I'm not writing to justify. I'm not writing to simplify. I'm not writing for sympathy or pity or even forgiveness. I'm writing to write. To get this word vomit out. I need to explain, to express, to engage.
I have a drug problem. I am in recovery for an addiction to prescription pain medication.
I don't know where to start. I had overcome an addiction several years ago. I did an outpatient rehab program. It was fine. I was fine. The obsession wasn't gone but I managed.
I had June and the subsequent surgeries and pain sent me back to the depths of addiction. The pain was legitimate but so was my physical and psychological dependence on opiates. At one point it came to light and people found out that I had stolen medication from family members. I was getting better though. I would be okay.
Then I got pregnant again. My uterus was beat up and tired. It could barely handle the stress of the pregnancy and the burgeoning baby. I was on a fair amount of medication to ease the discomfort. Some days were better than others but as the months went by I become cripplingly dependent on the medication. I would go through minor withdrawals only hours after my previous dose. I knew my addiction was full fledged and yet I didn't speak up. I didn't know how to tell my doctor, I was afraid of many things. Toward the end of the pregnancy Dr Man mentioned Theo may have to spend some time in the NICU for withdrawal. I told him I would quit the medication right then and there if that meant Theo would be okay. No, he would withdrawal in utero and there would be nothing we could do to help him.
Theo was born and whisked straight to the NICU for his initial breathing issues. A few days into our stay, his withdrawals became apparent. He would cry, become agitated, have diarrhea. There was a list we went through every day to monitor him. He spent two weeks on a medication to taper him down and finally off.
I went to an post-natal rehab program and felt out of place. I wasn't like them. I was different, better, more educated, I still had custody of my kids. I was in denial.
My pain resurfaced. So did my addiction. While Theo was in the NICU I tapered off the medication as well. Even after a c-section, I wanted to be done. But old habits die hard and the first twinge of pain I got another prescription.
I knew if I went behind my family's back to get medication I would be in trouble. They knew I had struggled with addiction. They knew I couldn't use the medication properly.
I did it anyway. I acquired prescriptions, all legally. After my hysterectomy, I vowed to myself I would get better. I'd stop. There was no more physical pain. But there was emotional pain. Years of emotional scars that would begin to open and fester when I stopped numbing them.
So I delved deeper. I didn't stop. I continued to use behind my husband's back. I lied. I stole, again.
I breastfed my infant. And this is probably the most illogical thing about it - I was afraid to go on anti-depressants while breastfeeding. I was afraid to drink. But I continued to take narcotics while my son was depending on me to nourish him.
My world came crashing down around my feet on Monday, September 23. I was found out as a thief. The next day Thomas came to my parents where I had been staying to get some help and took my babies. I'm now living with my parents while my children live elsewhere.
I'm entering a residential rehab program on Tuesday. I'll be gone for 30 days. 30 days to work through my demons and get to the core of why I need to not feel the majority of my emotions.
I get my phone one hour a day to talk to family. During that hour I plan to also post a picture on IG and document my day. I have to have some sort of creative outlet for this to work.
So these are the rough waters I've swam into. I'm determined to paddle as hard as I can to shore.
