Voice of recovery –

December 8, 2020 – If you had told me 15 years ago that I would grow up to be an IV-using, heroin-addicted shell of a person, I would have never believed you. I grew up in a devoutly religious family. We were homeschooled, raised with morals, values and manners. We were shielded from the darkness of the world outside. As the middle child of eight children, it was quite often that I was able to slide under the radar, the attention never being on me (which always served me quite well).

I obviously never intended to grow up and become a drug addict, but life had other plans. The very first drug I tried at 15 years old was an opiate, and to this day I can still vividly remember how it made me feel. I felt like I had never felt before. An escape from an uncertain, cruel, cold world. After that experience, I dabbled with other substances, as most teenagers do. But eventually, it all came back to opiates. To the feeling of escaping, completely.  At 23, I went into rehab for the first time at the urging of my family. I went through detox, inpatient and outpatient. I moved into my very first apartment by myself and I was thriving for a short while, until I made the decision that I wanted to not feel anymore — I wanted to escape again. Life had become overwhelming and sad. I wanted to feel something and nothing at the same time, and I found that once again in heroin.

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