Addiction · Recovery

My story of addiction, the context behind me.

I have ummed and ahhed about sharing my story with the world, many times thrown around the idea of writing a book with my mum, I have shared parts of my journey with my amazing home town fellowship, but never have I told it in full black and white truth, and been OK with people hearing it. But today is the day I am finally OK with people reading my truth, the harsh reality of what a drug addict will do to survive and get “just one more hit”. I want to share my pain with anyone who will read it, in hopes that it may get to the people who need to read it.


the most common question I am asked is “what happened to you to make you want to do drugs?” and to answer this I have to step back to 1996.

well….I was born.

with my birth came an addict, there are many debates over nature .VS. nurture, and I stand on neither side of the fence in that argument. I can however say with 100% conviction, I was born an addict. from the earliest age I can remember I have displayed frightening symptoms of addiction, symptoms present long before I touched my first drug. I was manipulative, sneaky, attention seeking, and the constant “outcast”, never feeling I belonged any where, always being “different” to everybody else, and truly feeling it radiate through my body, my differences pumping through my blood.


I was born into a loving “clean” family. I wasn’t subjected to family violence, or any physical abuse within the family. My mother was a religious woman, controlling strict and had her own personal flaws as everyone does. My dad is a workaholic and will be til the day he dies. But by no means was I born into a traumatizing family environment, and I was given a relativity normal and happy upbringing…. until the event.

the event- what my rape as a ten year old is referred to in my mind and my families, the event that took their little girl and stole my soul. following which I spiraled down into a ten year drug addiction, accompanied by an addiction to self hatred and self destruction. I have spent many hours, days and years trying to understand what the fuck happened to me? why it happened to me? why it was me who deserved that? – the simple answer i didn’t deserve it, but none the less, it happened.

“mummy my tummy hurts” the words that changed the next 5 months of my life, two hours after muttering there words I was screaming in pain at a local A&E, being given a shot of morphine, a shot that was going to, without a doubt change the course of my life. I spent the following five months in and out of start ship childrens hospital, dosed up on Tramadol, codeine, morphine and anything else that would cover the pain. “covering the pain” just what it did, it covered the physical pain of an appendix infested with worms, that was left in for five months after refusal by doctors to remove it, but it also covered a more important pain, a pain that I would go to any lengths to cover, and had so kindly been shown the solution to it. drugs.


after my hospital ordeal was over I started intermediate school (11 years old), and with my disappearing pain, my drugs disappeared also. that was not going to do. My childhood was over, my one mission, feel like that again, get high. I began searching fearlessly for drugs or alcohol. soon I stumbled into a new group of friends, friends who had drugs. I was smoking pot often by this point and drinking to the point of black out, and had already suffered alcohol poisoning in the grips of a entire bottle of vodka. soon pot and alcohol was not cutting it.

At twelve years old, I meet meth. the love of my life, my best friend and soul mate.


I didn’t know what I was doing, where to get it, I didn’t even really know how to smoke it. I clung to my friend, and teacher. anything they asked me to do, I did. I started running away from home, going missing for hours or days, no one would ever know the next time they would see me at home. I was asked to rob a house, so I robbed it. I was asked to show the school my tits on the field, so I did it. I was asked to sleep with her brother for gear, so I did it. there was no limit to what I would do. Because I hated my self, but I loved meth. My mum, who had no idea what had happened, was duped by my story of an eating disorder as explanation. my runaways from home became more frequent and I was always gone for longer and longer each time, finding comfort on friends couches, in strangers beds and on the street.

me, in active addiction (13 years old) and soulless

At 13 I woke up after a heavy night, in my own bed, covered in blood, with no idea what happened to me. I had slashed my wrists in a twisted drug fueled act of hate. I asked for help, I came clean, My mum put me into a adolescent drug and alcohol residential program . It wasn’t going to last, I ran away after 6 weeks, and was found by my dad on the street in a state where I didn’t know who he was, and cum running down my thigh from a man I had just fucked for about $40. I was given a second chance. and again at 8 weeks, I was off, returned again, wasted, and given the option of doing this and doing it right, or being dropped into CYFS (child protective services), I called my mums bluff.

sure enough, I was dropped at the CYFS office, the papers where signed and I was officially a ward of state. I began working on the street, smoking and injecting meth, shooting morphine, drinking daily, and taking absolutely anything I was offered. I bounced from home to home, each one being as disgusting as the last, I spent majority of my time on the street, working, dealing and living, avoiding police and social workers, happily falling through the cracks of the foster system. by 15 years old I was a hardened drug taker, criminal, prostitute, and I was ready for death. living on the street taught me things and showed me things I wish I never learnt about, I saw horrific things done by horrific people, my survival instinct kicked in. If I wasn’t doing those horrible things, they would be done to me. by 15 nothing shocked me, nothing hurt me, being raped, being beaten, I had truly started to believe it was just what happened in life, and “if it happened to me, why shouldn’t it happen to you too?”

13 years old.

But I was saved, my prince found me. I moved in with him imminently. I feel in love hard and fast. after four days of living with him, I was thrown down the stairs.

we used together, slept together, loved each other, “he loved me” I was sure if it. it didn’t matter that he hurt me, not anymore. I was happy.

but it got worse, and worse. I was being beaten, having fingers broken, chunks of flesh bitten and ripped from my body, I was sick…. he was sicker. I was often cutting myself to the point of numerous doctors visits to get them glue together again, and in his rage, he would rip the glue from them exposing the wound and causing infections in my arm, to match his toxic personality. I wanted out. the day I will never forget, the day I truly thought was my day to die. I was locked in a room, things were thrown at me and I was kicked, and left alone. I tried to get out, as I ran up the drive way I was chased and grabbed from behind by him, holding a pair of sharp scissors, that was it, he was going to kill me. I was dragged into the street and down the road, I believe to this day he was taking me away to end my life.

I was saved by a friend coming to pick up drugs, and I got away. the police became involved, he was arrested, I was arrested and sent back to CYFS care.

one month before I turned 16 I overdosed, very intentionally, I was not going to endure anymore pain. I wanted to go. the universe had a very very different plan for me, not only did I live through it, but I was pregnant. I am not a religious woman but this moment in history has always been the one that makes me wounder if someone is looking after me.

6 weeks pregnant – (youth lock up)

I was sent to a youth lock up center, My baby was going to be taken away at his birth.

But I stayed clean, I didn’t use in lock up, and at 5 and 1/2 months pregnant I was released into another rehabilitation program, I graduated and I had my precious boy at 16 years old, I was in love, and I stupidly believed I was “fixed”- I wasn’t.

my little boy, Dylan

I had my shit sorted for about two years, the minute I turned 18, I started stripping, and drinking. it was a very quick spiral down into a alcohol dependency, a relationship with a meth user, a bill of 1200 a week on pot, and opiate use, a little to often. I was not going to admit that I wasn’t OK. not again, so instead i went on being a horrible mother and very quickly turning back into a horrible person. after two more years of living in hell on earth I gave up again, it was time for rehab round 3.

today I am 6 months 21 days clean and sober. I graduated Higher ground 5 weeks ago and I am back with my Anna and my Barry, the two who have helped me through hell more than once, My son lives here with me and I have not been this happy in a long time. I feel like me again, I feel like I actually changed this time.


for now

goodbye from “the friendly neighborhood junkie”

4 thoughts on “My story of addiction, the context behind me.

  1. You are doing great congratulations on staying clean and for being so open and honest about how you got to where you are today and thank you for sharing your story with me. ( not that you aimed it at me) but I feel grateful to be able to hear about your journey and the only words I have for you are ‘your human and humans fuck up’



  2. Thank you for bravely telling some of your story. You’re a strong woman embracing your future and I wish all the best for you and your child. Can’t resist adding this quote because it came to my head when I was reading your post.

    “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger — something better, pushing right back”.

    Albert Camus


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