This portion of my story is where not only is my faith in God’s grace is tested everyday but yours will be tested too. This is where the rubber meets the road when it comes to forgiveness. Will you be able to forgive me? Or will you turn your head in disgust? There’s nothing that can’t be covered by the blood, right? No sin too big, no sin too small. As I said before, if you have an issue with what I write here today please unfollow me and keep the comments empty of negativity.
After the loss of my twins I spent many months soaked in alcohol and marijuana. The people around me just picked up with their lives and kept going but I couldn’t. No one would bring up the loss. No one asked me how are you doing? I get that most didn’t have the skills, but I felt like a disease at times. Like that whole part of me was to be avoided and tossed under the carpet. So that’s what I did. Shoved it to the back of my mind. Until I would get very drunk, then it would come to the forefront and I would cry uncontrollably. My relationship with “D” was getting worse by the day because of my consistent partying. Luckily, Lexi was taken care of by her dad and by the help of my sister.
I found myself pregnant in February. Not even a year after the twins’ death. At first I was shocked. Then I was happy. Then I started to bleed. Then I freaked out. Then I decided to call and make an appointment for an abortion.
My reasoning, which makes no sense now but at that time it did, was I can’t love and lose another! I simply can’t. I went through with the abortion. The shame I feel even as I write it is overwhelming, so spare me your opinions. I lied and told those around me that knew I was pregnant, that I miscarried. My marriage ended in infedility on his part by that November. And I was starting to add a few other drugs to my cigarettes, alcohol and marijuana. This is where my first abuse of Vicodin would start. And where I would dabble with coccaine.
A few short years later I would find myself along with Lexi, living with a man 10 years my senior. We would have all night parties every weekend. I would abuse coccaine every single weekend, then pick up and live what people would think was a normal life throughout the week. I purposely stayed with this guy “T” because he had a vasectomy done prior to our meeting. I wouldn’t go to baby showers, I wouldn’t go to hospitals when friends had their babies. I wouldn’t go to funerals either. I would never have another child and him having a vasectomy was my assurance of that…until.
I didn’t have a period. I went to the doctor and I was pregnant! What?? When I told “T” I was pregnant, he told me not to tell anyone until he went to the doctor and got himself checked. That hurt me deep down to think he didn’t trust me. But then again looking back, he had been hurt alot before me. Sure enough his vasectomy hadn’t been successful and he was now happy with me. What a mess I was in now. Carry a child, love it and lose it, no thanks. Selfish, backward thinking, I know.
I will spare you the details on the “procedure” they call abortion. It’s a cruel process. In my experience the people, doctors and nurses, are usually hardened individuals who don’t have any compassion. They treat you almost as if they’re thinking…”Look at you and look at what you’re doing. Shame on you.” All the while they’re just as guilty and just as much a part of the crime. There’s a counselor of sorts who talks to you prior to the procedure. But they’re more like a wall that you can bounce thoughts off of, but the thoughts come back to you the same as when you threw them against the wall. Telling you what you want to hear. The counselor seems to have the same air about her as do the nurse and doctor. Like they’re glad it’s not them in your shoes, but gladly will take your money and yell…Next!
There’s a room you lay in to the recover. I remember laying down and looking over at another woman. She must have gone in before me. Not a tear, not a sigh came from her. She looked inconvenienced and in a hurry to get to feeling better so she could get up and go about her day. But maybe she just put up that wall that so many women in that position do. I will never ever forget the regret and shame that washed over me at that moment. This wasn’t me. This wasn’t something I should’ve done. I didnt belong there. An irreversible moment! It wasn’t something I did to offend someone and that I could go find that person and beg their forgiveness. It wasn’t something I could clean up with a dish towel or put back together with some tape and glue. It was over and couldn’t be undone.
The next two years after that would be where the addiction completely took over my being. I found that if I used Vicodin that it would give me the same or close to it, high as coccaine. I would take 7 to 10 of the extra strength 750mg Vicodin a day. And when I couldn’t get those I’d take percoset, morphine, darvocet, oxycodone, norcos…you name it. I’d take valium to sleep after smoking a joint or two each night. And would continue with alcohol and coccaine on the weekends.
So you see, I’ve punished myself plenty over my actions. I found the things that could take pain away…but the reality is that they caused me more pain. Always Aug 28th you’d find me in a worse state because it was the date of my twins and I couldn’t handle it.
In 2007-2008 I would ended up addicted to methadone and going to a methadone clinic each day to be given a dose. In my opinion, their reasoning was to help the addict by giving them something they could control and make money off of the addict. I would tell them I was looking to quit but I knew they could give me what I wanted. So everyday I’d wake at 7am and go down the road, walk into this “clinic” wait until they called my number. If I didn’t go in the morning then I missed my dose and there was no way I was missing that. I don’t think I ever overslept and missed showing up there.
This is an extra thought for those of you struggling with addiction or close to someone who is addicted…An addict will do, say, think, plot, plan anything and everything to get their fix. If you don’t believe me, take a drive to the parts of your town where the homeless gather. Just look up out your window and simply look at each them, their clothes, their bodies, their desperation. You’ll see it.
Back to the story. (How I wish it was just a story) There was this foundation of Sunday school from my dad and with it a hunger for God. Even though He was a punishing, wagging His finger at me kind of God, I still longed to please him one day. I started reading my bible a little, while being high. I’d drive around for hours getting my pills, because I took more than what I was being given at the clinic. Then I’d go to a bible study high. I was searching for a way out. I then tried to detox myself from methadone. But it didn’t work. I ended up taking many, many Vicodin to fill in the withdrawal and stop it but I ended up taking too many.
I went to the ER that night and woke up in a room to dry out. It wasn’t a fancy rehab facility with doctors and nurses in crisp white uniforms willing to lend you a shoulder to cry on. It was more like, “You’ll stay in this room tonight. It’s a rubber bed and here’s a sheet if you want one.” No one came in to check on me. I woke to realize I was put in a room where if I needed to throw up or do anything else disgusting, it could all be hosed down after I left.
I got up, went to the woman in her office with that “I’ve had enough” air about her and asked to check myself out and could I use her phone to get a ride. I called who I always referred to as “My pill lady” and she was more than happy to come get me. Drug dealers know how to hook you. I know it’s cliché to hear tha, but it’s so very true. They are your friend, they’re kind to you and do the whole sympathetic thing so you gain trust in them and they fill you up and let your tab rack up until they show their true colors.
I left “T” that next day for good. You see, he was an addict too with his “Let’s do some coke” statement every Fri. But because I was a pill popper who did her drug of choice every single day and he only on the weekends, thought he was above me somehow. Many of my friends and family had that thinking…they had a handle on their substance abuse but I didn’t. Ergo I’m the pathetic one who needed help, while they did not. Sadly some of them are still telling themselves these lies and look at me now wondering how I came out and they didn’t. Three letters y’all…G.O.D.
I met Mike, who is now my husband, four days later. We would party and carry on and find ourselves living with my dad and don’t forget Lexi once again being moved and asked to attend a new school.
In January 2009 I was addicted to Vicodin, alcohol, marijuana and cigarettes and I would once again find myself pregnant.
The reason I’m writing this series in chunks and leaving cliffhangers isn’t because I’m trying to captivate my audience. It’s because I’m sorting out the beans before I spill them. I’m also taking time to think and write in other ways about each section as a chance to heal. Some of the poems I post have been dark but these were dark years of my life.
Also if you know anyone who has had an abortion or is facing the decision please send this series to them. Those are the ones I want to reach. I have sympathy for them and I have the Lord to share with them.
I will be coming back to this portion about the abortions and how God has been healing me and changing me. But there is more of the story to tell first.