About six years ago, I tried crack for the first time. It never really had an effect on me until a childhood friend introduced me to mass quantities of it. He was the first person I ever told about the sexual abuse my half-sibling subjected me to at eight-years-old. He hugged me telling me how sorry he was. He said he would never look at the molester the same way ever again. I do not know what made me just up and tell him the truth, but I thank him for being so kind and not judgmental like most have been by saying such awful things like she’s crazy, she’s a liar, she needs to accept responsibility, she needs to stop blaming others, and my all time favorite—she needs to get over it.
Even though the high from crack only lasts about two minutes, I began liking the taste of it and the way it made me feel. That is how people become crack addicts. They continue to smoke crack for hours, sometimes binging for days chasing the feeling of that first hit, which you can only can if you take a break. This is almost impossible to do when you know you have more crack on hand. You just want hit after hit until it is all gone. Then you are out looking for more. On a binge, it scared me to death when my ears started ringing and the sound of freight trains ran through my head. I felt like I was about to pass out. I know I was very close to overdosing. I thank GOD for making me realize I was becoming addicted and was probably going to die because of it. I told my friend he could no longer continue to come to my house to smoke crack with me. I told him he needed help and so did I. He was a true friend because he respected my wishes.
He is now clean and sober. He was also raised in a domestically violent home, only a block away from my abusive childhood home. He thought everything was perfect with my life because we had money and they did not. One of his brothers hit the lottery, but died in a vehicle accident as a result of drugs. Another is in jail for the rest of his life for murder. There have been some stories about how their mother died when they were very young. Recently, two childhood friends within the same block told me they also thought I had the perfect life because of money. Abuse knows no income. One informed me her father was a sexual predator. Until that day, I had no clue about her family situation and she had no clue about mine. We were all aware of our dear friend’s family abuse. When I was very young, I witnessed his father pick up the son who is in jail for murder by the throat, slam him against the wall, and punch him in the stomach. The son calmly said, “You hit like my sister.” The father punched him some more. He also beat the one daughter with a belt for smoking cigarettes. What bothers me now is realizing how wrong it was not one of us kids, including me, did not even flinch at seeing such a violent act of abuse. Why, because we were all immuned to abuse.
I never traded sex for drugs, but I could understand how people could get themselves into this situation. When I was in Vegas, this couple said to me, “You can have another hit if you have sex with us.” I cursed them out and left. Shortly after leaving Vegas and returning to Pennsylvania, I attended my one friend’s fortieth birthday party. Her brother-in-law of many years kept hitting on me. The only drug I had in my system that night was alcohol. He said, “Do you remember when we almost hooked up after slow dancing all night? “ I told him, “No, that never happened. You must have me mixed up with someone else.” He continued to hit on me all night. I told him to leave me alone because he was married to my friend’s sister. Later that night back at my friend’s house, he asked me in front of his wife to have sex with them. I said, “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is what you two were setting me up for all night. “He continued to beg me with her sitting next to him. She did not say one word. I told her if she did not get her husband away from me, I was going to smash his head in. Then they began having oral sex on the couch right next to the one I was laying. I snapped. That’s when they went upstairs. At 7 a.m. I called my friends asking them to pick me up. I told them I could not wait to tell them what happened saying, “Just when I thought I seen it all, I get surprised yet again.” Before I left, I noticed his boots in the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and then put minced garlic and italian dressing in his boots. LOL! Unfortunately, I feel this night ruined my relationship with my best friend from high school. I could not see myself ever being in the presence of her sister and brother-in-law. How on earth could anyone after that? Now I know why they were not invited to her half-sister’s wedding. They were swingers and I obviously was not the first person they have done this to at a family event.
I lived a very destructive life. Three years ago, I snorted heroin for the first time. I really liked the mellow feeling. I feel I never allowed myself to get addicted because my first marriage falling apart as a result of him being an intravenous heroin addict for over forty years. I could not subject not only myself, but my daughter and granddaughter, to another heroin addict. But here I was subjecting them to my self-destruction. I was way out of control, but thought I was better because I did not stick a needle in my arm. I wasn’t.
My daughter has suffered immensely from not having her father in her life. When she was about five, I would not allow him to be part of her life anymore as long as he was an addict. He choose heroin over family. Even though I did the right thing by shielding her from his addiction, she still has suffered. While raising my daughter alone, as I said I lived a drug free life. I would only drink socially from time to time. I knew I had a child to take care of. She was my life. I had a great career, a home, and two vehicles. When my daughter was about fourteen, I did not realize PTSD was rearing its ugly head. My years of drug-free sobriety were going down the drain. At that time, my daughter was still acting out as a result of a five-year abusive relationship that ended when she was ten. My daughter was also suffering from not having her father in her life. I suffered from having my father in my life. Neither one of us had a chance from birth. She began cutting herself in sixth grade. I got her immediate professional help. She told me she cut herself because she missed her dad. To this very day she tells me not having her father in her life had a negative effect on her life. This just breaks my heart. I only ever wanted the best for my daughter. I told her how sorry I was for not giving her a better father. She replied so sweetly, “That’s okay, Mom. It’s not your fault.” But it was. The signs were all there. I chose to ignore them just as I was taught by my parents and here I was continuing the cycle of abuse by subjecting my daughter to it. I am trying with all my power to stop the cycle of abuse within my own little family, so we can all be happy and healthy at last. It is a very difficult task, but I will succeed. I must!