Drug Addiction Stories

My parents like to use the excuse that I do drugs because I am a homosexual. That is not true. I have known since I was fourteen that I was “gay” when I was more attracted to boys than I was girls. I did not get into drugs until my junior year. It had nothing to do with being gay, though. Truth of the matter is, it was one of my straight friends who talked me into trying it and before I knew it, I was hooked on crack.

As my grades started falling and my parents figured out I was on something, they began to believe it had to do with me being gay. They even set up an intervention for me. The intervention did work but it also worked where they were concerned as well. I broke down and told them flat out that I was not ashamed of being gay, it was my straight friends who got me hooked on crack, and I could accept that I had a drug problem a lot easier than my parents could accept me for me.

I went into rehab and got cleaned up. I had only been on crack for about four months. I was able to get my grades up. More importantly, something wonderful happened. During my rehab, we started family counseling. My parents finally accepted me for who I really am for the first time since I came out to them. We were able to have open heart to heart discussions. My parents came to realize that being attracted to boys did not mean something was wrong with me. It simply meant that I was attracted to guys and could not help it. That was just how I was born.

The big break through came the day my dad turned to me and said, “Son, I can accept that you are homosexual. I can not accept that I could lose you any day to crack cocaine.” Then he gathered me in his arms as he, my mom and I all three cried.

That was three years ago. I am now in college and I have a boyfriend. I brought him home over the Christmas holidays. I was nervous. This was the first serious relationship I had been in and I was scared about how my parents, especially my dad, would react. When they met my boyfriend, though, my dad just looked at him and asked if he was on any drugs. He said absolutely not. My dad smiled, shook his hand, and said he was glad to meet him. We had a great visit over the holidays. My parents even say to tell him hi when they call to touch base now that I am back at school.  I love that not only do my parents accept me but these days they accept friends like me as well.

I was sitting in the restaurant having lunch with my girlfriends that Saturday he came up and gave me a big hug.  He smiled charmingly at my friends as I introduced them.  Before I could say who he was, he told them all I was his baby sister.  They looked at me questioning. 

Yes, this was my brother.  This was the guy who had done drugs for the last ten years, who could not hold a job, who had gotten to the point where all he did was sit home and snort crack.  He noticed my ring, the reason why my friends and I were out that day, a celebration of my engagement as we planned the wedding. 

“What?  Stacy, you have been married about six times already, come on.”  My girlfriend, Carla, leaned in and asked “He really doesn’t know you very well to be your brother, does he?”

No, he did not.  My brother had left mentally years ago.  He put drugs ahead of family, he was not there for our mother’s surgery or our father’s funeral.  He only called one of us when he needed money or to be bonded out of jail.  Daryl just could not be bothered by anything except getting his next fix.

He asked when I was getting married and I told him on our dad’s birthday.  He shrugged and hugged me and said, “Call me.”  How could I call someone who did not have a phone?  Who did not ask how our mom was, how the rest of the family was, and who could not even keep himself straight from day to day.

Then he leaned in and whispered that he needed me to take care of his dinner bill.  He left his wallet at home, he claimed.  He handed me the ticket without waiting for an answer and kissed me on the cheek then told his waitress his baby sister was taking care of his tab. 

That is what having a big brother on crack does.  You only see him when he wants something, he tells lies, he can not remember his own little sister has never been married and he hits you up for money one way or the other even if it is not to pay directly for his drugs.

My friends leaned in and hugged me or touched my hand and said “It’s okay.”  A couple of them had family members who had been into drugs and they understood.  They promised to get me through any future storms with my brother if they occurred.   Still, as I watched Daryl walk away and pulled out an extra twenty dollar bill to pay for his lunch, I felt a touch of sadness as I realized that my big brother had probably already forgotten seeing me in just those few minutes.

I was in my car driving home from work just minding my own business when a song by the talented snger Kellie Pickler came on the radio. It was a song about a girl saying she wondered if her mother ever thought of her. The song took me immediately back to my own daughter.

I had been into crack cocaine pretty heavy when the state took her away from me. They gave her to her aunt and uncle on her father’s side. My ex had died of an overdose himself and neither of us had family except for his sister. They took our daughter and raised her. I remember calling her on her 16^th birthday to tell her I loved her and my little girl told me she wanted nothing to do with me. She was in high school, she had friends and she never had to worry about eating or who would be in the house when she woke up. Before she hung up, she said “Mom, the only thing I want for my birthday from you is for you to get help before you end up dead like Daddy. Otherwise, I am not sure I can handle talking to you and wondering when you will die from an overdose.”

That call prompted me in a way nothing ever had. I hung up the pay phone and just stood there crying. A couple approached me and asked if I was okay. I poured it out to them. As luck (or the birthday candle fairy?) would have it, the woman was a drug counselor. They were just out taking a stroll that Saturday when they saw me crying in the phone booth.

I went into rehab that day. I was staying with friends who were as hooked on crack as I was and I had nothing but a few changes of clothes. I knew if I did not go with the couple, I would go back to the house and use feeling sorry for myself as an excuse to get high.

I was an inpatient for four months. Afterwards, I got a job through the help of one of my new friends in my support group at a retail store. I wrote my daughter and told her I was getting help and while she was still understandably cautious, we began writing and talking and she had recently sent me an invitation to her high school graduation.

I was out of rehab just over a year when I heard that song. It brought back all the memories of what I had done to my daughter. These days, however, my crutch isn’t crack. I took a deep breath and changed lanes as I decided to turn right instead of left to my small apartment. There was a support group meeting starting in about 30 minutes and I knew after hearing that song that I needed to be there.