Chemically Dependent

God, grant me the serenity To accept the things I cannot change; The courage to change the things that I can; And the wisdom to know the difference
Karl Paul Reinhold Niebuhr

This is my first proper dose of humility. I am an addict. Cocaine became a part of my life when I was 22 years old. It started innocently enough as an "only on the weekends indulgence and occasional party favor, but quickly developed into something entirely out of my control. I was powerless. Hunter S. Thompson once wrote that You can turn your back on a person, but never turn your back on a drug, especially when its waving a razor sharp hunting knife in your eye. For me, that razor sharp knife was a thin, perfectly cut, straight line of white powder. I loved everything about it: the smell, the feeling of complete euphoria as the fine pasty substance dissolved in my nasal passage, magnifying my senses and literally sending shivers down my spine. The more I used the more my tolerance increased. Within several months, cocaine became the most important thing in my life. I never wanted to be an addict. I don't think any of us do. I grew up just outside of Chicago, with my parents and little brother in a typical, middle-class suburb. Many people think that nothing makes it easier to resist temptation than a proper upbringing with a sound a set of values and morals. But my adolescent years were happy and normal. I was the classic overachiever: popular, outgoing, active in extracurricular activities, and very successful in school. There was no trauma, no dysfunction. There were no gateway drugs or unmanageable

behavior in my past. I never even smoked cigarettes. My parents would do absolutely anything for me and my little brother loved me unconditionally. Ive seen the egg in the frying pan commercials and the crack heads hookers on the streets. But somehow it never registered with me that my overwhelming urge to constantly chase the eluding feeling of ecstasy could lead to major physical and psychological health problems, an alienated family life, and the scourge of friends. Each time I got high I was looking for that same exhilaration I felt the first time I snorted. Each time I came up shorter and shorter. It was never enough. It never could have been. The likelihood of an early death didnt even scare me. At the time, in my skewed frame of mind, I had the attitude that this was not going to happen to me. All addicts think This isnt going to happen to me. In the end, it did. My parents became concerned when I started losing weight and getting random bloody noses. They questioned me, but I always denied everything. Being parents, they persisted in being suspicious and I persisted in denying. I not only denied it to my parents, I denied it to myself. I eventually stopped spending time with my true friends and family because I didn't want them to know I was using. I just made new friends who shared my values and matched my behavior. My condition was completely obvious to everyone but myself. A skeletal exterior, with sunken, lifeless eyes, ashy skin and a persistent, unmistakable sniffle is what became of the pretty blonde girl with a big smile and large expressive blue eyes. I was creating damage all around me, but I refused to see it. It was like the old me had died already. When my little brother asked my mom what was wrong with me, all she could only tell him was, Your sister is very sick.

Although I had separated myself from my friends and family as much as possible because I wanted to avoid the accusations, I still made an effort to show up at major family events a few times a year. I didnt want my parents to be forced to explain my absence and field question as to what I was up to. One of those major events was my brothers First Holy Communion. I showed up at the morning service after a long night of partying. Coming down from a buzz and still clad in my tight black leather pants and see-through black lace top, I sat in the pew next to my mortified grandmother for the 2 hours church service. Everyone within several pews of us could smell the rancid cigarette smoke and booze radiating from my body. I stood out like big black gorilla among a sea of suit clad gentlemen and ladies in pastel church dresses. Everyone was horrified and my parents were completely humiliated. I had ruined what should have been a momentous and religiously significant experience for my little brother and my family. Now memories of that day are clouded with my poor decisions and selfish actions. He can never get that day back. Things came to a head-on collision a few months later on the day of my little brothers birthday party. This was one of the few family occasions that I planned on attending because I knew there would be minimal time available for questioning. It had been almost 2 years into my love affair with cocaine and she was all that mattered to me. My mother (herself wanting to keep an eye on me) had asked me to help her supervise the children in the party room of Chuck E. Cheese's. I, of course, was out partying the night before, and still inebriated, stumbled into bed sometime before 8am. Getting up in time for the 1pm festivities was impossible. I wouldnt even be sober by then. When my mom came in to wake me up at 11am, I was completely unresponsive. She gave up after 45min. Needless to say I never made it to the birthday party and left my mother hanging with 15 rambunctious children.

Later that night, while I was taking a shower, my mother ransacked my room. She found my stash, the rolled up bills, cut up straws, the dirty razorblades and the mirror streaked with remnants of coke. She was waiting for me with the loot when I stepped out of the bathroom. The disappointment and hurt that I saw on my mothers face will forever be etched into my memory. With tears running down her face and drug paraphernalia in her hands she asked me, When did your life become so unbearable and utterly hopeless that you are choosing to kill yourself? For the first time I did not have a rational answer, but even if I did, I do not think it would have mattered. My mother was not about to take any more of my crap. The very next morning she took me for an evaluation to a doctor who was an addiction medicine specialist. The doctor recommended an intensive outpatient program combined with personal therapy to establish my way to recovery. My rehabilitation continued for five months during which I also attended Narcotics Anonymous meetings. As my treatment tapered off, I still struggled with numerous issues, as I still do, but I never turned to drugs to help me deal with my emotions again. Instead, I find comfort in God and realize that this is a lifelong process. My first day of sobriety was 6 years ago. I have since regained my sense of personal integrity and responsibility necessary for me to stay off of drugs all because of my wonderful mother, an extremely determined woman, who made it her top priority to help me. She made me realize that if I didn't do something, cocaine was going to kill me. I was living in a prison constructed by myself, for myself. I started getting high because the moment I snorted everything that was wrong in my life immediately felt okay. It took my parents to make me realize that my life was entirely hopeless if I continued down my path of self destruction. They made me realize I was merely existing and barely surviving. The drug was what had caused all the problems, yet I kept turning to it to take away the pain that its consequences had caused. It became a circle of

slow demise. I've been offered a second chance and its something I do not take lightly, because not everyone gets a second chance.