Early recovery was harder than I expected. The boredom was unbearable—I felt like I was crawling out of my skin. I’d search the house, hoping to find a forgotten pill.
I stayed in touch with people from rehab, ignoring the warnings not to, and by day 28, I relapsed. The moment I decided, my heart raced, and I could almost taste the high. “Just one more,” I told myself, convinced it was logical. But it wasn’t logic—it was addiction, pulling me back in.
At first, I hid it well. I reconnected with old friends, went out more, and when I wasn’t taking pills, I was drinking. I didn’t care what it was—I just wanted to be numb. I crashed on couches, avoiding home, and fell into a toxic cycle.
One night, I met someone at a party who used OxyContin, and that was all it took. I convinced my then-boyfriend to drive me to a shopping plaza near his house, then jumped out of the car and ran. That was the last time I saw him. Years later, he died in a motorcycle accident.
A Familiar Spiral
I stayed with my new connection for one night and never left. We were doctor-shopping, chasing highs, and sinking deeper. The thing about relapse is that you don’t start over—you pick up right where you left off. Days blurred together, surrounded by people who only cared about what I could get for them.
I made countless attempts to stop but never made it past 30 days. Every time, the withdrawal, the shame, and the crushing reality of what I’d become pulled me back in. It was a cycle I couldn’t break—until everything finally collapsed beneath me.