Shattered Glass

“Hi, my name is Megan and I’m an addict.” I hear myself robotically mumble. I glance around the room at cliché catch phrases that plaster the wood-paneled walls. “Don’t stop before the miracle happens” and “One Day at a Time” hang in dusty frames. I harshly judge the aged faces while they grip coffee-filled Styrofoam cups. “Ugh, these people are so lame!” I think, almost daring myself to get up and leave. At 21 years of age, an AA meeting was hardly a fun place to be. Although I had certainly earned myself a seat in that room, I refused to believe I needed help, especially theirs. As soon as the painfully long 3,600 seconds were over, I bolted to the car in a quick escape. My friends turned on the newest Lil' Wayne CD, rolled down the windows and drove me directly towards the dark years.

In High School I did not realize that binge drinking was abnormal and I most certainly did not know that the prescription Oxycodone the surgeon prescribed me would eventually lead to heroin and more trauma than any human should ever have to endure. One terrifying morning, I woke up to my heart pounding out of my chest and my body drenched in sweat. The anxiety was unbearable, I was convinced I was dying. Panicked, I woke my boyfriend and quickly explained to him that I was experiencing a negative reaction from my recent OxyContin upgrade. As he pulled the covers back from his head he casually stated "You're dope sick. Call you're dude and you'll be fine." Dope sick. I think the Doctor forgot to mention that side effect.

My world was turned upside down. I traded every single earthy possession for heroin. I tossed aside my morals, values and body as I ran deeper and deeper into addiction. I had crossed the invisible line from "Let's get drunk and have a bonfire this weekend" to "If you steal my last ten dollars, I will kill you." I skipped right over this line without even realizing what was happening. The world around me melted into a blur and the light in my eyes turned black.

Many years later, I sat alone in a dark bathroom surrounded by shattered glass. I silently wept for my mother. I missed her. I thought about the many years that were lost to my addiction. I cried for the little girl that suffered inside of me and for the teenager that could not cope. Hot tears streamed down my face while I relived the terror of the life I was living. I felt the last living part of my soul leave my body. I willed myself to disappear. Muffled sobs escaped my chapped lips and large abusive hands hurled glass paraphernalia, mirrors, and picture frames in my direction. I felt matted hair underneath my small hands as I tried to shield my neck and skull. Pieces of glass landed in heaps around my filthy jeans and bounced off my dirt-covered sneakers. On that day, covered in shattered glass, I begged for help. And I finally meant it.

“My name is Megan and I am a recovered addict. I’ve been clean for 8 years. I have endured tremendous pain, and I have been ruthless in my recovery,” I hear myself clearly state. I have said this to hundreds of individuals as they struggle to climb from the abyss and watched as hundreds more lose the same battle. Violence, hate and darkness engulf communities. Our children are growing up without their parents and parents are outliving their children. I have become fluent in funerals, memorials and grief. I have felt fear, self-doubt and utter powerlessness as my friends, family members and peers give way to their addiction and take their last breath.

Through the darkness, I have learned profound determination, humility, and above all else, vulnerability. One day at a time, I have grown into the outstanding sister, daughter and partner I am today. Although my journey has felt unbearable at times, I know that my resiliency breeds hope. Do not lose hope. I am deeply grateful for my gut-wrenching past, because without it, I know I would never reach those that remain in the dark, surrounded by shattered glass.