Drug Addiction Stories & Info

He had been coming to church with us for several weeks. I loved him and we had a history together. He was my cousin and our families had always been close. Still, as teens, I went off to college and Jamie turned to drugs. While in college, I met the guy I was to marry and moved to the northeast with him. A promotion and transfer brought us back to the south in the city closest to my small home town.

One day, I ran into Jamie. He grabbed me and said “Cousin! I’ve missed you!” I barely recognized him. The drugs had made him seem older than he was. Still, he was my cousin and I loved him and was happy to see him.

As time went by, I noticed that Jamie’s perception of things was vastly different than that of most people. He insisted events happened that never did or didn’t that everyone else clearly remembered. He even became adamant that he knew things more experienced people didn’t, such as the night we were in a restaurant and a person had a heart attack. Fortunately, a doctor was there with his family and was able to aid the person until the paramedics arrived but Jamie began yelling that the doctor didn’t know what he was doing. Jamie said he was certified in CPR and he was, in high school during a class that we were all taught nearly 20 years earlier. But that was no match for a doctor’s skills and here was my cousin, starting a ruckus as my husband and I steered him out of the restaurant.

We began inviting him to church. He went for three weeks and then one morning, as I called to let him know we were on our way, a stranger answered the phone. He identified himself as a police officer. My cousin Jamie had overdosed and his roommate had called it in. The paramedics had been unable to revive him.

My heart broke at the news. Jamie had needed help. I had talked him into going to church but he had refused rehab and was trying to stop on his own. With friends and a roommate in that lifestyle, overcoming addiction had turned out to be impossible.

That was two years ago. To this day I miss the Jamie I grew up. I just wanted to share this because I want others to know that if they hooked on drugs, rehab really is the way to go. So please, do it for yourselves, for your families and for those who no longer have that opportunity…like my cousin, Jamie.

I found them as we were cleaning up the house to do some changes. We were getting marred soon and getting the place ready to move my things out of storage. I asked him about the pills I found. They were prescriptions and I was concerned about his health. He quickly assured me that he was fine and that the painkillers were old. They were outdated by about a year. I asked him why they were hidden. 

He told me he had a friend from college stay with him for a while and he had noticed several changes in him during the four years they had not been around each other. He had invited his friend to stay with him while he was finding a job and getting his feet on the ground so to speak. It wasn’t too long though, before he began finding things missing and discovered his friend was on drugs and pawning stuff. He got his stuff back and talked his friend into rehab.

He seemed sad as he told me the story about his friend. I asked him what had happened to the guy and why the prescription bottles were still hidden. He said his friend’s mother had pleaded with him to let the guy stay with him after rehab. Things were going good until his friend met a girl who was on painkillers and before he knew it, his friend was back drugs himself and the painkillers my boyfriend had been given following a motorcycle accident were disappearing faster than he was taking them.

“I confronted him again. This time he wouldn’t be helped because his girlfriend kept denying they had a problem.” He ended up asking his friend to leave and had to change the locks on his doors and install a security system.

“The friend I had in college? He wasn’t the same one who was here. It was like they were two different people. He had turned into a stranger.” 

We flushed the prescriptions down the toilet as they were expired. I had only seen that look of sadness on his face once before, and that was when he talked about his parents’ passing. I asked him if he knew where his friend was these days. He nodded. His friend’s mother had called to tell him that her son and the girlfriend had committed suicide together by overdosing. They had left a note saying they couldn’t find jobs and there was nothing to live for.

I held him close to me as he told me the story about his friend. He had helped his friend before, yet this last time he refused help. I knew then what the survivors’ guilt felt like that I had heard about.  My boyfriend cared about his friend, tried to help him, yet still felt bad because of his friend’s choice not to get help a second time.  Now he was drowning in a feeling of guilt he didn’t deserve to have

I love to talk to my mama. Every day I tell her about how my day is going, my problems, my hopes, my dreams. She is right there, always listening. She does not put me down like she used to when she was hooked on drugs. She quietly listens, taking in every thing I say. I can cry, I can laugh, I can be angry and I have no fear of her hitting me or calling me names like she used to do when I was little.

My mama was not always a good parent. She partied all through school and on into her twenties. I was an unplanned pregnancy. She partied till my grandparents found out about me and they insisted on her getting treatment and round the clock supervision. I had a couple of learning disabilities as a child but by the grace of a higher power, I muddled through and did okay.

When my mama stopped taking drugs at 34, I was barely 16. I had mostly lived with my grandparents but having her off of drugs made it possible for me to visit with her every day. The day I got asked to the prom, I ran and told her. The day I picked out my prom dress, I dressed in it and showed it to her. I told her about my high school boyfriend proposing to me the night of our graduation. I shared all the details of my wedding with her and showed her pictures of our honeymoon. The day the doctor told me I was pregnant, I told my mother even before I told my husband.

I have two children now, a boy and a girl. My son is ten and my daughter is eight. My mother quietly listens as I share every important moment of their lives with her. With my family, I am busier these days and only get to visit with her every couple of weeks now on the weekend. She understands, though.

As I lay the flowers at her graveside, I tell her I love her. I tell her how much I have missed her every day since she died of an overdose at the age of 34. I pull out my children’s pictures and tell her how proud she would be of them and how proud she would be of me because I never hit them and I never drink or do drugs I thank her for giving me life and I thank her for allowing my grandparents to keep me when she could have just given me away because I have my own two children and my wonderful husband.

My mama just listens quietly. As I sit at her grave, I hear the peaceful tranquility and I know that somehow, somewhere, she sees me and is proud of me, too. We don’t talk about regrets. I know hers are monumental. I whisper “I love you, Mama” and walk out of the cemetery to hurry home to see my beloved son and daughter, the tears streaming down my face. Mama listens to me now.