I had always needed something to numb out. At age six, I started with food. In high school, I discovered booze. In college, I added marijuana. Due to major depression, I dropped out of college after two years, moving from my small WI hometown to the capital of Madison. Here I dabbled in drugs, and sometimes went through periods of intense use, but for the most part, I stayed “stable” for 20 years.
In my late 30s, madly in love, I was planning a pregnancy with my current partner, when it all fell apart. I was 14 weeks pregnant and suffered a devastating miscarriage. After surgery, they sent me home with a bottle of Vicodin. In my grief, I sunk into a deep depression, accompanied by my new lover, narcotics.
Following the miscarriage, I developed chronic pain. The docs had no idea what was causing it, so they simply continued to medicate it. Eventually, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia/CFS, and the refills stopped. I became desperate. My mother, who was living with us on hospice, had a constant supply of narcotics. I started nabbing her “leftover” medication to feed my habit.
In October of 2014, it all caved in. My therapist and partner confronted me with my use, and I landed in my first rehab. I stayed abstinent for 17 months. But I wasn’t really doing anything to maintain my recovery. My eating disorder grew rampant, and eventually I landed in treatment for that as well.
While in ED treatment, I met a woman named E**. She was short, smart-ass, and didn’t take shit from anyone. She was also in recovery. I loved her instantly. We became fast friends. After treatment, through a crazy series of events, she came to live with me.
Two addicts together can be a miracle or a train wreck. All it took was for her to turn to me and say, I wish I could have partied with you just once. And that was it. The very first time she stuck a needle in my vein, I knew I was a junkie.
We used every day. Every penny went to drugs – groceries for my 14 year old daughter were a shoplifted afterthought. Soon things were dire. We were getting evicted, no one would rent to us. Then, like a miracle, I received a call from a woman who told me she was my step-sister, and that my step-father had just passed away, leaving me $100K.
August 30th, the day the money came in, we started at 9 PM. At 5 AM on August 31st, E*** took her last shot. She collapsed onto the bathroom floor. I stood, arms encircling my shocked, silent daughter, watching EMTs give her unsuccessful treatments, sobs raking my whole body. In the end, none of it mattered. She was gone.
I stayed high for the next seven months. But – I wanted to stop. I was miserable, and sick, and I just wanted it all to end. I started going to 12 step meetings. April 7th, 2017, I screwed up the courage to ask for a sponsor. That woman gave me suggestions, and I was so desperate I followed every one. And I have not used alcohol or other drugs since.
I utilized a lot of services in my early days. I had a trauma therapist, an eating disorder therapist, an AODA counselor, a psychiatrist, and my 12-step sponsor. I also had a Medicaid program that offered case management and peer support. These things kept me afloat, taught me how quickly I’d degenerated, and how to live a responsible adult life again.
I knew that a huge part of my recovery needed to be to make meaning out of losing E***. I had always been obsessed with art, and I discovered I could use it to help others if I went back to school and became an art therapist. So, I did.
Today, I’ve found myself, and my purpose. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve taken one step after another, and looking back, I’m astonished to see the miles I’ve walked. Today I’m a trained Recovery Coach, and a WI Certified Peer Specialist and CPS Trainer. I advocate for myself and others in recovery in the local community. I’m back in school and working my way towards a master’s in art therapy. I’m happily married to someone I met in the recovery community. My life is so normal, yet so extraordinary. I owe every single good thing in it to recovery. We do recover.
