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!
Due October 6. 2018. What will it be? A boy, or a girl? The constant thought and question once I got past my initial shock.
No matter how bad I wanted to be a mom, I was not ready, and it could have been a terrible disaster bringing a baby into this world during that time in my life. Today I’m grateful for Gods timing.
Am I ready? I ask myself frequently! The drastic changes that have had to take place in my life since I found out that I’m expecting are simply miracles, or at least I’d have to say. Up until this point I don’t believe I would have been capable of taking such responsibility and caution to care for this little peanut 🥜 growing inside me.
As an addict, I know the struggles I have faced in trying to get clean and stay clean. After years of fighting this battle, I understand how this is a cunning baffling and powerful disease, and I am powerless to it! I could not stop using drugs, regardless of the consequences, and it was a painful process for myself and everyone in my life. Finding out I was pregnant, I knew it was no longer just about me, and I had to make a choice to be selfless for the sake of this little being.
After almost a year of struggle, I was finally stable on mental health meds, and I knew that they were not safe and would be harmful to my baby, So we began the detox process, the day I found out I was pregnant! I wanted to make sure that I got through the pregnancy with the baby in mind, and that at the forefront.
I guess we could say that I’m an extremist. It’s black and white, all or nothing! So immediately I changed my caffeine intake and quit smoking as well. To be in a position where it’s no longer just about me, but a little baby I’m growing inside me, gives me the motivation to take better care of myself!
Today I’m 7 weeks and 5 days. Finally, completely off all of my medications, and am exhausted everyday! I can sleep all night and still take a nap and go to bed early. The baby sucks every ounce of energy out of me.
As for how I’m feeling, well…..Nauseous, and always craving pickles, and green olives! Constantly drinking milk. Maybe I have a salt defincincy, cause the amount of pickles and green olives I eat is still never enough to curb my cravings!
I have seen my baby 👶 twice now. Heart beat is good, and so far we’re doing well! This whole thing is a lot!
I see the dr again in a week and a half and will be able to hear the heart beat, and get some pictures of my precious little peanut!
So far I’ve gained a total of 5 lbs, but that seems to fluctuate depending on time of day! My clothes are getting tighter and my skin is much more clear then I have ever seen it before. My hair feels much thicker then normal, and it seems to be growing.
I have started to have really weird dreams at night but I hear thats normal! The days seem to be going by really slow! But I’m sure this little peanut 🥜 will be here before I know it, and ill be wishing during those sleepless nights that I could put them back inside.
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.
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.
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!
On January 20, 2017, after being on the run, chained once again to this disease, I was arrested. The charges? A warrant for paraphernalia I didn’t even know I had, possession of a controlled substance, and three more counts of paraphernalia.
Being on the run wasn’t glamorous or rebellious—it was exhausting, terrifying, and empty. I barely slept, if I slept at all. I begged or panhandled for money to maintain my $100-a-day habit. When begging wasn’t enough, I stole—sometimes from family, sometimes from friends, sometimes from stores, anywhere I could—to make sure I had money in my pocket. The so-called “friends” around me stole from me too, just to stay high, have a car to drive, or simply because that’s what addicts do.
I did whatever needed to be done—whatever that looked like—to avoid another day of being sick. That included putting myself in extremely dangerous situations, ones I might not have walked away from. Every knock at the door, every set of headlights behind me sent my heart racing. I was chasing drugs, hiding from the law, but mostly I was running from myself. By the time they arrested me, I was already broken—it just took the handcuffs to finally stop this run. Just another closed door, to my using, temporarily.
That was one of my many bottoms. Looking back now, it’s clear this disease had me cornered long before those handcuffs. That day was just the consequence catching up.
This disease is unlike anything else. Cunning, baffling, and powerful doesn’t even begin to cover it. Since my relapse had already been in motion for months, I had done nothing but struggle to get back on my feet. And the truth is, relapse doesn’t start with the moment you use—it starts long before.
Relapse has been part of my story from the very beginning. Countless rehabs. Trips to jail. Rebuilding, only to lose it all again. The trauma, the PTSD, the wreckage left behind. Denial, dishonesty, untrustworthiness—it’s all part of the disease, and it was all part of me.
At the time, the relapse that landed me in jail felt like it came out of nowhere. Like it appeared from thin air. But looking back, I know relapse doesn’t just appear. It builds slowly and quietly. First comes the emotional relapse: the isolation, the resentment, the pretending I’m fine. Then the mental relapse: the bargaining, the lies I tell myself, the fantasy that I can pick up just once and still be okay. By the time I physically used, I was already deep in relapse—it had been happening inside me for weeks, maybe months.
The truth is, I hadn’t hit my bottom yet. And it showed—I clearly had another run in me.
At that point, I had nearly two years clean. My life looked stable on the outside. I thought I was happy. But then came two back surgeries, and that’s where the cracks really began to show.
The first surgery, I made it through clean. I even recovered narcotic-free, and at the time I was proud of that. I thought it proved I was strong, that I had the disease under control. But the truth was, the relapse was already building underneath. Between the first and second surgeries, fear and anxiety crept in. I pulled away from my support group, and I started lying—little things at first, but enough to give the disease a foothold. When the doctor told me I needed another surgery, I can’t tell you if he offered me pain meds or if I manipulated him into prescribing them. All I know is that I told myself, “I’ll take them as prescribed.”
And just like that, I slowly slipped further into the disease. Denial. Hiding the truth from those around me, eventually spiraling out of control.
The isolation grew. The fights with my fiancé got worse. He worked out of town, which made it even easier for me to hide what was happening. By the time the second surgery came, I wasn’t just slipping—I had already jumped headfirst off the wagon.
And then the freefall began. Within months, everything unraveled. My relationship became toxic. My family was done with me again. I lost my home. I was back on the streets, loaded, and running from the law.
When I fall, I don’t just stumble—I crash hard.
Those years are fuzzy now, blurred by drug use. But I remember what it felt like after a binder that nearly killed me, surrounded by people I hardly knew, ending up in treatment. My fiancé left me, but the truth is, he had already been gone for a while. The distance, the fighting, the dishonesty—I had pushed him away long before he walked out.
Treatment didn’t magically fix me. I sat in those groups selfish, dishonest, and unwilling to see how much wreckage I had created. I wore the mask, saying the right words, but inside I was still running. I stole from family. I lied to friends. I manipulated everyone who got close enough to care. Looking back, I can see how deep in the disease I really was—selfish, self-centered, self-seeking. I was a wrecking ball of destruction, leaving damage wherever I went.
Between October 2016 and February 2017, I used with the full intention of it taking me out. I wanted to be clean so badly, but I hadn’t yet learned how to stay clean. My arrest in January forced me into sobriety, and for a time, I did get clean again.
It sounds simple, but it’s not easy. I needed to change everything. And in recovery, “everything” really does mean everything—people, places, and things. The people I ran with, the places I used, the routines that kept me stuck—I had to let it all go. Because nothing changes if nothing changes, and for me, changing everything was the only way I had a chance at staying alive.
Although my story of addiction doesn’t end here, at this point…eventually I found freedom from the disease, and I have a beautiful life beyond my wildest dreams today—a life built on recovery, my son, school, and the stability I once thought was impossible.
They say there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. But some days, it feels like the tunnel just doesn’t end.
I wake up groggy, dreading the thought of making my own coffee—wishing someone would just bring it to me so I could stay in bed a little longer. Still, I get up and stumble into the kitchen, the cold hardwood floor biting at my toes. I accidentally kick the dog because she’s so eager to say good morning, but I’m too out of it to notice she’s even there.
I rub my eyes, yawn, and glance at the clock: 11:00 AM. What the hell? How did that happen? Depression must be creeping in again.
I know I suffer from depression, anxiety and ADHD, which requires me to take medication for mood stabilization but lately, it just doesn’t seem to be working. Not lately, and definitely not today, at least. Maybe that’s why the light at the end of the tunnel seems so dim.
Depression and anxiety—when they set in, they can be as thick as fog, clouding your thoughts, muffling your motivation, and making even the simplest decisions feel impossible. Just like trying to drive through dense fog, you can’t see the path ahead clearly, and everything feels uncertain, heavy, and slow. You move through the day with caution, unsure of what’s coming next, and exhausted from trying to keep going without a clear direction.
But the day drags on. I’ve got a list of things to do, and zero energy or motivation to do it. All I want to do is crawl back under the covers and cuddle with the dog—the only one who seems to listen without barking or talking back. (Of course, she’s a dog, but still—bless her.)
I wonder how I’ll find the strength to do everything on my list. Prayer comes to mind… so I give it a try. But even that feels like a struggle. Every time I begin, a new thought distracts me, pulling my focus in a different direction. I keep starting over, losing my place, getting frustrated. What should take a few quiet moments becomes a long, scattered event that requires much effort. Thanks to having ADHD, even prayer isn’t the simple task it should be. (I’ve come to call this ‘prayer ADHD.’)
Despite my efforts I still feel weak and defeated. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. Emotionally. I can’t pin down exactly what the problem is, or even if there is one. Maybe it’s not just one thing—maybe it’s a combination of things, or maybe my anxiety has created mountains out of molehills. Its so much I just cant see things clearly.
The stress of life, of family, of health, past choices, the small things that shouldn’t matter like laundry, a messy house, an empty fridge, the gas light, is suffocating. It can become too much at this point, and become the breaking point.
You’re just… sick and tired of effing tunnels.
Although this reflects part of my truth and reality, my journey with mental health has been anything but linear. It’s been a rollercoaster of highs and lows—moments of clarity and strength followed by seasons of heaviness and doubt. There have been times when I’ve felt like I was finally getting a grip, only to find myself slipping again. But through it all, one thing remains clear: mental health matters. It deserves attention, care, and validation—not just when things feel unbearable, but every single day. If you struggle with depression, anxiety, or any mental health challenge, I hope you can see a piece of yourself in this experience and know you’re not alone. This is hard—and it’s real—but it’s also human. And you are still worthy in the middle of it all.
Surviving The Odds 