How writing kept me from a drug addiction, and how YOU helped

Nearly a year ago, my mother kicked me out of my home because she hated my father. She punished me because I loved him, and that I wanted to have a relationship with him. My mother never had a father, and she couldn’t understand why I wanted to be with mine. So, her hate extended outward. It went from him to me.

I left.

I moved in with my grandmother, who lived not but a few feet from my dad. It wasn’t bad. I had a roof over my head, I didn’t have someone screaming at me because I had asked to stay an extra night with my father, I wasn’t being called a bitch, a gold-digger, selfish, all because I wanted to be happy. But my grandma isn’t an angel. She has her issues, mainly, with pills. She has to have a pain pill every morning and every night just to make it through every day. She lives for them. If she didn’t have those pills, I have no doubt she’d lay in bed until she withered away. Still, she made sure I was fed, happy, and had an easy life. I love her more than she probably knows.

But she doesn’t know she has a problem.

She thinks she hurts and that she is in pain, but she isn’t. My grandmother tells me they tried to take her off pain pills because she was improving, but “it made her sick,” and all they could do for her was to put her back on them. There are times her prescriptions run out, but because she has increased her dosage from the regular one every two days, to two everyday. So, when she runs out, she does get sick, and it’s terrible to see. But when she gets her refill, she’s back to normal. My grandmother has convinced herself that the pills heal her sickness, not that they have caused it – that she has caused it.

So, every time I even feigned a bit of illness, she was pushing two of those little white pills my way. She meant it with good intentions. She’s sick, but she has no clue. I usually tell her “no” and that “I’ll be fine in a bit,” so she’ll just shrug and put it back in the orange canister

Drug addiction isn’t necessarily “genetic,” but I feel like I may be more inclined than other people.

Sometimes, I’ll see my dad’s medication and wonder what it would feel like to take them. It’s a strange feeling. Like an itch you can’t scratch, but it’s mental, not physical. It’s a throb at the very top of my head, near my forehead, but not quite at my hairline. Every time I see pills, I can feel it. It scares me more than I can express. I lay awake at night, crying, wondering if there might be something wrong with me – wondering if I may be sick like my grandmother, or if I will become like her. I love her, but I could never live with myself if I was to become her. But would I even realize it if I was?

If I ever have surgery and they give me pills for the pain, will I be able to handle them? Or will I fall into an addiction that I can’t shake? How do I answer these questions when the only people who I know that can answer are already beyond sick?

How do I stop myself from breaking?

Well, I felt the temptation today. About five minutes before I wrote this blog post. I just got home from work, tired, angry because someone cussed me out over a thing of milk that was 10 cents higher than advertised, and the first thing I saw was my grandmother’s bottle of pills. That little itch started, and it was stronger than I have ever felt before. I entertained the thought for awhile, wondering if just a taste would really make a difference. I was frightened, scared out of my mind, but I couldn’t stop myself from at least opening the bottle and looking at them. I stared long and hard at those little pills, wondering and thinking, just fumbling them around – back and forth, back and forth in my hands.

Then, I closed the cap, and put them back on the side table. I went back to the couch, picked up my laptop, and decided to write this post. Why? Because I’m strong enough to avoid the temptation. I can write out my pain and not have to take a pill to feel better. Because it’s okay to sit at this keyboard and cry, despite the typos and the run-ons. I wrote this because I know there may be someone, somewhere out there who needs a chance. Needs something to tell them, to help them be strong, and to put down those pills or that needle, and if I’m that person, and this is that post, then my struggle and my tears were all worth it.

 

YOU ARE STRONG ENOUGH.

Pills make you weak, they don’t make you strong. You’re strong enough without them, and there’s something better in this world. Time, tears, and love are stronger than any pill ever could be. And even if you think: Sure, there’s time and I can cry, but no one out there loves me. Let me tell you now, I DO.

 

I DON’T KNOW YOU.

I MAY NEVER KNOW YOU.

BUT I DO LOVE YOU.

I WROTE THIS FOR YOU,

BECAUSE I WASN’T STRONG ENOUGH.

NOW I’M STRONG,

AND IT’S BECAUSE OF YOU.

THANK YOU.

Thank you for reading.

-Lissy

Filed under: Personal Posts