There is a picture of me, somewhere out there, probably still on my dad’s phone unless they’ve turned into Christmas Card people, in which case, the picture is most definitely out there in the world for all to see.
I hope it is not.
I didn’t see the picture until I was 5 months sober, staying in the unfinished basement at my parents house, grateful that I was no longer homeless, while I hunted for a job. Before this, I’d been staying there after a stint at a ramshackle, rundown motel, the kind of place you probably could dismantle a dead body, leave the head on the pillow, and no one would think anything of it. But it was my room, and despite the lice they gifted me, I loved it. Until money dried up and suddenly I was, once again, homeless. I’d moved in there after I was discharged from the inpatient psych ward, in which I was able to successfully detox after a suicide attempt. Got some free ECT to boot.
(WINNING)
Despite what you see on the After School Special’s of our childhood, I didn’t take a single Vicodin, fall into a stupor, and become insta-addict – just add narcotics! No, my entry into addiction was a slow and steady downward spiral of which I am deeply ashamed. It’s left my brain full of wreckage and ruin, fragmented bits of my life that don’t follow a single pattern. Between the opiates, the Ketamine, and the ECT, I cannot even be certain that what I am telling you is the truth; what I’ve gathered are bits and pieces of the addict I so desperately hate from other people who are around, fuzzy recollections, and my own social media posts.
About a year and a half before I moved from my yellow house to the apartments by the river, Dave and I had separated; he’d told me that while he cared for me, he no longer loved me. While we lived in the same house, we’d had completely separate lives for years, so he moved to the basement while I stayed upstairs. I’d been miserable before his confession and after? I was nearly broken. Using the Vicodin, then Norco, I was able to numb my pain and get out of my head, which, while remarkably stupid, was effective. For awhile.
Let me stop you, Dear Reader, and ask you to keep what I am about to say in mind as you read through this massive tome. I’m simply trying to make certain that you understand several key things about my addiction and subsequent recovery. I alone was the one who chose to take the drugs. No one forced me to abuse opiates, and even later, (SPOILER ALERT) Ketamine. This isn’t a post about blaming others for my misdoings, rejecting any accountability, nor making any excuses for the stupid, awful things I’ve done. I alone fucked up. My addiction was my own fault. However, in the same vein, no one “saved” me but myself. There was no cheeky interventionist. No room full of people who loved me weeping stoically, telling me how my addiction hurt them. No letters. Nothing. It was just me. I was alone, and I chose to get – and remain – sober.
The delusions started when I moved out, sitting in my empty apartment alone, paralyzed by the thought of getting off the couch to go to the bathroom. Always a night-owl, I’d wake at some ungodly hour of the morning, shaking. It wasn’t withdrawal, no, it was pure unfettered anxiety.
It was the aftermath of using so many pills, all the fun you think you’re having comes back to bite you with crippling anxiety and depression.
Which is why I’d do more.
Yes, opiates are powerful, and yes, I abused them, but things really didn’t become dire until I added Ketamine to my life.
Ketamine, if you’re unaware, is a club drug, a horse tranquilizer, and a date rape drug. You use too much? You may wake up at some hipster coffee bar, trying to sing “You’re Having My Baby” to the dude in the front row who may or may not actually exist. In other words, it’s the best way to forget how fucked you are.
The delusions worsen as time passed. I could see into the future. I could read your mind. I was going to be famous. I was super fucking rich. In this fucked-up world, I could even forget about me, and the life that I’d so carelessly shattered. I remember sitting in Divorce Class at the courthouse, something required of all divorces in Kane County, weeping at all that I’d thrown away – using a total of three boxes of the low-quality, government tissues. I left with a shiny pink face and completely chapped nose and eyes that appeared to be making a break from their sockets. I went home, took some pills, took some Ketamine, and passed out.
I retreated ever-inward. I didn’t talk to many people. I didn’t share my struggles. I was alone, and it was my fault.
The hallucinations started soon after Divorce Class ended and my ex and I split up. He’d left my house in a rage after a fight and went to live with his sister. I got scared. His temper, magnified by the drugs, the hallucinations, and the delusions, grew increasingly frightening. Once he’d moved out, the attacks began. I’d wake up naked in my bedroom, my body sore and bruised, and my brain put the two unrelated events together as one – he was attacking me. It happened every few days, these “attacks,” until I found myself at the police station, reporting them. I was dangerously sick and I had no idea.
My friends on the Internet (those whom I had left), sent me money for surveillance cameras. I bought them, installed them – trying to capture the culprit – and when I saw what I saw, I immediately called the police and told them the culprit.
The videos in my bedroom captured an incredibly stoned, dead-eyed, version of myself, violently attacking myself, brutally tearing at my flesh. In particular, THAT me liked to beat my face with one of my prized possessions – a candlestick set from our wedding, take another pill or hit up some Ketamine, then violating myself with the candlestick. It lasted hours. I’d wake up with no memory of events, sore and tired and unsure of how I’d gotten there.
I’d never engaged in self-injury before – not once – so the very idea that I’d hurt myself was unbelievable, but right there, on my grainy old laptop, was proof of how unhinged I’d become. Charged with filing a false report, I plead guilty.
In early September of 2015, I decided to get fixed, and made arrangements with work to take a few weeks off to do an inpatient detox, and, for the first time in a long time, I woke up happily, rather than cursing the gods that I was still alive.
It was to be short-lived.
Several days later, sober, I was idly chatting with my neighbor about her upcoming vacation (funny the things your brain remembers and what it does not), standing by my screen door, when karma came calling. It sounded like the shucking noise of an ear of corn, or maybe the sound that a huge thing of broccoli makes when you rip it apart – hard. It felt like a bullet to the femur. I crumpled on top of my neighbor and began screaming wildly about calling an ambulance, yelling over and over like some perverse, yet truthful, Chicken Little: “my leg is broken, my LEG is broken!”
I don’t remember much after that. I woke up in (physical rehab) and learned that my femur (hereafter to be called my “Blasfemur,”) had broken, fairly high up on the bone, where the biggest, strongest bone in your body is at its peak of strength. Whaaaa?
The doctors and nurses shrugged it off my questions, with a flippant “It just happens” and sent me home, armed with a Norco prescription, in November, to heal. I added the Ketamine, just to make sure.
A couple of weeks later at the end of November, I was putting up the Christmas tree with the kids and my mother. It was all merry and fucking bright until I sat down on the couch and felt that familiar crunch. Screams came out of me I didn’t know were possible, but I’d lost my actual words. My mother stood over me yelling “what’s wrong? what’s wrong?” and I couldn’t find the words. I overheard her telling my babies that I was “probably just faking it” as she walked out the door, my screams fading into an ice cold silence. They left me alone in that apartment where I screamed and cried and screamed. Finally, I managed to call 911 and when they asked me questions, all I could scream was my address.
I woke up in January in a nursing home. When I woke up, I found myself sitting at a table in a vast dining room, full of old people. For weeks to come, I thought that I’d died and gone…wherever it is that you go.
This time, I learned, my (blas)femur and it’s associated hardware had become infected after the first surgery, which weakened the bone, causing it to snap like a tree. They put me all back together like the bionic woman, but the surgery had introduced the wee colony of Strep D in the bone into my bloodstream, creating an infection on meth. I’d been in a coma for weeks. Once again, I learned to walk, and once again, I was sent home in late January with another Norco prescription. The nursing home really wanted me to have someone stay with me to help out, but I insisted that I was fine alone. In truth, I had nobody to help me out, but was far too ashamed to tell them.
The picture I referenced above was taken some time in May, as far as my fuzzy memory allows me to remember, after my third femur fracture in March. This time, I’d been so high that I fell asleep on the toilet and rolled off. Glamorous, no? Just like Fat Elvis. Luckily, my eldest son was there and he called 911 and my parents to whisk him away. I remember my father on the phone, telling Ben that I was a liar and I was faking it. I was swept away in the ambulance for even more hardware, and finally? A diagnosis:
HypoPARAthyroidism.
It’s an autoimmune disease that leaches calcium from the bones, resulting in brittle bones. It is managed, not treated. There is no cure.
But, I had the answer. Finally.
After my third fracture, I once again was sent to the nursing home, and quickly discharged with even higher doses of Norco, when my insurance balked, I’d used up all my rehab days for the year. By this time, I’d lost my apartment, my stuff was in storage (except the things that we’re thrown away, which my father gloated about while I was flat on my back) and my parents let me stay with them, which was about the only option I had. They couldn’t really kick me out if my leg was only freshly attached. I feel deeper into a depression, self-loathing, and drug abuse as I realized what a mess I’d made with my life. How many bad choices I’d made. How many people I’d hurt. How much I’d hurt myself. How much I loathed myself. How I once had a life that in no way resembled sleeping in my parents dining room. How I’d been a home owner. How I’d been married. How lucky I’d been. How I threw it all away. My life turned into a series of “once did” and “used to.”
The only one who hated me more was my father.
While we were once close confidants, in the years after my marriage to Dave, his disdain had become palpable. My uncle had to intervene one Christmas, after my father mocked me incessantly for taking a temp job filling out gift cards while I was pregnant with Alex. It may seem normal to some of you, this behavior, but in THEIR house, NO ONE was EVER SAD and NOTHING was EVER WRONG. WASPs to the core, my family is.
When I moved back in, broken, dejected, and high, our fights became epic. For the first time in my life, I stood UP to one of my parents. Then, I was promptly kicked out.
Guess I’m not so WASPy after all.
I want to say that the picture was taken around May of 2016, but my estimate may be thoroughly skewed, so if you’re counting on dates being correct and cohesive, you’ve got the wrong girl.
This is a picture of me, though you probably wouldn’t recognize me. I am wearing the blue scrubs that you associate with a hospital: not exactly sky blue, not teal, not navy, just generic blue hospital scrubs. These are, I remember, the only clothes I have to my name. I was given them in both the hospital and the nursing home, a gift, I suppose, of being a frequent flier, tinged with a bit of pity – this girl has no clothes, we can help. Whomever gave them to me, know that you gave me a bit of dignity, which I will never forget. Thank you.
I am wearing scrubs, the light of the refrigerator is slowly bleaching out half of my now-enormous body, as opposed to the darkness outside. There is a tube of fat around my neck, nearly destroying any evidence of my face, but if you look closely, you can make out my glasses, my nostrils, my hair cascading down. My neck is stretched back at nearly a 90 degree angle from my body, my head listlessly resting on the back of my wheelchair. My mouth gaped wide, which, should I been engaging in fly catching, would have netted far more than the average Venus flytrap. I am clearly, unmistakably, and without a single shred of doubt, passed the fuck out.
It is both me and not me.
High as i was, I don’t remember a thing about the photo being taken. But there I was, in all my pixelated glory.
By the time I saw the photo, I was once again in my “will do” and “can do” space. I’d kicked drugs in September 2016 and had found a job that I enjoyed. I stayed with my parents while I began to sort out my medical debt and save toward a new car and an apartment of my own. My spirits were high, my depression finally abated to the background, and I was tentatively happy. I’d apologized until my throat was sore, but my fragmented memory saved me from the worst of it, but I was not forgiven. I don’t think I ever expected to be. And now, I never will.
It’s okay. I can’t expect this. I know I fucked up.
My father, who’d actually grown increasingly disdainful of me, the more sober and well I became, confronted me when I came home one day after work, preparing to do my AFTER work, work.
My mother shuffled along behind him, Ben, the caboose. All three of them were in hysterics, tears rolling down their cheeks as I sat down in my normal spot on the couch. After showing them a video of two turtles humping a couple of days before, I eagerly waited to see what they were showing me.
What it was was that picture. Of the not me, me.
They could hardly contain their laughter, my father happier than ever, braying, “Isn’t this the best picture of you?” and “You PASSED OUT, (heave, heave) IN FRONT OF THE FRIDGE!” punctuated, with “I’m going to frame this picture!” The tears welled in my eyes while my teeth clenched, they laughed even harder at my reaction.
Like I said, if they’ve become Christmas Card sending people, this will be the picture of me they show, expecting others to laugh uproariously. Before I moved out, in fact, my father made certain to show the picture to anyone who came over. “Wanna see something hilarious?” he’d ask. Expecting memes or a funny cat playing the piano, they’d agree. I could see it when they saw it, my dad chortling with laughter, nearly choking on his giggles, the looks on their faces: a mixture of confusion and pity. Even in my drug-hazed “glory,” I’d never felt so low.
Maybe that picture is splashed all over the internet, in the dark recesses I don’t explore, and maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s hung on their wall, replacing all of the other pictures. Maybe it’s not.
Maybe we’ll meet again.
Maybe not.
Oh Becks! This is such a brutal and honest recount of your journey into addiction. It happens so slowly but before you know it, it’s spiraling out of control. I love you so much girl. I’m so very proud of you for taking steps to get out of your toxic relationships and get yourself back to the Aunt “Eye Of The Motherfucking Tiger” Becky that we know and love. Thank you for sharing this. I know if was incredibly difficult, but it is also incredibly brave! Loves you!!!
Loves you so hard. Thanks for all that you do – especially talking me down.
you! You brave, abused, humiliated, motherfucking FIERCE warrior! While there are things that you chose, your malignant narcissist of a father was not one. Having no choice but to rely on his…ahem…”mercy”, made everything 10,000,000 times harder than they had to be. Honestly, but for the grace of the universe, there go I. But it’s my mother. I have been able to break free and haven’t seen her in years, but she still berates me every single day in my head. I’m in therapy (3rd time around) trying to quiet her insistence that I am not worth it. Not worth anything. Not useful to anybody. Not good for anything. You are strong and brave and useful and worth it, and so am I dammmit!
I love your story because you are not done yet. You have so much more to give to and receive from the world. And I love you.
It’s odd and I’m sorry you’ve faced this as well. My mother was the narcissist in the family growing up, and as I moved out and got older, it became my father. I don’t get it. Ignore that voice. She’s full of crap. (I say this and am still freaking out that my family will read this – and I’ve created boundaries so that we no longer speak or have any interaction). We should BOTH work on that voice. Much love to you – do write about your Mom sometime. It feels good to let it go.
Thank you for sharing and for getting th site back up. You’ve been to Hell and you have decided to share and help others. That’s the Aunt Becky we remember. We missed you and are so happy you are now doing well.
I’m doing very well, in no small part, related to getting this site back up. It went away on a lark – not a choice, and I’d always wanted to get it going again. Loves you!
More than anything, I’m glad you have come out on the other side. I know the pain and the addiction and the hurt won’t ever be gone, but right now you’re waking up every day and choosing your life. I think it’s safe to say that there are a LOT of us who are forever grateful for that fact. You are loved even if it isn’t always by the people who should have been the easiest ones to give that love. Found families often rock the hardest anyway.
You guys ARE my family. I owe you a debt of gratitude for being here for me. Thank you. And yes, found families are the very best.
Hugs my online friend. I’ve followed you for years. You’ve been through hell and back and I know your spirit is emerging stronger. You got this, Becks. I believe in you.
Thank you, Karen! I’m working my ass off to get where I need to be. Your support is everything.
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Just pretend that i know how to make a heart emoji. <3
Your parents are horrible and I wish I could throat punch your horrible piece of shit father. I’m proud of you for coming so far. Remember that how he treats you shows what kind of person HE is, not what kind of person you are
I like the way you think on that. It’s his karma, not mine.
I just want to hold you and hug you.
I am always a fan of hugs!
I know this post had to be terribly difficult to write, and as I read it I thought to myself, “Finally, the truth”.
*SIDE NOTE* For anyone who reads this and want’s to “white knight” for Becky, go ahead. She knows me. She knows this isn’t an attack on her, but rather validation of a really great friendship that fell apart due (in part) to her addiction.
I’m glad you wrote this. I’ve known it – in my heart and my head – for years, and I was complacent at the time. There came a time when I just needed to separate myself from you – for my own well-being – and I watched you crash and burn from afar (I’m not proud of that).
This post gives me hope. I remain guarded with you, but open to believing you’ve made real change. None of what I read came even remotely close to surprising me (other than your father mocking you – WTF?). I watched it. I lived it with you for quite some time.
Please know that I am sending all of the good thoughts your way. Addiction is a minute by minute recovery process. You can do this!
This IS the truth and there’s no need to white knight for me (tho I love you for it). I fucked up. I lost most of the people I held dear. I lost myself.
Being sober is so much easier than being high. Always will be. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss it – I miss it very much – but life is important. MY life is important.
And as far as my dad goes, I lived with this shit (from my mom) growing up. It’s awful and it’s ugly and it stays with you. Without them, I am healthy, sober, and working toward to growing old, sitting on benches, and tripping kids with my cane.
Girl. Becky. First of all, Hats off to you for sharing this. I know how absolutely difficult it is to even think back on the worst times, much less to write about them in such detail. I have felt like I’ve known you forever; but from forever ago( your blog )and it makes me so sad to know how tough things got. but also feel so proud that you have made your way out, and are in the midst of doing so much more. I quit my blog years back in a similar bout of depression, addiction, and stints in inpatient recovery for eating disorders. Look at us… look at all the fucking mess that tried to bring us down. I’m going to keep cheering you on and i hope you continue doing the good work and helping others through your stories. I’m so SO PROUD OF YOU! And so so much love. Also i know i need face my own past and write my one story for here, and you have given so much inspiration!
Dude, you know I’ve ALWAYS got your back. I’m so glad to see you back too! Together, we can do this. And I EXPECT to see your story soon 😉
Loves you!
You clearly did a lot of not real smart things to yourself, and you know it. Your parents’ behavior? that’s pure vindicitive shittyness. What the actual fuck.
I fucked up – badly. I know this. I admit it and I apologize for it. It’s very shameful.
I have NO idea why my dad decided that my sobriety isn’t important. Especially considering that he’s a recovering addict himself.
Aunt Becky, you shine on, you badass rockstar. This took a lot of strength to share. Love you, and so, so, SO grateful that The Band is Back!!
Love,
Michelle
There was definitely a band-shaped hole in the internet when it went away. I’m so glad you’re still with us!
I remember the good times, the divorce,the jobs, the attacks,the police reports, the wondering what the heck is happening to my friend I have never met.I was scared for you and I was one of those who sent you money though I had very little to give. I don’t regret a penny I sent. What I regret, what breaks my heart, what makes ME want to scream..is that your family isn’t your family. A family would never disrespect you in front of your children, never walk away when you’re screaming in agony, never try to humiliate you with a photo of you at your lowest. That’s not love or family. You needed your family, deserved their unconditional love and help. They failed you. I am so sorry. You were suffering,you weren’t easy to love while addicted but few addicts are. Addiction sucks, it’s ugly and messy and it’s easy to throw blame around but you deserved to be loved, to be supported while you were recovering. Damn it. I want to hug you. I want to tell you how proud I am of you finding your way back to yourself and to helping others. And if you get lost again I will light my lamp and tell you you’re still awesome and worth loving.
The money I received (THANK YOU) really WAS going to paying my bills and I cannot thank you enough for your generosity.
My parents have always been this way, it once was my mother, now it’s my father. Saying goodbye to them was the healthiest thing – and best – thing I’ve done.
I love you for your comment – I think I may frame it.
If you ever need a stand in Mom I am here. I have practice and my kids still like me so I think you will like me too. I live in Oklahoma so you being my Aunt Becky and me being your Mom would totally not be weird. Well, not weirder than a lot that goes on here( though mostly we blame it on everyone in Arkansas).
You know what? I’d really like that. I miss having a mom, at least, I think I do. Also, yes, now I am your daughter AND your aunt all at once.
Oh Aunt Becky (do you still use that? I need to catch up) I have loved your words for years because you always admitted that sometimes thing really sucked, you told it like it was but most of all, you kept fucking going. Nothing was going to keep you down. This is even more proof. You rock.
Aunt Becky is JUST fine. Thank you for reading this and your comment made me tear up. It was intensely hard to write this – brought up plenty of things I was happy to forget. But if it helps one person, I’m golden.
Loves you.
So proud of you for writing this. Love you, my friend! <3 <3
Loves you Jill! Thank you so very much. It took a LONG time but I feel like it was an enema for the soul.
You know what, Becky. You have more strength, more humanity, more beauty (yes, dammit, FUCKING BEAUTY) in your pinkie finger than any of them have in their entire body. Yeah, you fucked up. But, you owned it and kicked it’s ass. I love you and I’m so damned proud to call you my friend.
I’m proud to know you! Thank you, old friend. I needed to hear this – it’s hard as hell to put the shameful truth out there.
….we will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it…sometimes we need a powerful reminder to keep us on the rails. I am so sorry about your family of origin. I get it. ODAT.
I’m so sorry you understand. I really am. And I must always keep this present in my mind – I don’t want to repeat it.
It’s not a world I’m a part of, although my family is full of addiction. I know this will be a lifelong struggle for you but I’m happy to hear you are on the other side. You’ve got people to support you right here.
I’m lucky as hell! I mean, yes, I no longer speak to my parents, but I’ve got the Internet. It’s incredible.
And addiction is a nasty bug – I hope that you never – ever – have to deal with it.
I get and totally respect that you’re taking full responsibility for any issues related to addiction, but what the fuck is wrong with your parents? No one should be treated the way they treated you. Thank goodness you’re no longer in contact with them.
I am not entirely sure. My issues with my father are/were newish and started after he relapsed drinking. He’s sober now, but I remember asking Benjamin if he was drinking again. That one got me fully kicked out.
Whether or not your father was drinking again sounds like a question that begged to be asked. All you did was state the obvious in the form of a question.
It needed to be asked, no doubt. And his response is rather telling. The tirade I got before I was kicked out was intense – he was FURIOUS that I’d even ASK such a question, which, in and of itself, most telling.
I had no idea you were going through all of this back then. Aunt becky im so proud of how far u have come and im always here if u need to talk