I’ve been thinking a lot today about my addictions. My former addictions. How they’ve ebbed and flowed. How I’ve battled them silently, ensuring that no one would know. The darkness that I hid from them, the truth of who I really was. Yesterday officially marks 3 weeks of no nicotine. Quitting smoking again for the, I don’t know, fourth time in my life? But where did the addiction begin? I remember 9th grade thinking I was cool but also trying to escape something. This also came along with experimenting. See, I was always a person who liked to control my addictions. Weed and alcohol were ok – I knew what to expect. I’d tried coke before, because the side effects only lasted a short time and then it was back to normal – risk and reward seemed balanced. I was too scared to cross certain lines. Unfortunately, many of my friends did. Some lost their lives.
My favorite addictions were my controlled addictions. The ones that began with a prescription. Vicodin after a car accident that turned into 3 years of an on again off again relationship with my newfound love. Newfound best friend. The only thing that could take my pain away. Once I officially broke up with Vicodin, I focused on the gym. Weight loss, eating healthy, to an unhealthy extent. Working out became something that I had to do at least twice a day or I was a failure. I also became addicted to moving up the ranks at work. Getting validation through success. Racing my way to burnout. Testing myself to see how far I could go. Sometimes silently wishing something horrific would happen so I could let it all go and be left alone.
Then about four years ago, I bought a house and got a significant promotion at my big corporate job all while teaching several fitness classes per week and managing being a single mom. I was tired. But I met my new best friend and well, I fell in love like I never had before. Adderall, what a lovely name. I would think about it before I went to sleep. It became my first thought as soon as I opened my eyes. And I told myself it was ok because it could be prescribed. Although it never actually was to me (I was willing to pay whatever price).
Four years went by in this way. I even got another promotion during this time. No one around me but the person who was giving it to me even knew that I was taking anything. Nothing on the surface would cause anyone to be alarmed. If anything, I was even more successful and able to complete even more than I had before. I thought that I needed it in order to maintain my life. It wasn’t until I completely broke down that I realized it was part of what was slowly taking my life.
So as I was healing from the complete breakdown, and the breakup from this final addiction, I allowed myself to smoke again. I allowed myself to smoke as I went into the depths of my childhood to feel all the pain again. I smoked when the teenage me needed to grieve. I smoked when I felt the desperate helplessness of the single teen mom me.
And now as I move forward, three weeks clean from nicotine, I realize I no longer feel the need to escape. I’m no longer running from my pain. My trauma is no longer trapping me. And I am free.
But through all the years of my silent addictions. Drinking or pills. The gym or cigarettes. There is one thing that baffles me about myself. Because I hide it so well. No one would even know that I was struggling to stay clean. No one ever knew I needed help. Not even me.
The Girl Without A Face 