Not Broken, Just Cracked: My Story

cindy scaccia
Nov 18, 2018 · 8 min read

1965 to the early 70’s:

I have battled depression since I was a child…as young as 5 or 6 years old. I grew up in an extremely dysfunctional family with a mother who was severely emotionally abusive. By age 6, I had withdrawn into myself and forgot how to smile. I had absolutely no self-confidence. I couldn’t seem to make even one friend. I was bullied and tormented in school…I grew up feeling like the most unwanted, unlikable, worthless child in the world.

It was no surprise then, that at the age of 12, I discovered alcohol. I look back now and believe that on some level, the alcohol saved my life, because without it, the pain and loneliness I felt in my little world was so overwhelming, I probably would’ve committed suicide. At the age of 19-after my 13-year-old brother was hit and killed by a drunk driver in front of 4 of his friends, I found cocaine and painkillers. Eventually, I found heroin. I became an alcoholic and an addict-and I didn’t care.

1989:

I have almost 15 years of my life in a drug-induced haze of humiliation. 15 years of losing jobs, apartments and relationships. Then, at 22, I found out I was having a baby-and I quit everything. When I held my son for the first time and looked at this tiny, perfect human being, my heart swelled with a love so strong that I thought it would burst. I didn’t know I can feel anything so powerful and so wonderful! I had finally done something right and good. I had found my true calling! I managed to stay clean for almost 4 ½ years. My son was the only thing that made me want to get better; to live.

Mid 90’s ish:

Then, when my baby was 5 or 6 years old, I relapsed. I don’t know why, or even when, I took the first drink. But it quickly took control of my life. And ruined it. I tried my best to hide it, but it was hopeless. I was back in the throes of addiction again. By the time my sweet boy was 10 years old, it became obvious to everyone, including myself, that I was in no shape to be taking care of a child. I couldn’t even take care of myself. My family was pressuring me to go into treatment. I had thought about it, too, but I had my 6-year-old son to think about.

1999:

Finally, I agreed to go to detox. If I wanted any kind of a normal life, I needed to get clean and sober. Again. My family was pressuring me to do something, but I told them repeatedly that I was afraid (no, terrified) that if I went away, my son’s father would take him away from me and I COULDN’T bear that! “He wouldn’t do that!” they said. “We wouldn’t let him do that”

So, I went. And I stayed for 12 days and left feeling, for the first time in my life, that there was hope, after all. I couldn’t wait to go home and see my son. When I walked into my house, I saw a document on my kitchen table. It was a court document stating that my family had gone to court to support my baby’s father in taking custody of my son away from me.

I felt a sudden, stabbing pain. It was unlike anything I have ever felt in my life-like someone sticking knives into an open wound in my soul. It was the deepest, most hideous sorrow I’d ever known; a heartache; an emotional deadness so raw and deep that it made me want to throw up or claw my own heart out. I wanted to scream; to let out a glass-shattering, gut-wrenching, guttural roar of pain, but I didn’t know how. How do you express that level of pure, unadulterated agony? How do you express so much heartbreak and agony that it’s turning your heart and soul black with grief? What does that much anguish and despair sound like? What if I couldn’t stop the scream once I started?

A part of me died that day and, when my attempts to get my son back failed, I finally let myself drown in a life of drugs, alcohol, homelessness.

Late 90’s to early 2000’s:

Over the years, I lost everything. My son, money, homes, jobs, any self-respect I had left, and most of all, hope. The debilitating guilt and shame was overwhelming. I had a police record for the first time in my life. I was homeless-sleeping in shelters or outside if it felt safe enough. My family turned their backs on me. I wanted to die.

Wanting to just STOP, but how?

2014ish:

It has now been 20 years since I lost my son. I’d been in and out of multiple rehabs, but I failed time and time again. I had reached a point in time where everyone, including myself, had lost hope that I would ever join the living again. As addiction does, I became a slave to a drug. I went to jail more than once and stopped trying to find ways to get better. Instead, I just struggled to get through another day. How would I eat, where could I go to get out of the cold, where would I lay down my head that night? Day after day. Strangers and shoppers walking by avoided making eye contact with me, for fear that I might try to beg some change or a cigarette. Store employees, doctors…everyone treated me like I was just another junkie, polluting their world and living off the system.

Then, I woke up one morning with a little flicker of will and hope inside me. I don’t know where it came from, but I realized that if I didn’t get clean, this was going to be my legacy to my family and my son. I didn’t want to die where I was, sleeping on some dirty man’s floor in a rooming house infested with cockroaches and smelling of old smoke and dirty people. I would become just another nameless, faceless, worthless nobody found dead on some transient’s floor and the world would breathe a sigh of relief and say “good riddance. That’s one less leech on the community”

God, please! I didn’t want to die like this! I don’t know where the will and the strength came from, but I decided I would go into treatment one last time. I would try as hard as I could to stick with it this time, but if I relapsed again, I would take my own life. I reached a decision to try one more time.

2009 to 2012:

In my last rehab program, my life and behaviors began to change. I was starting to like myself again! I remained in the last program for 10 months. I had met a nice, caring man and together we managed to find a small apartment. I became hungry for recovery. During my 2nd year in recovery, I took a one-year course to become a certified addictions counselor and interned at a Detox that would eventually hire me once my classes ended. It’s been 7 years and I’m still there.

2017:

This year, I lost my only remaining brother committed suicide killing himself, and his son (my nephew), with a gun in a murder-suicide. My brother suffered from untreated depression and PTSD. Although he suffered through the same dysfunctionalchildhood as I, he never treated his mental illness or resolved his issues with the demons in his head. When he was told that his son had behavioral issues, I think he saw himself again as a child. I think, in taking his son’s life along with his own, he felt like he was ‘saving’ him from the same sad fate as he.

This is only my guess. I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand where his thoughts were that night. The point is, as difficult and hurtful as life can be, I didn’t feel the need to get high or drink. I didn’t have to numb my feelings. I was able to work through them and stay sober.

2018:

Today, I have a job I am fiercely dedicated to. I have a home and a cat. There is joy and gratitude in my heart. Looking back on my broken years, I now know God had his hand on my back. By His grace, I’m not six-feet under. It was divine intervention that steered me to my last cry for help. Not a day passes that I don’t remember the ugly past and find gratitude that God helped save me.

I have dreams today.

I’ve come to see that I can only help people so much in my current job. My clients need more than 7 days in a detox full of over-worked, burnt-out staff. It’s a public detox and they bog us down with too much paperwork, too many clients to see and not nearly enough pay.

Those clients who are making the herculean effort to change their lives and escape the devastating life of addiction deserve better. They need help when they leave. They need help to learn how to live in the real world again. I’m not satisfied with what I’m doing right now. I need to do more!

Eventually, I want to open a 30 to 60-day post-detox program. A place where people can heal and grow and recover. I’m already enrolling in college to earn my Bachelors-and eventually my Masters-degree in social work, but I am really struggling financially. My paychecks barely cover basic living expenses! However, before I can do that, I need to pay off my old medical bills, improve my credit and start saving. Then, I can begin working on my dreams of a rehab.

Why am I telling you this?

It’s not because I’m looking for a pat on the back, or sympathy. I just want to let you know, it possible. It’s never hopeless. As long as you are still breathing, you still have the chance to change your life…and there is help out there!

cindy scaccia

I am an avid writer, as well as a full-time addictions counselor. I enjoy volunteering, reading, the outdoors, horseback riding, volunteering and crafts

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade