November 21, 2007
November 23, 2007 10:38 am
—
Over the past sixteen weeks I've continued to somberly read the astounding stories of the people who have dealt with drugs, whether it is from personal use or watching someone they love use. In my case I was an observer. I speak as a child of a drug addict.
My story begins as far back as I can remember. My mother began her drug use in high school and it continued on for many years. Mom had me when she was still a teenager and married my dad. I think that my mother wasn't ready to become a parent just yet, but she tried for a little while. Most of the time, Mom dropped me off to my paternal grandparents, so she could go do whatever she wanted. This began to take a toll on my parents' marriage. They divorced after only three years of marriage; I was 4 years old. When they went to court each were rewarded with joint custody—although certain circumstances only allowed my mother to bring me to specified locations. Even at my young age I knew something was different with my mom. She didn't act normal. Her eyes would become lifeless and weary. Whenever she sat down she could never sit up straight. I remember her lying on the couch. She was so still. She was passed out from the high that she had received just moments before. I would try to shake her awake because I needed something, but she wouldn't budge. At times I would ask her, "What's wrong?" Mom always replied with, "I'm just tired." But I knew she was lying.
When I was 5 years old I saw my mother smoke marijuana for the very first time. She had smoked cigarettes since she was a teenager, so originally I thought that the joint was a cigarette until I smelled that very distinct scent. I knew the substance was unique. My mother was very fond of her pills—OxyContin, Xanax, Valium; any pain/nerve pill she could get her hands on. She also got hooked on the methadone too. She was a regular at one of the clinics trying to suppress her yearning for what she considered to be her best friend. She didn't know that the methadone was just as addicting as the drugs. Mom admitted later that she did lines of cocaine.
Early on in my life I got used to broken promises. Mom forgot a few of my birthdays and even more Christmases. I was a gymnast when I was younger and she only attended two competitions out of the hundreds that I participated in. As a student, I excelled in my studies and Mom acted as if it didn't matter. She stole money, jewelry, etc. from me more times than I can count. She tried to keep in touch, but it seemed that she would drop off the face of the earth at times. I wouldn't hear from her for three to four months. I would think, "Maybe she's dead." But if she had been I don't think I would have found out for some time. Mom called me from jail a couple of occasions; she had been picked up for shoplifting and writing cold checks. Mom lost more jobs than I can count on two hands due to her drugs habits. She was also a guest at more than one rehabilitation center, but she never stayed long enough to beat her dependency. I think she only did it to satisfy others and not for herself.
I was 6 years old when my family received a phone call that Mom had been in a car accident. She wrecked because she was too high to know what she was doing. She was thrown from the car and was literally scalped. Her mouth was disfigured and her teeth were either broken or had come out due to the heavy impact. She caused nearly $40,000 in damages and had no insurance. Again, she spent time in jail. And still she didn't try to get help to stop her destructive behavior.
I have to give my mom credit for trying to hide her addiction from me, but I knew the truth. But once I turned a certain age she seemed to not care anymore about me seeing her use the drugs that hurt our relationship. I knew what Mom was doing was wrong, but I went to visit her anyway because even with her drug cravings I still loved her. She was still my mom and I loved her with everything in me. What the woman was doing was very much unlawful and it hurt me more than I could bear sometimes, but I ignored it. I never told anyone.
Mom never really had any money. That's probably why whenever I would go visit her there would be no food in the refrigerator or the cabinets. One time I stole some candy bars from a convenient store right down the block from where she lived so I wouldn't go hungry. And when there had been food, I was the one using the stove and the microwave. She never thought about her child; the only thing that concerned Mom was supporting her drug habit. Not only was she a drug user, but she was also an accomplished drug dealer.
Whenever she moved out of the state Mom hooked up with another drug user. It wasn't a good relationship, even I could see that. I know that he sometimes hit my mother and verbally lashed out at her when he was in one of his drug rages. I was witness to several episodes and was more terrified than I like to admit. The two of them individually, sometimes together, took me to houses or apartment complexes where they sold drugs to their clients. I never understood why somebody would want to be a zombie and a monster. Once my mother achieved getting high, she became mean—cruel even. It wouldn't surprise me when she verbally abused me. She never hit me. However I consider abusing the mind more significant than physical abuse. Given time wounds on the body heal, but the damage done to the heart is more painful and it stays with you forever. Mom, at times, would hug me and kiss me; tell me she loved me and I never felt it—not once.
My mother didn't nurture me because she wanted drugs more than getting the chance to watch me grow up and love me as all mothers should love their children. I became very angry and bitter. I hated my mother at times, and hated her even more for what she made me become—a cynic. I swore to myself that I would never be like her and I haven't. I can proudly say that I've never touched drugs because I've seen what it can do to the person and their families. Drugs destroy everything—love, kindness, peace, family, friends, education, health, etc. It all goes hand in hand. You're alone when you depend on drugs. I watched my mother struggle with loneliness and depression all my life. It eats away at you till you're ready to kill yourself. Mom admitted that she came close to taking her own life. She prayed for death to take her.
When I turned 15, my mother finally got the opportunity of a lifetime. She got caught trying to get a forged OxyContin prescription filled at a pharmacy. It didn't take the pharmacist long to catch on. He called the cops and Mom went to trial. The judge took no pity on her. It was either a drug rehabilitation center or three years in a women's penitentiary. She chose to save herself. She chose life. My mother sentenced herself to the drug rehab center and spent two years there. Since my mother fought and won the hold that drugs had over her, she learned that she has a lot of health problems—Graves Disease, high blood pressure, etc. She will be on medication for the rest of her life, and a short life that will be. She believes that her health problems are due to a lifetime of drug abuse. Mom is not even 40 yet, and she looks like she's 60. Mom used to be beautiful and so full of vitality and youth. Now she can't even walk a short distance without becoming winded. To this present day, I'm ashamed of telling anyone about my past with my mom. I don't want anyone to pity me. But I can tell people about her life now because it's so satisfying to me.
She began a new chapter in her life a brief time ago. She got married again and has a daughter. She's getting her second chance at being a parent, and I think she's doing a great job so far. And at last, Mom and I have gotten close. Our relationship is the best it has been in my 18 years of living. We've talked about the past, but once we go into detail I close up. She's become a good person, I have to admit—a sober person, to which I am thankful. I'm proud of her. But even with our relationship finally becoming decent, I still resent her to this day. I didn't have my mom growing up and I can never forgive her for that. And it was all because of drugs. Drugs took my mom from me in the most important years of my life when I needed her the most and I'll never get that back.
However, I think I've come full circle today. Even though I still hold on to resentment and anger, I have that significant level of peace. In my heart, I have hope that I will finally let go of the fury one day. I just have to take it one step at a time and fight the dilemma that I have, that dilemma being my past. In spite of everything, I have that feeling of inadequacy. Mom hadn't wanted to beat her drug addiction so she could be a real parent to me. I wasn't enough to make her stop. I have to fight that too. But I've learned over the years that I'm a survivor. It's been an enormous battle to forgive, but I'm working on it. Mom has been helping me in her own way.
Even though I haven't used drugs, I know first hand the destruction that it causes. Mom didn't lose her life, but she could have. I know all of this deep down. I still carry the scars on my heart from the knowledge. Images of my mother's drug use are seared into my brain and I can't seem to shake them. I saw too much too soon. My mother literally put me through hell. I live with pain every day knowing that I didn't have my mother growing up due to the imprudent use of drugs. I have cried many tears. I wonder how many other children are doing the same. I also wonder how many of those children are repeating their parent’s eradicative behavior trying to escape the agony of abandonment that they must feel. I can only hope that the world improves in time.
Copyright © 1999-2008 cnhi, inc.