I Was a Stay-at-Home Mom — And Nobody Knew I Was Addicted to Painkillers
Until recently, I had been keeping a secret for several years: I was a stay-at-home mom and an addict.
Two weeks ago, I wrote a viral Washington Post essay about how I parent my children while addicted to painkillers (like Percocet) and benzodiazepines (like Xanax). I was terrified to expose myself, fearing people would chastise me, berate me and call me a bad mother. While a few people online have done just that, the response has been overwhelmingly positive.
I've heard from people around the world. Women in similar situations have messaged me to say they thought they were alone. They've thanked me for telling their stories, and they've asked for help battling their own hidden addictions. People have commended me for "coming out," but one question has been asked repeatedly: Was it true that no one knew? Yes. I hid my addiction from everyone.
My friends. My family. Even my husband, who, unlike everyone else, lived with me. Although he saw me every day and went to bed with me every night, he didn't know I needed a Percocet to get out of bed in the morning.
Put simply, I was what some call a "high-functioning addict."
The image of a drug addict is usually a person whose life is in shambles. They might be homeless or live in a run-down area. They might not be clean - and they certainly can't care for themselves, let alone other people. These common misconceptions are why no one suspected me. I went about my life as if nothing was wrong, but inside I was falling apart.
How was I able to hide such a huge, all-consuming, life-altering secret?
Because painkillers didn't make me high. I know - people tell me I'm deluding myself. Perhaps I am. Unlike other people's experiences, painkillers didn't make me loopy or nauseous or sleepy. Instead, they just made me feel better.
I went about my life as if nothing was wrong, but inside I was falling apart.
I was initially prescribed Percocet for debilitating endometriosis pain. The pills helped with that pain. They also helped with my (undiagnosed at the time) postpartum depression and anxiety. I was miserable and with Percocet I found the magic fix - something that would make me feel better but still allow me to function. There's just something about my brain chemistry that lights up with opioids. They're the missing puzzle piece.
Before I became one, I never understood how people could function as an addict. After all, drinking made me drunk. Sure, it was fun and I was happy, but I couldn't do much but dance and fall down. And the people who smoked pot every day? I really didn't understand that. Smoking pot doesn't relax me; it makes me high. While that's fun for watching bad TV shows and eating ice cream, there's no way I could go about my daily life while high. I can barely remember to put the ice cream container away.
While I was taking painkillers every day, I still acted like myself. I didn't slur my words. I didn't nod off in the middle of a sentence. I was in control of my body, my movements and actions, even though I couldn't control my desire for the pills. Until the very end of my addiction, when everything spiraled downhill dramatically (as it tends to do for addicts), I never acted "high," which is exactly what people think when they think "addict."
Who knows how many of us addicts are disguised as normal people? I was masquerading like a normal person but the truth was, I was an addict. I needed Percocet to get through the day. Without it, I got sick. That's the other thing I never knew about addiction - a lot of it is about maintenance. Much of the time, I was taking pills solely to continue feeling the way my new normal felt. Although I tried to quit on my own several times, skipping even one pill would make me shake and feel nauseous; my anxiety would shoot through the roof. I would start again to not vomit, not in order to get high.
When you have a hidden addiction, no one offers you help. You have to ask for it.
One of the scariest days of my life was when I told my husband I had a problem. And that I needed help. After that, I told my mom. I told my sister. I told my friends. I told the internet. And they helped me. But I had to take that first, terrifying step. If you are struggling and don't know what to do, tell someone. It may be the hardest thing you've ever done, but it may also be the most important.
