fucked up again please help me. Even though I needed both of their help more this time than any other my husband and I were strangers by this time. My little sister was scared to death for me and of me. She would try to talk to me she would ask me "what should I do? You need help" and I would tell her to just forget it and leave me alone. And of course I told her that if she told dad or anyone else what was going on with me I would never forgive her. This had always been our secret.

    This is part of a reply I posted to someone on the board. They asked what made me decide to quit. I've never written out my story before, and to be honest it's giving me a headache and I'm tired of thinking about it!  So I will cheat and drag part of that post into this. A lot of different factors played into my decision to go to treatment. I was tired of living my life addicted - I have been using drugs for 15 years. I am 34. I was really sick, and honestly thought that I would die soon if I didn't stop. The fact that dying at times was more appealing than living made me sad. I was so tired of fighting my demons. Everything about the way my life was unfolding broke my heart if I stopped long enough to think about it. I generally didn't.

    My mother she came to me at the right time. I was going to try to overdose. I've heard that meth can't kill you on its own... I didn't and don't believe that. I was going to see for myself. Literally on my way out the door when she just walked into my house she lives five hours from me. She says that she knew - she got a feeling at work that something was very wrong, got up and left to come here. She didn't pack, she didn't call... She just came to me. My mother and I have always been very close.

    I'm an intelligent woman. I recognized that my life was falling apart around me. I was going to lose my job. I threw my loving concerned husband out on Christmas Eve and asked him for a divorce. I lost my mind. Everything that has always been important to me... none of it mattered anymore. Death seemed to be the only option open to me. I didn't see any way out.

    My mother convinced me somehow that I could get better, that I had to at least try, and if it didn't work... then i could go kill myself! That was in February 2001. I've been clean for three years. I'm getting better. I relapsed this last Christmas eve...maybe the holidays are a trigger for me. I am clean now. I never want to feel that emptiness again.

    Treatment was hard, but I was so tired and I wanted to learn how to live again. Contemplating myself and my life without meth or any other drug for that matter was terrifying. It is still terrifying to this day. I am still trying to get to know myself. About a month or two after being out I got pregnant. It's hard to admit this to myself because I like to think that I'm so strong but if I hadn't found out that I was pregnant I'm pretty sure that I would've slipped back into active addiction. Not pretty sure I know that I would've. I didn't know who I was sober and I felt completely lost and alone. I was scared. But to know that I was carrying a pure and innocent being inside of me; there was no way in hell I would use. No fucking way. And I didn't.

    I have a beautiful healthy daughter, and I want to be able to give her the security and love that I needed and didn't get as a child. I want to be here for her, I want to be sober. I'm getting to know myself and I'm finding that I'm really not that bad! I relapsed over the holidays, and it was close. This board helped me immensely during that time and gives me strength still. Looking at my baby girl while she's sleeping or laughing or learning gives me strength. It brings me back to reality when my thoughts start to wander to what if? What if I just use for one day? My relapse lasted for almost two months. That tells me what if doesn't work me. That tells me that one day of using is one day too many.

    Thank you for letting me tell my story there is life after meth and it's beautiful if you let it be. I just want to say to anyone who is battling this wicked drug start fighting for yourself. You have a right to live a better life. Just try, and if you fail the first time try again. The second time try again. The fourth time again. Just keep trying. Keep fighting.


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