Grief of an Overdose Death

 I have experienced deep and painful grief from the death of many loved ones in my life. My husband died of a sudden heart attack in his sleep. My younger sister died of cancer. I lost both of my sons — my younger one to an accident, and my older one, who died of a substance use disorder.

My husband’s, younger son’s and sister’s deaths were considered socially acceptable to grieve. The loss I felt when I lost my older son to an overdose was painful in multiple ways and different than any other grief. I still remember the horror of him not showing up to pick me up. Calling a Lyft and coming home and seeing his light on upstairs and the music playing. The sinking feeling of realizing something was horribly wrong. Climbing the steps, finding him dead and knowing he had lost his battle with opioid addiction.

There was shame and guilt for being relieved that his battle was over and feeling the judgment of society as my son’s death was considered socially marginal — as if he somehow deserved or wanted to die because of addiction.

Drug addiction is a disease. Our society, however, does not accept it as a disease; we treat people with substance use disorders as though they can somehow control their behavior.

My son had been using opioids off and on for over 10 years. He had many years in recovery where he was not taking anything. As a parent, there is the belief that your child has finally turned the corner and you are done with the disease. There is a roller coaster of hope, loss and pure terror at the grip substance use has on your child.

Processing a special kind of grief

As a parent of a child with substance use disorder, you go over in your mind what you missed, what you could have changed — “if only” plays out in a thousand ways. And, if you are not hard enough on yourself, you know what is whispered about your child. You know the judgment from others; you feel it emanating from them. It is not only in their words but also their body language and a thoughtless, hurtful statement.

You are embarrassed and humiliated by the lengths your child goes to feed their addiction and the extent you go to as a parent to try and help them. You’re embarrassed by the things you forgive, such as the thieving and the lies.

You go the distance because of love and guilt. If my child had cancer, would I ignore it or pretend it didn’t exist? Did I cause this? Am I responsible for their addiction?

For me, there was a sense of strange relief when my child passed away from an overdose, knowing your child is out of pain — relief that you are no longer living in a nightmare, wondering where they are or if they are dead, waiting, wondering if you will see them again. Then there is guilt for feeling this way when your loved one is gone. It is all part of the process and being human.

I do not regret spending money or time trying to help my son find a cure for his disease. My only regret is that I did not understand substance use sooner. I am also glad that I ignored everyone who told me to just “cut him loose.” I am not angry at them; I know they did not understand it, either.

How to support those who have lost a loved one to addiction

If you have not lost someone to substance use or an overdose death, how could you know what to do? Below are some things I have learned from losing my son to an overdose and what may be helpful and not helpful. We need to help teach people how to treat us at different crossroads in our lifetime.

• Please don’t avoid the subject. He was my son and I loved him and I want to talk about him. I don’t mind discussing the good and the bad. The good is that I have beautiful memories of my son, his quick wit and humor, his kindness towards others, his intelligence and his musical and cooking abilities. My son was a wonderful person. The substance use was not wonderful, and that was also a part of the history. Please just listen and sit with me if I need to talk about it.
• Put a card in the mail, send flowers, drop off food, come to his memorial or share a memory of him. Do not run away or turn your back because you do not know what to say.
• Please don’t judge me, because I feel enough shame and guilt myself. I already ask myself if I did everything I could. Could I have done more? Is it my fault my son died? Was I a bad parent? I am hard enough on myself; I do not need anyone else passing judgment on me as a parent. I am no different than you — I did band practice, carpools, packed lunches, went on vacation and loved my son. Addiction is a disease. You would not judge me if my son had died of cancer; please don’t judge me as a parent because he died of an overdose.
• I know there were times that I was angry with my son. There were times when I’d had enough and said some things to him that I did not mean. Have you ever done that with your adult child? For me, this is compounded by the years spent dealing with substance use and the frustration and grief of feeling that your child is not there.
• Don’t tell me to “get over it” or that I need to “move on.” Do not tell me how long to grieve, as if his life didn’t count for anything. I need to grieve in my own way and in my own time.
• Please do not treat his death as marginal. It was not. It was a life and he had a light that went out. My heart hurts when something is said without thinking of its  impact on everyone who is grieving him.
• Please don’t “ghost” me. To have a friend for 14 years who suddenly does not return your calls or emails because they do not want to be associated with the stigma of substance use is painful. It causes more pain — you now are not only grieving your son but the loss of someone you thought was a friend. It multiplies the pain. Brenee Brown calls this the “flying debris” on top of an already-difficult time.
• I know you are trying to cheer me up, but often I am not up for social situations while grieving. I will be angry at times, want to be alone or want to cry. Grief does not follow a formula; it is a roller coaster and you are along for the ride. You do not always see the dips coming. If I leave abruptly, it means I need to go home. Please do not try and stop me. Please understand that during those times, I need to be alone.
• Be mindful of my grandchildren, as they are hurting, too. They lost their father, and when insensitive remarks are made, it hurts them deeply. It impacts their grieving, and they are just children. If you can’t say something nice about their loved one, don’t say anything.
• Please don’t bring up my son’s death to substance use in a social situation, especially with people I don’t know. If I want to talk about it, I will. While the person means well, many people react differently to this kind of death. It can change the energy in the room, and I find myself having to tell “my story” when I am not up for it, or wasn’t ready to share it with everyone. Let me take the lead.
• If you have had a similar problem with someone in your family who has a substance use issue or you lost someone close to substance use, talk about it — don’t hide it. Let’s work toward destroying this stigma together.
• Put a black balloon up on March 6. That day is Black Balloon Day, in which we remember anyone you know who has died from substance use. Help keep their memories alive and help those struggling with this awful disease.

Most importantly, I will allow myself time to grieve. I aim to surround myself with people who truly love me and understand what I am going through. If anyone you know is struggling with this type of grief, be a light for them in the darkness.

Lara's Story

 I found myself in sobriety. I lost her along the way. The world was full of noise. It was telling me to be this and to be that. To care about things, I did not care about and to pretend everything was good, even if everything was very bad. I wish I would have known what matters and what didn’t matter. I wish the cloak of shame I wore throughout my addiction and in early sobriety would have come off quicker than it did. But, time takes time.

I grew up in an upper-middle class neighborhood in Phoenix, Arizona that was full of good people with good intentions. The problem was that the world was telling us that in order to shine we had to achieve, and compete. We had to be better than our neighbor and we had to beat them in every race.

 

I grew up with a high moral compass, thanks to my parents and my family. I said no to drugs and I said yes to education and experiences and people. I was always pulling back from what the world wanted me to be, while still ensuring that I was doing what the world wanted me to do. I was full of contradictions. I wanted so badly to love what I loved and to not care about popularity, and trophies, and accomplishments. But, I also wanted validation just as much.

It was a constant fight to be the person I knew I was, while still ensuring that my parents and my teachers and my friends were telling me they were proud of me. I craved validation in the same way I ended up cravingthe drugsthat broke me down. I couldn’t breathe without it.

I was an exceptional student. I saw how my older sister was constantly praised for her intelligence and I started valuing my own intelligence above all else. She was valedictorian, a cheerleader, an honor student, and it appeared that she could do all things I could not. I couldn’t dance. I couldn’t keep a beat. Good grades didn’t come naturally to me. I had to work for them.

I ended up graduating college Summa Cum Laude in 3.5 years and going to graduate school directly after that. My sister was in law school and I knew I had to get an advanced degree if I wanted to live up to who she was becoming and going to be. In December of 2004, I had a minor surgery and I was prescribed opiates. During this time, I was studying for the GMAT’s and putting an unbelievable amount of pressure on myself to get accepted into the graduate school of my choice. It was the very first time I ever used a prescription for non-medical reasons. I know I was prescribed Vicodin, but the pain had subsided and I continued to take the pills because they relaxed me and made me feel at peace. After that prescription ran out, I found another Vicodin bottle in my medicine cabinet from when I got my wisdom teeth taken out. I swallowed every pill and when I visited my parents’ house, I found their old opiate prescriptions and took those as well.

When the bottles of pills ran out, I stopped using them. I didn’t think of it as abuse or a problem that I would ever have to confront. I took a few pills that helped me relax in the same way people drink a glass of wine to help themselves relax. It wasn’t an issue, until it was.

Over the years, I would continue to seek out opiates. I would use them on the weekend or buy them on vacation in Mexico. I preferred swallowing a pill, over drinking. It was my preferred route of administration.

Overtime, I started recognizing a problem in myself. I was self-aware enough to know that this is not how I would normally behave. I ended up seeing a psychiatrist and told him that I had been abusing prescription painkillers and that I was depressed and needed his help. He spent about 25 minutes with me and sent me off with 3 more prescriptions.Xanax, to treat my anxiety.Ambien, to help me sleep. And an anti-depressant, to soothe my depression. He didn’t seem to care that I thought I had become addicted toprescription opiates. He only seemed to care about treating the symptoms, not the true problem. However, I was able to stop abusing prescription painkillers for the next couple of years. Instead, I learned how to abuse Xanax.

In 2009, I was involved in a bad car accident and I was prescribed more opiates than fathomable. It’s true that I was in pain and I ended up with three herniated discs and consistent pain that would still last until this day. However, once again, the doctors seemed to treat the symptoms, not the problem. I was still able to function and maintain a job and be a productive member of society, but I could feel myself losing control.

In 2010, I was prescribedAdderallby the same doctor who prescribed me Xanax, Ambien, and an anti-depressant when I told him I had a problem with prescription opiates. This time he prescribed me Adderall after telling him I wanted to die and I didn’t know what to do. I had lost an important job opportunity and I felt suicidal. His answer was a highly addictive amphetamine that would soon lead me to complete destruction.

I spent the next four years in and out of drug rehabs, and psych wards, and sober living homes. I could not maintain my sobriety because I had lost myself over the course of the last ten years. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I had always been the successful, determined, and accomplished woman that society wanted me to be. When I lost my identity as this woman, I became afraid and fragile and fearful. The only thing I wanted to do was escape this pain. I couldn’t face the world anymore. Without this identity, who was I? I had no idea.

In 2014, I entered recovery and I finally began understanding who I was again. I can’t fully explain why this time it stuck and all the other times it didn’t. There are a thousand things I did to make recovery stick. I believe the combination of all the tools I utilized and all the people I met along the way are what helped create the miracle of lasting recovery. Sometimes nothing makes sense and when you look back on it, it all makes sense (as confusing as that may sound.)

I can say I threw the book at my recovery. I never just stuck to one way or one program of recovery. I continued adding more and more tools as I wanted to keep growing and keep evolving. I utilized counseling, meditation, meetings, prayer, essential oils, breath work, tribe, people, sobriety schools, movement, poetry, books, Rumi, God, family, animals, writing, the internet and other people. The list could continue on forever as there are so many things I did to maintain my recovery. I didn’t want to lose my sobriety anymore. It became my most cherished possession.

Rebecca Campbell says “Bless the thing that broke you down and cracked you open, because the world needs you open.” My addiction and the destruction that occurred in my addiction led me to here, to now, to the gift that is my life. I don’t wish addiction for anyone. However, I have learned to be grateful for the experience of addiction. It’s not my identity. It’s part of my story. My identity is a human. I have stripped the layers of shame and guilt and I have become a woman I am proud to be.

I maintain my recovery by continually working on becoming a better human. This is my one goal. I believe the greatest thing I found in my sobriety is a God of my own understanding. I actually found God through the poetry of Rumi. I built a relationship with God and I work on that relationship every single day. I ask God to use me for His purposes. I thank Him daily. And I stay close to him, in everything I do, in all the people I meet.

I never want to be a finished product. I am always willing to learn, to be open-minded, to change. All the material things that used to matter don’t matter so much anymore. When you have been taken down to the bare bones, you start to understand what matters and what doesn’t. For me, my sobriety is my priority. I know that Kindness matters. Love matters. Service matters. I have grown into a soft woman with the biggest heart. I am not defined by what the world thinks of me, but rather by what God thinks of me. I found myself, because of sobriety.

Mathew's Story

 Matthew was a typical teenager, full of adventure, mischief and zest for life. He took pride in his friendships and made many friends along life’s journey. As I look back on his life, I see someone who always tried to make other people happy, not understanding his own sadness inside.

When Matt was 13 years old he tried pot for the first time because a friend dared him to do it. He always said “my friends got my back.” He would do anything for his friends, and expected the same in return.

By the time Matt was 14 his grades were dropping in school, and we noticed his behavior changing from happy to angry and sometimes even violent. We still have holes in walls that he punched when he was out of control. Alcohol and over-the-counter medication were now in his life almost daily. He was seeing a counselor once a week without much benefit. We tried Intensive out-patient rehab programs twice, however to our horror he just learned more about what drugs were out there and how to use them.

In September 2003, we sent Matt to Minnesota Teen Challenge. He was there for 4 months. He was discharged from the program for stealing cough syrup from a gas station while out on an event the school had planned. Matt called me and begged to please [let him] come home. He promised he had changed and would follow our rules if he could just come home.

Late January 2004, he came back home clean and sober. He was the son I knew before the drugs. Matt was happy, enjoying family time, and starting to excel in his writing and art talents. Life was going well. Peace was in our home again. Unfortunately this time would be short. In April, his old friend from the “bad days” moved back into town. He had been living in Seattle with an aunt for almost a year. At first, Matt listened to us and stayed away from him. However, unknown to us, he was meeting up with him behind our backs. Matt was taking off after we went to bed and hanging with other users. Money, jewelry, and anything that wasn’t locked up would disappear. He took money from his sister and even his little brother’s coin collection. Every day was a battle. I remember asking God to please intervene and save Matt from himself. Our whole family was broken and we and Matt needed fixing.

On December 14, 2004 Matt snuck out of the house for the last time. I called him at 10:30 that night and told him it was curfew and he had to come home. He said he was sorry for leaving without telling us and he would be home soon. He sounded fine and was laughing and talking as if nothing were wrong. I would find out later that within seconds of that phone call, Matt was injected with 66 percent pure heroin. [He was found dead early the next morning.]

Matt’s friend [served] two years in Federal prison for lying to the authorities about the details of the night he died. [The dealer was found guilty of dealing the heroin that resulted in Matt’s overdose. He’s currently serving a life sentence.]

I know this does not bring my son home, however there is justice for Matt and all the kids lost to heroin and those addicted because of these dealers.

Krista's Story

My name is Kristina and I am a woman in long term recovery and what that means to me is that I haven’t found it necessary to use any mind -altering substances since October 25, 2017 and for that I am truly grateful.

My drug use started when I was in high school, with pain pills that I was prescribed to after I injured my back at a track meet. After my injury, I lost the opportunity to get a scholarship, that was offered to me. It wasn’t long before I became dependent on the pain medication.

After some time, I developed a high tolerance, and had to take more and more of them at a time to even feel high. Each time I went to my pain management doctor I was given something stronger. Eventually the pills no longer had the same effect on me, I started experimenting with other drugs and at that time I never thought I would ever shoot up anything but once I couldn’t get that same high from taking the pills, I was shown how to shoot up the OxyContin up at the age of 23. It was game over from that day forward. Eventually when the OxyContin became too expensive, I was introduced to heroin which was cheaper and easier to get, I would find myself many times doing whatever it took to get my next high.

I’ve struggled so much through the years to stay off the opiates. It’s been such a vicious cycle. I have attempted so many times to stay clean and sober but when I started shooting up meth and heroin, I completely lost all control of my life. The longer I spiraled out of control it seemed like I could have never regained my sanity. I was hopeless and full of despair. I felt like I never stood a chance. It wasn’t until I admitted complete defeat and surrendered my life to my higher power that, I was able to see that I was bound by the disease of addiction.

 On October 25, 2017 I was able to get into a detox program at Santa Maria Hostel.  I was what they would call a chronic relapser, I’ve never been able to maintain my sobriety successfully for an extended period. Having been to treatment for my Substance Use Disorder four (4) different times, it wasn’t until I went through the detox program that I was able to stop using opiates completely. Once I started residential treatment, I was given the opportunity to be in the Pilot Program for Vivitrol (naltrexone for extended-release injectable suspension), which was a monthly injection for 16months. Vivitrol gave me a chance to live a life without any opiates. It was a huge tool to help someone like me who couldn’t maintain her sobriety from opiates for any length of time.

Today I am 22 months clean and sober. To maintain my sobriety, I attend 12-step meetings, I attend therapy as well as stay connected with my support system. There are so many pathways to Recovery. Today I work as a Recovery Coach with the Youth. I get the opportunity to share my lived experience with others daily. WE DO RECOVER! 

I am Not Defined by my Past

 My addictions almost took my life.  After 23 years of struggling with substance use disorders, I was so beaten down and tired of the madness that I started to think through scenarios that would end it all.  I was afraid to live. I was afraid of death, but I wanted to die. I felt paralyzed and owned by a force that I couldn’t get my arms wrapped around. 

Finally, I found myself smacked in the face by the recovery stick. It turned my entire world flipped upside down. But understanding what recovery actually meant, and the power it gave me, did not happen overnight.

In the beginning of my recovery, and throughout my addiction, I was ashamed of who I was and the person I had become. I believed addiction was a weakness in my character.  I thought I was held back from opportunities, and I would never be good enough for certain situations.  

Recovery taught me that I couldn’t have been more wrong about all that.

As I progressed in my recovery, I realized that I am not defined by my past. Instead, I found that every negative thought I had had about myself was actually a component that made me into the incredible person I am today! I realized that I had the strength of an ox. After being torn apart for so many years, I found that nothing new could tear me down. I never knew true happiness until I bounced back from the most challenging experience of my life: My addiction. I became more than enough for every situation. I started to see myself as a valuable asset in all situations.

Before recovery, I never knew how strong I actually was, and how much I could help strengthen others through telling my story. I never knew how incredibly amazing I was, and it was inside of me the whole time—I just needed to learn to love myself. And I found that in my recovery.

If it weren’t for my experiences, horrible as they may have been at times, I don’t believe I would have discovered the strength, beauty, and positive outlook I have on life today.  My past strengthened me for the incredible journey I started when I finally entered into recovery.  

Recovery is not just the absence of an addiction. It’s recovering and rediscovering the person inside—and for me, that has been the most empowering and incredible part of this journey! It’s all about the chance to rediscover who you are. It’s about taking all of those pieces in your life that appeared to be shattered and bring them together again. It’s about making yourself shatterproof.

Jen Sugermeyer is a Shatterproof Ambassador based in Texas.

A Personal Story of Addiction

 I cannot tell you my name, or where I live, or even the specialty within which I practice medicine. I cannot do so for I have been shamed, embarrassed, and at times stigmatized. Even today, years later, I fear retribution, liability, and even prosecution. Some of this may have been deserved at one time, but today my story is one of success. It is a story of hope, of support and of recovery. I share this intimate tale so that you, my colleagues and friends in the medical field, can hear the human side of addictive disease, of its treacherous grip, and of the freedom and confidence from which I have emerged from this terrifying illness.

My drug use did not begin until medical school. I was never a drinker in high school or even in college, nor did I use drugs socially. Then, one evening when I was finding it hard to stay awake to study for an organic chemistry exam, a friend directed me to some stimulants that were available in sample form. The result was perfect. I began using the pills, rather innocently, whenever I needed a boost. To me, it was like a cup of coffee, only better. I soon learned that I could order the pills on the Internet and have a supply whenever it was needed

Upon graduation, I entered practice determined to be the best doctor possible. I spent a great deal of time with my patients, who kept coming back. My patient load grew exponentially, and I had trouble keeping pace. I had no experience running a business, was working long hours, and was unable to juggle the growing load. I found myself taking more and more pills just to keep up, and then even more pills to get me to sleep again. I gave little thought to this drug use. After all, I was no street junkie making covert deals in dark alleys. I was a good doctor, with many patients, using my medical knowledge to make the path toward success a bit smoother. So I thought.

My drug use escalated. In addition to Internet orders I would write prescriptions in the names of my family members. Suddenly, my uncle had knee pain, my father-in-law back problems, my aunt arthritis. I did not think about the record I was establishing of their purported use, nor did I think about the records of my own prescribing practices. I was out of control, but getting by, taking many pills to get through each day.

Throughout this time I still felt on top. Despite my drug use, I was a physician with a thriving practice. I provided quality care and had no patient complaints. I had a wife and children that relied upon me and saw me as a great provider. My friends and family admired me. I was respected in the community. I enjoyed my status and felt it was deserved, having achieved academically as well as socially since childhood.

And then one day, the Drug Enforcement Agency came to the door inquiring about fraudulent prescriptions. The reality of the situation took months to sink in. My reaction was disbelief. I was no druggie engaged in covert activities, and I was certainly no criminal. I was an admired and respected physician. I was sure the entire misunderstanding would be cleared up with a smile and an apology. I could not have been more wrong.

The shame and magnitude of my tumble was immeasurable. Not only did I face the legal and professional ramifications of having written improper prescriptions, but I had to cope with the personal humiliation of a fall from grace. I was no longer the icon of success I had worked a lifetime to achieve. I was now tainted, not only in the eyes of my colleagues, but also, for the very first time, in my own.

Fortunately, when everything was crumbling around me, I got support and advice. With the guidance of Physician Health Services (PHS), I got into a treatment program that helped me realize that I suffered from a virulent illness and was both worthy and deserving of help. I was medically detoxified from the effects of the medications I had now stopped taking. I learned to take responsibility for my behaviors, but also to recognize that I had been sick and could certainly get well. I learned that addiction would be a lifelong condition, but not a lifelong impairment, and I agreed to a long term monitoring contract with PHS. To comply with this contract, I had to work hard. I saw a therapist to address issues of addiction, shame, honesty and interpersonal relationships. I submitted to regular and random drug screens. I attended support group meetings, met with sponsors and mentors, and in doing so, changed my life dramatically.

After months of treatment, out of state, learning about my disease and learning about myself, I came back home feeling strong. I was healthy, drug free, clear thinking, and ready to pull my career back together. Unfortunately, my career was not yet ready for me. Despite the fact that I had never had a malpractice case and had never harmed a patient, there would be months of waiting for the licensing board to address my petition to go back to work. I would be investigated, questioned and challenged. This process lasted for months on end, and when I did get my license it was with extensive restrictions and requirements for informing everyone with whom I had professional contact of my “probationary status” and of my disease. These required disclosures then led to a new round of inquiries by third party credentialing agencies without which I could not sustain a practice, so I began the journey again. More questions, more disclosures, more humiliation.

The greatest challenge of all was the subsequent public disgrace. The day my license was finally restored, a press release issued informing the public of my professional discipline. My name became front-page news highlighted by lurid references to drugs, diversion, and criminal activity. There was no mention of my recovery from illness nor of the months and years of personal work and growth I had achieved. What was to be a day of celebration had become a day of pain and shame. My daughter had a soccer game that day, and through tears, even she had to face the humiliation of what I had hoped was well in my past.

Although I was angry and frustrated with the obstacles I was facing, I now had the tools to deal with this stress. Through PHS I had a physician support group where I could meet and learn from other doctors who faced these same struggles. I had an outlet for sharing my experiences and for learning from example that there was indeed hope for my future. And most importantly, I had my sobriety and my health.

Ultimately, I did return to practice. It was no easy journey. The process took years. During this time I was doubted by others and I doubted myself. But now I am stronger. I have the confidence of knowing that whatever ills befall me, I can heal. As a result, I am a better healer. My practice is now as successful as ever. I continue to be board certified in my specialty. I continue to provide quality care. I also have additional contributions to make to the profession. I am more open-mind and less likely to pass judgment. I have learned that medicine is not about being powerful or respected, but about being respectful and compassionate. I have learned that physicians, like all people, have the susceptibility to become ill and the capacity to become well. However, to encourage wellness we, as a profession, need to provide resources and nurturance, not shame and humiliation. I am now sober and can’t imagine facing life any other way. And I share this story so that all of my colleagues in the medical field will know that they, too, can embark successfully upon this journey.

Gina's Story

 “I was in active addiction since I was 13. I started doing heroin and continued using until I was 33.”

Gina is outgoing; hence, her soul shines through her eyes. Without hearing her story, you would never understand the trials and tribulations she endured to make it to where she is today.

“In 2005, I was out getting high and fell 20 feet and broke my back and my wrist, but I stayed out. I was only 70 pounds at that point. My family had to prepare my funeral. I told my mom I was going to die from this disease, that it was my destiny.

“In addiction, you live in the past of what it was like when you were a kid, standing on the corner drinking 40s or hanging out in the bar. It’s the only disease that convinces you that you don’t have a disease. It’s cunning, baffling, and powerful.”

Like too many people, substance use disorder had taken over Gina’s life – that is, until one day when she found the inner strength to ask for help.

“I was hanging out in Kensington in the cold, and I suddenly had a moment of sanity. It was like my head and heart were suddenly on the same page, and I thought, “What are you doing? This isn’t good.

“I had been to 11 rehabs before that day. But that time, I walked into the crisis center, and it was the first time I finally said, ‘I don’t have a home and I haven’t had one in four years. I’m dying and I need you to help me.’ And they did.

“I had a social worker who fought for me. People would mistreat me. In their terms, I was just a junkie. But my social worker told me, ‘We’re going to fight hard for you. I need you to fight hard for you.’ She sent me through detox. I started attending meetings and hanging out with girls living in the recovery house.”

To Gina, having a strong support system was crucial; most noteworthy was her family.

“Thank God for my family. One of the things that breaks my heart is that I was not always there for my family as much as I feel I should have been. I was being driven by addiction. They supported me through my entire journey.

“Now, I’m going to college to get my associate’s degree in social work. I don’t know what else I would do if I didn’t work in the recovery field. My sponsee calls me every day at 4:34 pm, and I have a group of women in recovery who I know are always going to love me, who will always be there for me.

“I would say to anyone who thinks they have a problem: There is hope. Please don’t give up on it. You are loved. You are somebody.”