Saturday, October 4, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
After much contemplation, I have decided to start a blog.
My name is "Kayla", and I am what some would call a "functional addict". In reality, I am as dysfunctional as they come. I am a real person with real problems, who obviously does not know how to deal with them. My purpose in starting a blog is not for self-gratification, but rather to put my problems out in the open, as this has been a secret for far too long. They say the first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem. I see many blogs by ER and ED doctors and nurses about the drug seekers they see on a daily basis. Part of me wants to be angry at them, for being so crass and uncaring, but I can also see their perspective, too. They are real people as well, with real problems, but they aren't popping hydros just to get through the day now are they? NO! I envy them. I envy the people who go through life on a daily basis with a smile on their face without needing a chemical to alter them enough to make them think they are happy.
How did I get to this point? It hit me like a train. I knew better, yet I continue to go down this destructive path I have created for myself. It all started with a major surgery, resulting in a death sentence for my child. Many complications arose during my pregnancy, pre-term labor, polyhydramnios, 3rd trimester bleeding. I had an obvious issue, placental seperation, but upon my water breaking at home at 31.5, I was admitted to the Labor & Delivery Unit, to sit there for over a day until my child went into distress. I had been begging for an epidural for 13 hours because the pain was unbearable. My voice was never heard. I did not even have an IV in my arm. I was rushed to the O.R., put completely under, only to wake up to hear that my premature infant was on a ventilator after 20 minutes of CPR, and likely would not make it through the night. I clung on to hope. Hours turned into days, days to weeks, weeks to months. My severely brain damaged child fought for his life for months, surgeries, and finally was able to come home despite me being told he never would. My doctor made a mistake, a tragic mistake. I had nurses tell me that it was flagrant malpractice and that I needed to consult an attorney. Did I call one? Yes. Did I follow through? No. As much as this could have been prevented, I am sure that this Dr. knows that his poor choices led to my son's demise. I know that he lives with it every day. Or at least I hope that there won't be a next time. Sure, I could get sue happy. I could probably get a lot of money. But no amount of money in the world will erase the day that I woke up to find my son blue and unresponsive. All the medical training under my belt could not work my fingers to dial 911 that day as I ran out the door screaming for help, my 3.5 month old son, at only 6 lbs, laying on the concrete as I desperately tried to do CPR and save his life. It will never take away the memory of seeing the blood already pooling to one side of my baby's face, knowing that it was too late, but hanging on to every ounce of hope that the EMTs would arrive and save him. I don't want their money, I just want to forget. I want to forgive him, and I want to forgive myself. But for now I just pop pills.
I was placed on potent painkillers by this doctor upon discharge from the hospital. For legitimate reasons, I took them. And I took them as prescribed. Only he made a huge mistake. He gave me 60 of them with 4 refills. 60 alone without refills would have been plenty, but perhaps he was compensating for everything, and I, took advantage. I found myself taking them even after the pain had subsided. I took them to wake up in the mornings, I took them to stay awake at night. I took them just because, and I still do...
Over the course of 8 months, I have gone through every avenue to obtain them, even having some dental work done that I had put off, I didn't care about the fact that I was petrified of the dentist, I only cared that I had them. I dabbled in something called Dilaudid as well, that a family member had for back problems, and when that ran out, back to the hydrocodone I went. I am now at the point where I take 3 at a time, sometimes 6 or 7 times a day. And now, rather than go to the ER drug-seeking like some pill poppers do, I got (un)lucky and found someone who sold them on the street. Sad thing is, I am so ashamed of my habit, that even the person I buy them from thinks I am buying them for a friend. That "friend" is the real me that no one knows about. I do not spend hours on end in the ER making up pain to get them. I do not waste their time or mine to get 15 or so 5mg pills that I know I will fly through in a day. Never have. I make decent money, yet I spend close to 1200 a month on these things. Money that could go to something useful. I am ashamed of myself. I need help. I just don't know how to stop. So I have decided to blog, and maybe, just maybe I will get the help I so desperately need.