Tag: Courage

The Forest

March 10th, 2025

“I took a walk into the forest, and came out taller than the trees.” – Unknown

For years, I never understood those words. But now, I do.

I set out again on another journey of recovery—not my first, but the one that would finally change everything. This time, I was also stepping into motherhood, and the weight of that responsibility cut deep. Every day I asked myself: Will this time really be different? Or will I fail again?

In recovery, we talk about “hitting bottom.” That moment when you stop bargaining, stop lying, and realize it’s death or change. I had reached that point. Empty, broken, stripped bare. But in that emptiness, I found something new: willingness.

For the first time, I wasn’t fighting anymore. Even through detox—the sweats, the shaking, the endless hours—I didn’t run. I just wanted it to be over, so I’d never have to live that way again. Somewhere in the fog, a new thought broke through: I’ll make sure I don’t go back. That fragile spark of hope became my lifeline.

But with it came the crushing weight of guilt and shame. I had given up guardianship of my son because of addiction. That truth haunted me. It whispered constantly: You’re unworthy. You don’t deserve him. You don’t deserve recovery. I believed it for a long time. But little by little, I proved myself wrong—by choosing healing, forgiveness, and showing up as the mother my boy needs.

Recovery taught me something I had always resisted: the power of consistency. ADHD and addiction had left me unreliable, always late, always a mess. But I began writing simple things in a planner: “make bed, shower, daily readings.” At first, it felt impossible. Over time, those little routines became lifelines, proof that I was learning to trust myself again.

Addiction had nearly destroyed me—physically, mentally, spiritually. I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. I was hollow, ashamed, and convinced that dying might be easier than trying again. I had already lost the one thing I swore I’d never sacrifice—my child. What was the point of living? But one truth rose louder than the lies: it was either die, or fight for life.

This time, I found strength in a Higher Power. For years, I only prayed when I was desperate—bargaining with God for another chance. But in recovery, I began building a new understanding of faith: one that wasn’t judgmental or punishing, but loving. I prayed when things were good, not just bad. I started to feel accepted, maybe for the first time. My Higher Power became the one presence that never left me, and that changed everything.

Coming home from treatment was brutal. I had burned so many bridges, broken so much trust. Rebuilding with my family was painful, but over time, healing came. My parents—through it all—never abandoned me. Their love saved me.

But the hardest part was reuniting with my son. Shame nearly swallowed me whole. At first, his guardians resisted my requests for visitation, and the rejection cut deep. I cycled through anger, fear, bargaining, anxiety—every painful emotion. But finally, I held him again. Kissed his face. Felt his little body asleep on my chest. That moment broke something open in me. I didn’t need the perfect words. I just needed to show up. That was the beginning of true amends.

As my family healed, I stepped back into work. Addiction had made me unemployable, but this job gave me second chances in ways that mattered: trust with an office key, grace with my schedule, reminders of what it meant to be reliable. They weren’t small things—they were proof that I was becoming someone new.

Outside of work, I poured myself into recovery. It wasn’t pretty. Some days I cried for no reason. Some days I was restless, irritable, or riding a pink cloud. But one thing never wavered: I didn’t pick up. The obsession was gone. And that was freedom.

Now, looking back, I see the full circle. I see the woman I was—broken, lost, desperate. And I see the woman I’m becoming—stronger, softer, more whole. I carry gratitude now. Gratitude for the pain that shaped me, for the people who stayed, and for the forest I walked through to finally see the sunlight.

Most of all, gratitude for the beauty still ahead.
Broken Crayons

November 20th, 2024

“Mom, I have ADHD, that means I can be bad…..”

“No, buddy, that just means we have to work harder to be better at life.”

Subliminal messages are everywhere in life. We must be willing to look, listen, and pay attention. I suffer from co occurring mental h.ealth disorders and substance abuse, and it’s taken me many years to truly grasp and understand what that means and how to live a functional life. I had just started to think I was figuring things out when I unexpectedly got pregnant!! If you’ve read any of my other blogs you might know that being a mom was something I had always dreamed of, I just never actually saw it happening, so at that time in my life, I felt like it was a sign that God felt that it was time, both for me and for this child. My perspective looking back was that, god knew I needed a reason, greater than myself, to motivate me to continue fighting for this life, and he knew that I would fight for my child. And my son has and continue to save my life, over and over still today.

I used to be that person that used my mental health and addiction as the reason and excuse for everything that went right and wrong in life. When you have mental health issues, you are already blocked to a degree from receiving the gifts of life naturally, as the way you feel and perceive things is skewed. I tend to feel things on such an intense level that isn’t realistic I have to put myself in check 95% of the time.

Being a mom with as much experience in life as I have, I knew I would need to use it, I didn’t imagine it would be one of the first big things I would have to tackle with my son and his own mental health, or having to walk through, teach and advocate for my sons mental health starting at 4 years old.

My pregnancy was challenging, and my son was born premature. This is just one indicatior for mental health issues in young children, but I could see almost immediately that there were cognitive differences in him from others his age. Don’t get me wrong, he is extremely intelligent, and always has been, but he has never slept through the night, he always needed to be held, or he would cry, ad he got older he would easily become overstimulated. The term “climbing the walls” was the literal day to day life we lived. Sometimes night time would roll around and he would be exhausted from being in full gear during the day but his brain just wouldn’t shut off so it would take hours on top of a regular night time routine to get him calm and to the point where he could lay still. It was exhausting.

This was only the beginning of his mental health struggle and fight. I knew as his mother that he had ADHD. It was as if I was watching myself as a young girl, feeling helpless, and wanting so badly to help him, but knowing that in todays world, there is such a stigma around childhood mental health. But I was desprate for both him and I, that we had to do something, as it was only progressively getting worse and he was getting older.

When my son turned 4, we were able to get a formal diganosis of ADHD. For many people that may seem young, but the reality is, mental health does exsist in young child even at that age. It is extremely frustrating as a parent to hear from others, “this is just a phase, he will grow out of it,” or “this is a kid with a lot of enery, let him run it out,” or even the thousand other comments I would hear, when its far more complex then that. There is the OCD, anxiety, depression, and sleep issues that are combined with extreme energy that needed to be addressed, and it was something that I could not fix on my own. My child was struggling, and I was suffering watching him. As a single mom, thats such an awful feeling.

We began medication for him when he was diagnosed, but we struggled to find a psychiatrist due to a lack of resources in our area for children his age. It wasn’t until he was almost five that we finally found the doctor he has today. The journey to get him to this point has been challenging, involving many medication changes and my advocacy for his needs.

There was a period when my son went months without sleep because he was experiencing manic episodes, obsession, anger, sadness, and an inability to focus on anything for more than five minutes. This led to multiple hospital stays lasting weeks at a time. At that point, I realized we had overlooked family history, and he was showing signs of bipolar disorder. Although I am not a doctor, I do have bipolar disorder and ADHD, and I could see that he was exhibiting symptoms similar to mine. As a result, we changed our course of action and adjusted his medication again. Today, he is doing much better.

Advocating for my son, has been such a huge part of this journey. Being a broken crayon, has also, helped to heal the little human I am raising.

Im still trying to teaching him that just because he has mental health issues that its not an excuse to act out. It takes 1000x longer for him to grasp a concept, and we have to practice things more then normal, despite how smart he is.

Our journey is far from perfect, and there are still days when it feels impossibly hard. But there is also so much beauty woven into the chaos — the moments of laughter, the breakthroughs, the quiet nights when we finally rest easy. My son and I are growing together, learning together, healing together.

I have learned that broken crayons still color beautifully, and so do broken people. We are not defined by our diagnoses, but by our willingness to show up, fight, and love anyway.

I hope that when my son looks back one day, he will see not just the struggles, but the strength. Not just the hard moments, but the incredible love that carried us through them.

And maybe, just maybe, he’ll believe — as I do — that he was never broken to begin with. He was always a masterpiece in progress
You Are My Sunshine ☀️

January 15th, 2021

Tonight, as we lay in bed, you asleep on my chest, the soft tune of “You Are My Sunshine” plays quietly in the background. A blue moon and stars, cast from your elephant music maker, shimmer across the ceiling. I glance around the room, taking it all in—the perfectly arranged stuffies you invited to our “sleepover,” your steady breath against my chest—and I breathe in gratitude, acceptance, and peace.

For someone like me, peace hasn’t always been easy to recognize. Chaos became such a normal state of being for so long that calm moments felt foreign—sometimes even uncomfortable. Peace meant being still. Stillness meant being present. And being present often meant sitting with myself—something I used to avoid at all costs.

But recovery has taught me something I never expected: peace shows up in the smallest ways if I’m willing to notice. Tonight was one of those ways. Sure, I lay with my son every night—the same playlist, the same stars reflected on the ceiling, the same rise and fall of his breath—but something about tonight hit differently. Tonight, it felt sacred.

I’ve realized that I’m often so busy tearing myself down—rehashing mistakes, bracing for judgment, or fearing what others might think—that I miss the beauty right in front of me. Even after surviving addiction, custody battles, mental health struggles, and leaving abusive relationships, I still catch myself wondering if I’m “enough.” Wondering if my story is even worth telling. The truth is, just being here, alive to tell it, is already everything.

Covid didn’t help. It shrank my world in ways I didn’t fully see at first. What used to be weekly conversations and interactions turned into monthly, if that. I became too comfortable in my own little bubble. Masks gave me anxiety, running into old faces at the grocery store filled me with dread, and isolation became a habit. Slowly, without realizing it, I slid backward into that too-familiar spiral.

But here’s where I draw the line. My goal this year is to step outside my comfort zone. To expand my world again. To do things that make me feel good about myself—not because anyone else says so, but because I deserve it.

So I’m choosing to make peace my mission. To grab onto those moments when I feel it—like tonight—and actually sit with them. Not rush past them. Not sabotage them. Just let them be.

Because those little moments of peace? They’re proof. Proof that I’ve made it through the storm. Proof that I’m still here. Proof that life—even in its simplest, quietest forms—is worth loving.

And maybe most of all, proof that I’m worth loving, too.
Miracles

September 27th, 2020
On September 2, 2018, my life changed in the most profound way—I became a mother. It was the greatest gift I had ever received, a dream I had held close for as long as I could remember. Yet, despite that lifelong hope, the reality of motherhood had always felt distant and uncertain.

When I found out I was pregnant, I was swept into a whirlwind of emotions. Joy was quickly overshadowed by a deep, all-consuming fear—not just of becoming a parent, but of doing it alone. I hadn’t planned on being a single mom, and that realization hit hard. Fear triggered a cascade of emotions: detachment, anxiety, nervousness, and uncertainty. For nearly six months, I struggled to accept the reality of my pregnancy, unable to fully believe it was happening.

Then came the moment that would redefine my life forever. When I held my son for the first time—his tiny fingers wrapped around mine, his head resting on my chest—I was flooded with an overwhelming sense of love and responsibility. In that instant, the truth sank in: this tiny human was a part of me. I had carried him, created him, and now he was here. That miracle alone could fill pages, but it was only the beginning of our story.

Addiction, Motherhood, and the Storm That Followed

I’ve struggled with the disease of addiction for nearly half my life. I fought relentlessly to break free—years in and out of treatment centers, jails, and psychiatric hospitals left me feeling defeated and hopeless.

But finding out I was pregnant gave me something I hadn’t felt in years: hope. Despite the fear, despite the uncertainty, I saw a chance—maybe my only real chance—to change everything. My son’s arrival wasn’t just a turning point; it was a lifeline. Holding him, I felt a sense of purpose I had never known before.

Still, nothing could have prepared me for how fragile recovery would be in those first weeks. After a complicated C-section with preeclampsia, the very medications prescribed to help me heal reignited the cravings I thought I had left behind. Addiction doesn’t care if it comes from a prescription or a street corner—it all lands the same. Slowly, quietly, the disease crept back in.

At the same time, postpartum depression hit. Within his first month of life, my son was hospitalized twice. He wouldn’t sleep unless he was in my arms. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and drowning under the weight of new responsibilities—starting a job, moving into our own place, juggling bills. I tried to keep going, but it all spiraled quickly.

I began leaving him with my mom just to escape to the casino for a moment of air. Anxiety led me to a doctor, who prescribed Xanax and other medications. At first, it felt manageable. But soon I was slipping—taking more than prescribed, being secretive again. Old habits. Old lies. That’s when I knew: it wasn’t just stress. The disease was back.

The Hardest Choice

Within months of his birth, I faced a devastating truth: if I didn’t make a drastic change, I would lose everything. So I made the hardest decision of my life—I signed over guardianship of my son to a trusted family while I went into treatment.

It was the most painful choice I’ve ever made. Handing over my child felt like the ultimate failure, but it was also the only way to save us both. I promised myself that I would fight to be the mother he deserved, even if the path was long.

That path stretched on for nearly two years. Treatment, recovery, setbacks, and a custody battle that tested every ounce of my strength. There were nights I doubted I’d ever get him back. But I held on.

And then came the miracle.

On September 14, 2020, the judge terminated the guardianship. My son was mine again. That day, I felt the weight of the world lift from my shoulders.

What This Journey Taught Me

This road has taught me more than I can put into words:
- Gratitude — For God’s grace, for parents who never gave up, for a son who loves me unconditionally, and for a recovery program that keeps me grounded in spiritual principles.
- Fear and frustration — For the pain of not having a say in my child’s life and learning to walk through that with dignity, even when I felt powerless.
- Humility and self-acceptance — For finally learning that I am not less-than. That my failures don’t define me. That showing up for my son, one day at a time, is enough.
I could write endlessly about the lessons and miracles along the way. But the bottom line is this:

I stand in awe of who God has helped me become. I am living proof of His grace, of His power to restore. Today, my son and I live free—together, whole, and healed.

Recovery is possible. Miracles are real. And every day, I get to wake up to mine.
Disneyland

March 2nd, 2020

“They call it the happiest place on earth.” Sure. If your definition of happy includes melted ice cream tears, toddler meltdowns, and parents stress-eating $9 churros just to survive the day.

Don’t get me wrong—I love Disneyland. But this trip was different. This time, I brought my tiny human sidekick. And let me tell you, seeing the magic through his 18-month-old eyes almost made me forget that we paid $6 for bottled water. Almost.

He was mesmerized. Jessie from Toy Story, Minnie Mouse, Mr. Potato Head—straight up celebrities to him. The way he stared, like his whole brain was exploding in sparkles, was priceless. I swear, if Minnie had asked him to move in, he’d have packed his diaper bag on the spot.

Of course, not everything was magical. Ursula from The Little Mermaid? Nope. Monsters Inc.? Hard pass. Basically, anything with a dark room and loud noises was nightmare fuel. But tractors at California Adventure? Yes. Driving cars on Autopia like he had his driver’s license? Double yes. I got it all on video because I’m that mom.

And let’s talk food. Disneyland food is daylight robbery with sprinkles on top. Corn dogs, pizza, fruit cups that cost more than my weekly groceries… but hey, I guess that’s how they fund the fireworks show. And okay, I’ll admit it—those fireworks? Worth every overpriced bite.

Then there were the princesses. Sparkly gowns, tiaras, twirling down Main Street like tiny queens. Every little girl looked like she had just signed a contract with Disney royalty. Meanwhile, I looked like I had signed a contract with exhaustion.

Because here’s the truth: Disneyland with a toddler is no joke. It takes stamina, snacks, and the patience of a saint. By the end, I was fried. But the last ride sealed it for me: It’s a Small World. My son was in a full trance—dancing, pointing, quacking at the ducks like it was his own private concert. I could’ve ridden it 10 more times just to watch him live his best life.

Here’s my hot take: Disneyland is still overcrowded, overpriced, and hotter than Hades. But this time? I actually loved it. And here’s why—recovery.

If I wasn’t clean, I wouldn’t have been there. I wouldn’t have had the patience, the presence, or the joy to soak in that chaos with my son. Recovery let me show up—not just for him, but for me too.

So yeah, Disneyland is crazy. But seeing it through his little eyes? Worth every penny, every meltdown, and every overpriced churro.

Grateful. Exhausted. But mostly grateful.
Courage over Fear

March 3rd, 2018

I often find myself in a place where I don’t know what to write about, and then I read something and my mind goes running 🏃‍♀️ but my fingers can’t catch up!

Courage– a word that has many different meanings, and is one of the most powerful.

I am reminded on a daily basis how much courage it takes to show up and live life! Being an addict in recovery is one of the hardest, yet most rewarding things I’ve ever done!

I face many challenges that used to send me spiraling out of control, and today walk through them with a new found courage. A majority of my life I used some sort of substance or behavior to change the way that I felt! I’m slowly learning different ways to deal with my fear today!

I have shared a few different experiences on my blog, but sometimes just showing up and facing life takes a lot of courage when what you have known for so long in the bottom of a spoon, or the inside of a dope sack, or an atmosphere where the sounds from gaming drown out any thoughts, yet make your heart race.

Choosing to come off my meds while pregnant 🤰🏼 demonstrators courage in a way I haven’t known, because I get to trust and believe that my god will take care of me and this baby. I have only ever known getting loaded when I’m not medicated so this is much different for me!

Everyday I get to work towards a better future and walk through fear to achieve the life I have always dreamed.

🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻
Spoons

March 2nd, 2018

As long as I’ve been in recovery, I have always had triggers. Today things don’t trigger me like they used to, but occasionally I can end up on a train ride through the past.

I left a spoon from my coffee on the counter in the bathroom, not thinking anything of it. Tonight when I got home after a crazy, long day, I walked into the bathroom to start my nightly routine and noticed the spoon 🥄 on the counter.

When I picked the spoon up there was a watery brown substance that I KNOW FOR A FACT WAS COFFEE, but my brain switched into disease mode and I instantly started flashing on the past.

My story of active addiction and recovery takes place MOSTLY in THIS house, in THAT bathroom. So walking in on an innocent spoon left on the counter sent me spinning.

I am just about at 7 months, clean and sober again. It’s been almost 18 months since I last used heroin, and even though it’s been that long, I still found myself flash-back as if it was just yesterday….that I used last.

The many days and nights that I would spend locked in my bathroom trying to find a vein so I could get well, instantly made me nauseous. Somethings I can remember as clear as day and others I have no recollection of.

I was not triggered to want to use, but I sure did emotionally find myself stuck on the train ride and remembering some of the things I have put my family through, and how grateful I am that my child will never have to see me loaded, as long as I choose to stay on this path!
Female General

February 16th, 2018

The room is shaped like the state of Nevada. It has two floors like most county jails. The one difference is, our Gen Pop isnt separated by cells, we are all kept in the same pod, with 35 or so bunk beds between the top and bottom floor. Our day room consists of 7-8 tables depending on how full the pod is and how many females are being housed at that current moment. There is one tv, that we dont have any control over, so a majority of the time, we watch the same channel over and over and over again, day in and day out. The louder the tv, the louder the women, their for its never quiet. Even if you buy a pair of ear plugs off of commissary, they only muffle the sound a little bit.

5am “Line up for Chow, Line up for Chow”, and there you will stay for half hour to 40 minutes waiting for the Juice Boys to bring breakfast. Breakfast is pretty legit, and pretty consistant unlike lunch and dinner which you never know what your gonna get. At first you might pass on your tray and give it to one of the other girls, cause you just cant stomach whats in front of you. Normally it takes a few days to become accustomed to the atmosphere and food.

Everyone is dressed the same. Black and white stripes. And you only get to change out once a week on sundays. There are showers available to use, and its defiantly a MUST to take care of personal hygiene in jail. The jail stripes dont hold to well to body odor and not showering, and 35 women in the same room with those who dont shower can get really nasty. Some of these women are NOT VERY nice about this issue either.

If you have been in custody for a while, you have probably accumulated what they call “whites” and “shower stuff” , and commissary, which makes life in jail a little bit easier and more comfortable. Whites are to be worn under your stripes and most girls wash them every other day, which helps to keep body odor gone and manageable. Showering daily with shampoo and conditioner and soap from commissary is also a huge help.

Before the deputies will move you from Booking to Female General they will ask you a series of questions, one being, “are you going to detox from drugs or alcohol?” 99% of the time, the girls say no, because staying in booking is worse then being in female general while detoxing.

So, you come back to Female General. Its day 3, you go to court, find out that you will not be leaving on an “OR” like everyone hopes for. You know your going to be sick and detoxing, you just arent sure how bad its going to be. The jail will not give you your mental health meds because you have to be seen by the DR first, and hes only there on Thursdays, even though you were put on the list, you still have to wait a week. You know your really gonna go into detox and withdrawal.

And so it begins. Its the worst feeling youve ever felt. No, your not detoxing from Heroin or Meth this time. Maybe some Alcohol. But 17 different Psych Meds that you believed you were on for a “good” reason.
Cold Floors and Clear Truths: My Wake-Up Call in a Jail Cell

June 30th, 2017

After months of trying to manage my life, my emotions, my losses, and the overwhelming weight of reality, I finally came face to face with the truth of my disease — inside the county jail.

This wasn’t the first time I had ended up behind bars, but this time was different. This time, something in me shattered. The cold, concrete floor didn’t just bruise my body — it broke through the denial I had been clinging to. I had hit what some people call “rock bottom,” but for me, it felt more like a complete unraveling.

This situation was utterly unacceptable to me (not that spending waking up on the cold concrete floor of a jail cell was ever acceptable, but this – somehow, was different) I spent the first day in a thick fog, still hungover from the vodka I had drowned myself in the night before. The night before ended with red and blue flashing lights, me ultimately in handcuffs, and a DUI charge. As I lay there regretting the choices of the prior evening the next morning with a head pounding and body aches, I repeatedly ask myself: How did I end up here — again?

It always begins with same old delusion that I can handle: “Just one”. (of anything) I believed I deserved AND needed it to cope with the grief of losing both of my grandparents within the same month, who I cared for in their dying days. Losing them was unbearable, and weight I was not prepared to to face or accept and deal with. However, the truth is, I never learned how to sit with pain, I only ever learned how to run from it and drinking, and using became my coping skills. I thought they protected me, but they only ever destroyed me. The result was always the same: desperation, degradation, guilt, and shame.

This wasn’t the first time I had tried to drink away grief, or the first time I convinced myself I was fine. But that’s the cunning nature of addiction it makes you believe you’re in control right up until everything falls apart. And once again, I was facing the wreckage of that delusion. The pattern was all too familiar: use, spiral, crash, regret. Rinse and repeat.

Even in that dark, hopeless place, one thing remained constant: God was still there, my constant. Even when I had nothing to offer — no strength, no willpower, no self-respect — He found me. He sat with me in that jail cell. Not to punish me, but to remind me that I wasn’t alone.

I was being held on a parole and probation violation tied to a specialty court program I had been participating in after a prior possession charge. ( Which in short means, I was not eligible for bail) And while I sat in jail waiting for release, time kept moving without me. During this time period, I missed my grandpa’s funeral. This was the moment the weight of everything I had lost and given up finally caught up with me. There was no undoing, rewinding, or making wishes that I could do to set right the choices I had made.

I remember the heartbreak of knowing I couldn’t be there, and the feeling of guilt and helplessness. The sharp, painful regret. I would have given anything to rewind time, to undo what I’d done, to make better choices. But I couldn’t. And in that moment of complete defeat, I felt something I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time: powerlessness.

That feeling didn’t make me weak — it made me human. I couldn’t hide behind my pride or my excuses anymore. I was sick, and I needed help.

After being moved to female general, off the cold concrete floor, I finally got the luxury – as some might say- lying on that cold metal bunk, surrounded by the crowd of noisy women, who were screaming, sobbing, pacing — I had never wanted my freedom more. Not just the freedom to walk out of jail, but the deeper sense of freedom: the kind that breaks chains, lifts shame, and makes healing possible. I wanted freedom and to break the cycle from active addiction. Freedom from the cravings, from using, the behaviors, and freedom from myself.

Recovery wasn’t immediate, nor was it flawless. Yet, it began at that moment of surrender. For me, the foundational seeds were firmly planted that day on the cold concrete floor. I discovered acceptance, freedom, and a part of myself that marked the beginning of my healing journey.

If there’s one lesson I’ve gained since the beginning, it’s this: you can’t escape pain and find peace. You must confront it. You need to learn to sit with yourself, acknowledge the truth, recognize your brokenness — and believe that something greater can help restore you.

That’s where my journey truly began. On the floor of a jail cell. Amidst the wreckage of everything I thought I controlled.

But rock bottom, I’ve learned, can also be the foundation on which life can be built.
Stuck on repeat….

February 8th, 2017

My life has very seldom been boring. If I wasn’t living the madness in reality, Ive been busy creating and telling myself a new story in my head due to something traumatic or damaging that had happened, in order to protect myself and SURVIVE those moments or periods of time.

There came a point when all my life was, was SURVIVAL…and I started learning at a young age.

Emotionally, I felt alone. The detachment and disconnecting started when I was just a little girl. I had this dream. There was me on one side of the pond, and my mom on the other, and alligators in the middle. I had to scream at the alligators in the pond, to just let me get to my mom; who was standing on the other side of the pond. I could never get to her. And every night when I had this dream, I would wake up, and never have gotten to my mom. Those were my nightmares for years. I never knew what it was about, or why, I just knew that I had them. It happened when I was sick, or when I was I afraid of something.

All my life growing up, anytime that I talked about how I felt, I was made to feel different. My fears were crazy and weird to other people, and I was far from popular or much liked in school. I did not have a high self-esteem even as young as I can remember. I remember being in elementary school and being made fun of for how I dressed and for who I was, even tho I was just learning. Back then, you wouldn’t think how you did your hair, or how you dressed really mattered, but it did. I was not the coolest, in the class, and it mattered to me.

Either way, I started to learn how to do this thing, they call, “detaching” Or disassociating. Take myself away to somewhere else and play in my head till it was ok to come back again. (I didn’t know at that time this was what I was doing, I learned later on this is what was happening)

As I grew up, this behavior continued. As a result, I was unable to participate in relationships due to the fact that I couldn’t show up and be apart as a whole. I had done myself damage. Not only had I been on and off drugs since I was 14, but I had taught myself that anytime that I felt unwanted feelings, I would go somewhere else, to get away from those feelings. I also had childhood trauma which led to me deeper into drug use, and deeper in detachment and dissociating.

I feel like my life had turned in a broken record, or a scratched CD. I was on a roller coaster ride I had never heard about. Things were getting worse, and things started happening that I had never imagined before. I just wanted it to end.

It only got worse, and things just continued to go down hill. I wish that I could say that my story turned around here, but it didn’t. Unforntantely I had many more years of misery, and drug use followed here. Its been a long 15 years. Im lucky to be alive. Living the life of a drug addict, with mental health issues, some of us dont live to write about it. I however, did!