When I say off to the races, I mean exactly that. Once I picked up again and the withdrawal passed, my life became a cycle of doctor visits, prescriptions, and maintaining a supply. I had two foot doctors and was doing whatever I could to keep the prescriptions coming.
The first doctor—the one who initially prescribed me OxyContin—never made it difficult. Looking back, I wonder if he had his own issues, because he rarely questioned what I asked for. My tolerance grew quickly, and soon, I was prescribed three 80mg OxyContins a day.
Manipulating the System
For about eight months, my foot doctor kept prescribing OxyContin. I worried he might stop prescribing, so I told him I’d be out of town for a few months. I was hoping for a larger supply. It worked—he gave me four months of post-dated prescriptions.
When the first one ran out, I changed the date on the next prescription. I then took it to a different pharmacy and paid cash. I kept this going until one day, I made a mistake. I altered a prescription so much that the ink bled through the page. It didn’t look right, but I was desperate.
I brought it to a CVS, handed it over, and waited. The pharmacist called someone else over, then another. Then they picked up the phone. I didn’t wait to see what happened next—I left before they could call me back.
The next day, my doctor called. His voice was direct. I can’t prescribe you OxyContin anymore, but I’ll refer you to a specialist.
A New Doctor, A New Problem
The next doctor was a younger pain specialist—polite, even charming at first. After a few visits, he diagnosed me with endometriosis. To this day, I don’t know if that diagnosis was accurate, but it didn’t matter. It gave me a reason to keep getting prescriptions, and that was all I cared about.
At first, everything felt normal. But then, the comments started—small compliments that slowly turned into something more. Remarks about my appearance became suggestive, each appointment pushing the boundaries a little further.
I knew it was wrong. I felt disgusted. But addiction has a way of twisting your sense of control. He was the gatekeeper to my prescriptions, and I needed them. So, I ignored the discomfort—until I couldn’t anymore.
During a nerve block procedure, with his partner in the room, I felt his hands move closer. Even with someone standing right there, he didn’t hesitate. That was the moment I knew this had gone too far.
It ended with a final phone call. His last words to me? If you keep this up, you won’t be pretty anymore…
A Failed Attempt at Help
Desperate for a way out, I went to another specialist—this time with my mom. She explained what had happened, hoping for guidance, for someone to take it seriously. But instead of help, the doctor picked up the phone and called the one I had just left. No questions, no investigation—just an instant dismissal.
I wasn’t a victim. I was just an addict.
My family still didn’t know the truth. They believed I was taking medication for pain, but they had no idea I was dependent on four to five 80mg OxyContins a day.
I was still hiding. But the truth was getting harder to contain.