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Voice of the Recovery Community Award
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Our Stories
Elaine W.
Lexington, SC
I remember my first experience with alcohol like it was yesterday. It was prom night, May 1969, and I was 16 years old. The young man I went with was a twin brother to the young man my cousin was with and we went to the prom together. As we left the prom, our dates pulled out a bottle of wine they had taken from their parents’ cabinet. Although we had not discussed this prior to the prom, and without even giving it a second thought I turned the bottle up and drank when it was passed to me. I remember that warm, mellow glow that accompanied that first drink and the feeling of security in believing that I had found what I had been searching for all my life; feeling like I belonged and that all was well with my world. From then on, drinking on the weekends was a regular occurrence. Although we were underage, rarely did a clerk check an ID for you to purchase alcohol, as long as you looked 18. So the biggest in the group always bought. Needless to say, it was very easy for a female to find a male who would buy her beer or wine. I was always the one who drank just to get sloppy drunk and pass out. I recognized even then that once I drank the first one I couldn’t stop. I didn’t see that as a problem though; just thought it was the way it was supposed to be. One of my friends found out quite by accident that if she took a pain pill before drinking it made the high much better. Naturally when she shared that information with me I had to try it. They were her mother’s pills and she was right - I loved it.
After graduation from high school, the love of my life went away to college. On one of his weekends home he brought some pot with him and I smoked for the first time. I thought it was pretty cool because I could get really high and not have a hangover the next day. I still continued to drink though. Shortly after, I found out I was pregnant and had an abortion. They weren’t legal in South Carolina where I was from so I had to go to New York. After that, things just weren’t the same between my boyfriend and me so our 3 year relationship ended. Because of the pot smoking, the good friends I had in high school wouldn’t have much to do with me anymore, so I had found new friends that liked the same things I liked; acid, pot, cocaine, and lots of alcohol. I had elected not to go on to college because I didn’t want to give up this lifestyle I had fallen in love with. It was around this same time my parents were separated and my life was pretty miserable. The alcohol and other drugs hadn’t been the answer I thought it would be. I had been diagnosed with high blood pressure and on one of my trips to the doctor I told him about my life situation. He already knew about the abortion; he gave me the number to call in New York. He didn’t even hesitate to prescribe me valium and pain pills for the headaches that I had constantly. After that, it was antidepressants to combat the depression that he said stemmed from taking valium on a regular basis. Because of my high blood pressure, my doctor told me I need to quit the job I had as bookkeeper, cashier, and clerk at a local department store and find a job that was less stressful. So, I went to work in a local music shop. I quickly connected with all the people who worked there and they got high just like I did - all the time. I started going out with one of the guys who worked there. It was the 70s so there were always plenty of drugs around and someone was always willing to let you come to their house to get high as long as you gave them their share. Most of the couples we knew were getting married, so it seemed like the thing for us to do at the time; the cool thing. I remember waking up the next morning thinking “Oh my god, what have I done.” I knew I wasn’t in love with him and the only thing we really had in common was drugs. As a matter of fact, if not for the drug use and the lifestyle that goes with it, I wouldn’t have even associated with him.
The next 23 years were like living with a terrorist. I was always accused of doing things I hadn’t done; nothing I did was good enough; my life was constantly threatened. And the really bad thing was that the son we had together was subjected to the same abuse. Finding myself trapped in an abusive relationship happened very slowly, over a period of time. By the time I realized it, I had been conditioned to believe all the threats of what would happen to me if I left and I truly believed I was safer to stay with him than to risk what would happen if I left. At least there I knew what to expect from one day to the next. When our son was old enough, he joined the Marines. I was sad to see him leave but I was so relieved that he was finally out of the hell that was home. I hated my husband for the way he treated my son and I hated myself for not having the guts to leave. In the years that he was in the Marines, my life slowly but steadily was “circling the drain”. I had gone to work in a daycare center several years before and worked my way up to assistant director. In May of 1996, I was politely told to take a leave of absence and get myself together. By this time I was abusing so many prescription drugs - obtaining them both legally and illegally - that it was almost impossible for me to function. I weighed 86 pounds, was 43 years old, and looked like walking death. I lost 2 weeks of time that I still cannot account for; where I was and what I did. It no longer mattered to me if I lived or died. By this time, the drugs I was taking had long since stopped working. They no longer gave me that sense of well-being and security that they once had. The more I took, the worse I felt. When my sisters approached me with the news that they were going to have me sent to a psychiatric hospital, I talked them into waiting a few days and let me make the arrangements myself. I thought this would be an excellent opportunity for me to find some new drugs; some that would work - since the ones I was taking weren’t.
So, on August 15, 1996 that is exactly what I did. Once there, since I had signed myself in, I had complete say-so over who could come visit or contact me. My husband was not one I wanted to see or hear from. For the first time in a very, very long time I actually felt safe. I couldn’t understand why other patients there didn’t want to be there; why they would even try to break out and why they gave the nurses such a hard time. I was a model patient. They took me off all medication - even the blood pressure medication. I was convinced they were trying to kill me. Eventually they put me back on blood pressure pills and added some other medicines for anxiety, panic, and depression; but nothing with a potential for abuse. I attended all the education groups I was supposed to attend and they were considering discharging me. I DID NOT WANT TO LEAVE. I had been there almost 40 days and I had see them transfer some of the patients to a different ward; one for people who had an addiction problem. Although I didn’t think I had an addiction problem, I knew transferring to the rehab ward would buy me at least 28 more days there. So, I told the nurses that I had a problem with alcohol and wanted help. They made the arrangements for me to transfer the next day. I didn’t go into the hospital planning not to go back to my husband; I never even dreamed I would ever have the courage to do that. But as time got closer for me to leave the hospital I knew I wasn’t ready to go back there. So the social worker at the hospital started looking for other options for me. One was a women’s recovery residence in Columbia. One of the other girls I had met in the hospital was going there so I decided I would give it a try. I was absolutely horrified! I think that at the time, if they would have let me, I would have been content to spend the rest of my life right there in the psychiatric hospital. I felt safe, all my needs were met, and people actually seemed to care. Once in Columbia, I might has well have been on another planet. I had spent my entire 43 years of life in the same small town and new absolutely nothing about the city I had just arrived in. The staff at the women’s residence was nice enough, but they were always telling me what to do and when I had to do it. Things like be home by 11:00pm, do my assigned details, get up at a certain time, go to bed at a certain time, learn to ride the city bus, get a job, and go to an NA or AA meeting everyday! Didn’t they know I was 43 years old and didn’t need them to tell me how I needed to live my life? It soon occurred to me that if I knew so much about how to live my life, what was I doing there? I did need someone to show me how to live because I had made an absolute wreck of my life by doing it my way. I wasn’t very fond of going to those NA and AA meetings because I still wasn’t convinced that I had a problem with alcohol or other drugs.
One thing I did know was that I didn’t want to go back to the town I came from or to my husband, so I was willing to do what I needed to do to be able to stay in that women’s residence. I am so grateful that I did. By staying there and being required to go to meetings I eventually accepted that I am an addict and that I will never be able to use drugs successfully. I stayed as long as they would let me; which was a little over 90 days. From there I went to another women’s house in a different recovery environment shared by 5 ladies and from there moved into one of that program’s other houses with one other person. There were days when I wasn’t so sure I had what it was going to take to stay clean and stay alive. I still lived in fear of what would happen if my husband decided to come looking for me. So I had very little contact with any of my family. The day did eventually come though when he showed up at the bus stop where I went to work. He grabbed me and forced me into the car and started driving off. Somehow the doors were locked so I couldn’t get out, but I could roll down the window and scream. And I did. I screamed so loud and fought him so hard that he had to pull over in a parking lot to keep from wrecking. I managed somehow to get free and ran to a nearby restaurant. All the employees were standing outside - they had heard me screaming all the way down the road. I don’t know where the courage and strength came from that day for me to fight him like I did. I had never done that before - I just always submitted. I now know it was God doing for me what I could have never done for myself. He was later arrested and charged with kidnapping. When it came time for him to go to trial, I agreed to let them reduce the charge to assault and battery of a high and aggravated nature and he was given 3 years probation. During that 3 year period I managed to find the courage to file for divorce. He never showed up for the hearing and the divorce was granted.
A lot has happened in the last 9 and 1/2 years. I now live in my own place, I have my own car, I work in an outpatient treatment center as a CACP and am working towards earning a bachelor’s degree in chemical dependency counseling. I didn’t plan for things to work out the way they have, but by being willing to walk through the doors that God opened to me I am living a life I never would have dreamed was possible. And the really awesome thing about it is that I have been able to stay clean through it all!
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