Face of an Addict

***I wrote this during the last week of December.***
I was sitting here trying to read and having a bit of difficulty concentrating. The reason being is that I have nothing to focus on. And without having something to focus on I begin to think. As I begin to think I begin to compare and I begin to remember.
I believe that my body, once I acknowledge that something is wrong, goes into free fall. Everything comes at me so hard and so fast, that I am unable to cope. Than I use the pills to stop it all from hurting. I am not excusing my behaviour I am trying so hard to understand why I do what I do. Why do I so desperately not want to feel that I am willing to risk my son, my life, my job with this addiction?
Three and a half years ago, the day before I went on short term disability I went into work as usual. My anxiety was at an all time high. I had taken half an ativan to help me relax. Once inside it continued. I was feeling so low. I was destroying myself. I was killing myself. What good was I to anyone. I took some Robax on top of the ativan. I began crying and could not stop. How the hell I got home without killing myself or someone else, I have no idea. The very next day I was told I needed to deal with my depression and to go see my doctor.
Let’s jump forward to December 23, 2017 and the only difference was the amount of Robax I took and there was no ativan in the mix. I wanted it to stop. I no longer wanted to do this to myself. I was still trying to cover up my addiction lying to my supervisor who found me even though I knew damn well that she knew I was. I have been lying to everyone for years. And this is really hard to face.
I am the face of an addict. I am not on the streets. I pay my bills. My rent. I feed my son and clothe him. I interact with others. I work. But an addict I be. I am unsure why I want to feel less? I keep looking for triggers and can find several of them, but each time the choice was mine. And every few days I would dump the bottle and I would have a stern chat with myself. That this could not go on, it had to stop.
I tried scare tactics. Such as, did I really want T waking up one morning and finding me dead? Was that what I wanted for my son? NO! Big and resounding. I do not want to be remembered as his drug addled mother. But even that was not enough to make me quit. And soon I would find myself going and buying more pills and consuming them. Pushing aside the lonliness that I was feeling because I felt I could not talk to anyone. That no one wants to hear my self pity. And I consumed more pills.
I keep pausing as I type this because this is really hard for me to process. Both times that I went on short term disability I behaved in the exact same manner.  Three and a half years apart. Only this time I was ready, I had had enough. And I took that helping hand that reached out to me and I grasped it like a life line. I have more retrospection to do. I have more that I need to digest. But for now, I need to rest, because these are hard truths that I am learning about myself.
I am an addict.
I will not allow my addiction to define me.
I will beat my addiction.
I will finally be the best me that I can be.

The Voices Within

***Picture via Pintrest***

With tongue laced in acid

words drip venom down my chest

held deep within your binding spell

unable to tear myself away.

You rip me apart

words laden with bile and hatred

etching everlasting the loathing

that I carry within myself.

Voices dripping with disdain

a roar within my brain

ripping and tearing

the fragile fabric of ego

causing me to crumple in pain.

I raise my head

tears fleeing down my cheeks

defiant in the face of your abuse

pummelled by your voice no more.


©Jay-lyn Doerksen

September 16/17

Not a Resolution

One of the hardest things I had to do in 2016 was going from seeing my son every day, hearing him tell me he loved me and giving me thousands of kisses, to seeing him every other week.  That is the custody arrangement my ex and me have worked out.  Week one with me, week two with dad, so on and so forth.

Today is the last day of my week with him.  As I write this he is still sound asleep, sprawled across the bed all long gangly limbs and cherubic innocence. Not so innocent when awake but in the coma of sleep he is still my little baby.  One might think that after 9 months of this that you might get use to it.  But you never do.  I cry every week.  I start to miss him before he is gone.  My home becomes silent and somehow less colorful.

I never let him see me like this.  The overwhelming need to cry only occurs when he is, like now, asleep or otherwise occupied out of sight.  I don’t let him know that my heart breaks when he goes out that door at 4 p.m. on Sunday. I don’t go into detail about how I will count down the hours until he returns in 7 days. I give him a hug and kiss, tell him I love him and will see him in a week.  Than I go into the house and wonder what to do with myself now.

So I read. I spend a lot of time on Facebook. I text a lot. I work. But I don’t really live. My world is drab. There are no visions of sugarplums or fairies dancing in my head.  There is depression. There is a need to self-medicate so it does not hurt so much. In doing that though one is lead down a bitter twisted road that ends only with more pain and conflict.

I am going to do something different this year. And no this is not a resolution. This is a need, a must, a chance for me to remake myself once more.  To start with I am going to write more. Write more often? Just write.  Writing is cathartic for me. It allows me to process my feelings and to work through the dark imagings that can arise.

I will live healthier. Eat better. When my son is here I cook meals and when he isn’t I eat whatever is on hand.  I need to stop that. I need to nourish my body as well as my mind. I am going to drink less and learn to live with the silence that surrounds me. And I am going to be okay with it.

In doing so I will become a better version of me. A better mom, a better friend, a better lover.