I want to share with you my hopes and dreams. My major hope is that my son grows up to be a loving, loyal, honest, and successful young man who blossoms into a wonderful grown man. This is something I can control as much as possible and make come true.
My dream is to educate him as much as humanly possible so he makes wise decisions in the future. I want him to make sound and example decisions. I want only the best for him. My parents did and wanted the same for me.
I can’t remember ever having the “drug talk” with them. I do remember the birds and the bees. But not drugs.aye it would have made a difference maybe not. Heck, maybe we even had that discussion and I just simply don’t remember it. But in their defense I’m a 90’s baby and there wasn’t much child/teenage drug activity during my younger years.
I was 12 when my parents got divorced. It was so shocking since my parents weren’t the type to ever be heard or seen fighting. When they had problems they were sure to hide it quite well. So thus began a depression I didn’t know if I could ever come up out of. Surely enough, I did, 12 long years later.
At 16, I was in highschool along with many other rotten 16 year olds. I met my sons father, Ken, around this time. We became nearly inseparable.
And at age 19 I had our son via a cesarean section. Now, I don’t know how much you know about being cut wide open and full of gas, but it certainly hurts. Very badly.
After surgery they prescribed me pain meds. Oxycodone 5s. I used them as a pain remedy and then kept using them and using them. I no longer needed them for pain but I needed them for my addiction. To get out of bed. To go to the store. To cook dinner. I kept on eating them like candy and soon enough began snorting them to get the full effect.
This went on for several years.
My son’s father wound up in prison on a drug charge. A much larger scale than pain pills. Neither of us used any of what he dealt in but nonetheless it was illegal to sell. I remember thinking to myself,
What am I going to do without him? I’ve never really worked. I don’t have any particular skills or experience other than selling drugs.
I worked odd jobs. I became a waitress, a bartender, a telemarketer, and an even bigger drug addict. I met a guy who treated me like a queen but had a big secret to keep hidden.
He was a closet heroin addict.
He had even hidden it from me for some time. Finally I found him near death on y bathroom floor with a needle hanging out of his arm. I didn’t panic. I didn’t call 911. I lugged him towards the tub and doused him with cold water until he began to breathe and choke on his own breath.
Months went by and I finally tried it myself. It wasn’t as if I just up and said,
Hey why not try to kill yourself?!
But I was in pain. Physical and mental. I had gone to a mental health doctor and was pronounced fine by him. So that clearly wasn’t the truth! However, I have fibromyalgia and my entire body hurt. My legs hurt so bad I was in tears.