I come from a big, loving family of six kids. My parents divorced when I was just two years old, but despite that, they were incredible co-parents. My mother later remarried and gave birth to a stillborn son, and that loss marked the beginning of a profound shift in our family.
Life became increasingly difficult with my mom. She fell into a deep clinical depression, was hospitalized, and eventually became addicted to prescription pills as a way to cope. She was physically present, but mentally and emotionally absent. My siblings and I learned very early not to talk about “it.” Our feelings weren’t acknowledged, validated, or discussed. I grew angry, bitter, and rebellious, unable to understand how she could numb herself when she had six children who needed her.
Before I even reached high school, I had already begun experimenting with gateway drugs like weed and alcohol. After failing ninth grade, I was sent to a continuation school, where I was first exposed to hard drugs and eventually found my drug of choice. I remember one day heading to a volleyball game when my teammates asked to borrow my folder. I agreed. When we returned, a drug-sniffing dog alerted to my backpack. I was taken to the office and learned that my teammates had secretly used my folder to cut lines of meth.
Curiosity took over. I befriended one of the girls from my team and tried meth for the first time. It was a Wednesday, just before school ended. We went into the bathroom, and I sniffed a line. I went home waiting for the intense feeling she described. I felt something, but nothing like I expected. I remember thinking, People really get addicted to this? I never imagined it would happen to me.
Not long after, I became close with another girl from school who joined me on what would become a dangerous spiral. One day she came to my house with meth she had gotten from a guy she met on a party line. We crushed it up and used a cut ink pen to snort it in my bedroom. The high was overwhelming and instant. I felt unstoppable, powerful, capable of anything. That night, I stayed up talking to my mom, promising I would do better in school. I didn’t sleep at all that night—or the next. Despite my past experiences with weed and alcohol, nothing compared to the grip meth took on me.
The very next day, my life began to change. I realized I would need to hide my habit. I told my best friend what I had done. She refused to be around me if I was high and made it clear she wouldn’t participate. Meanwhile, my schoolmate and I found dealers and began using daily, often in school bathrooms.
Our tolerance grew quickly. On September 11th of my sophomore year, we bought an eight ball at school. Shortly after, police arrived and began searching students. We weren’t searched because we were already inside, but we panicked and called other girls into the bathroom, finishing the entire eight ball in minutes. We were dangerously high, and it showed. We were pulled into the office and placed under police observation. Days later, my counselor informed my mom—a call no parent ever wants to receive.
Soon after, my mom picked me up from school, telling me I had a follow-up appointment for a kidney infection. I knew immediately it was a drug test. I didn’t fight it. Two days later, my mom received the call that shattered her world: I tested positive for meth, cocaine, and weed.
That same day, I was at a friend’s house smoking weed when my mom called and asked me to come home. I had passed out and couldn’t wake up. When my mom arrived, I couldn’t move or respond. Thinking I had overdosed, she called 911. I was rushed to the hospital. I vaguely remember seeing the fear on my mom and stepdad’s faces. Later, we learned the weed I had smoked was laced with PCP.
Afterward, I convinced my mom that homeschooling would help me quit since school was my only source. I stayed off meth for four months. Then I met Wendy—a woman deep in addiction who had lost custody of her children. Our friendship started innocently, but she soon introduced me to smoking meth. The high was intense and immediate. She connected me to others in the neighborhood, and my addiction escalated rapidly.
I began sleeping in cars and motels, staying up for days, barely eating. On weekends, I pretended to be okay with my boyfriend. I was 16, dating a 21-year-old. My parents disapproved, which only fueled my attachment. I hid my addiction from him for two years, convincing myself I had control.
As my addiction worsened, I stole from my family. I became violent with my sisters. One day, desperate, I stole my little brother’s Xbox games and bike money. When he confronted me, guilt stopped me from hurting him. I returned the games but kept the money. That moment still haunts me.
I eventually left town with an older dealer, trading cleaning and eventually sex for drugs. My mom reported me as a runaway. Shame consumed me. I wrote letters apologizing to my family, wanting to stop but not knowing how. I entered outpatient rehab but was expelled after using during lunch.
By then, I was 50 pounds lighter and visibly addicted. My parents spent $10,000 on inpatient rehab. Seeing my dad’s heartbreak as he checked me in remains one of my most painful memories. I stayed 30 days, learned about addiction, and was introduced to NA. Despite my family’s unwavering support, I relapsed three weeks after returning home and was kicked out.
At 18, homeless, I met the man who nearly destroyed me. He was 17 years older. I moved in after only meeting him twice. For nine months, I stayed high nonstop. He filmed sexual encounters without my consent and sold them online. I stayed, trapped by fear and addiction.
Eventually, drugging, blackouts, and abuse escalated. I lived in constant terror. One night after smoking weed he gave me, I blacked out completely. For weeks, I woke up confused, disoriented, terrified.
I eventually called my mom, using coded language. She knew something was wrong. My stepdad came and rescued me. I couldn’t explain what was happening—I couldn’t remember.
Back home, I was paranoid, broken, and terrified. Eventually, I told my sister I believed I was being abused and filmed. Even after leaving, he still controlled me psychologically.
One night, panicked, I called 911, believing my family was in danger. EMTs arrived. I blurted out his name and address before being taken to the hospital. Tests showed meth in my stomach lining. That night was one of the scariest of my life.
After much resistance, I agreed to Teen Challenge. A medical exam revealed embalming fluid in my system, explaining my blackouts. I stayed only three days before returning to him—until I realized staying meant death.
On May 18, 2006, I did my last two lines and left for good.
I reported the abuse. I left town during the investigation. Nothing came of it, but my investigator believed me.
The day I arrived in Reno, my life truly began. I attended NA daily, worked the steps, and rebuilt my life with the love of my aunt and uncle. I earned my one-year chip, got a job, made sober friends, and learned how to live.
Eventually, I returned to California, continued therapy, repaired family relationships, and shared my story to help others.
This disease is fierce—but there is always hope. As long as you’re breathing, recovery is possible. Today, I am healed, forgiven, and clean for 13 years. I have a beautiful life and a daughter I adore. I respect my addiction, but it no longer controls me. I know I survived because of my family’s love—and my decision to fight for my life.
