In 2000, I found myself shattered by my mother's death. Already exhausted from sixteen months of watching her battle leukemia, in the few days after her passing, I found myself completely overwhelmed with grief and confused about life.
My relationship with my father was somewhat strained, and I was wracked with guilt for neglecting my children to care for my mom. My sister, who was equally devastated at our mother's passing, had her own issues and was quickly making her way to her own addiction bottom.
Desperate to escape my feelings, I convinced myself that it would be a good idea—and no big deal—to treat myself to my dead mother's pain pills. The pills helped me focus and sleep and dulled my grief.
I took them, according to the directions as prescribed to my dead mother, over a period of about thirty-six hours. Then, by the grace of something greater than myself, I had a moment of clarity and threw the few remaining pills into the toilet and flushed.
I recall thinking at the time that I had come too far to dishonor my dead mother, my children, or my husband by going back to using drugs. I wasn't that person anymore.