Wrong Way Down a One-Way Street

By Tori Centopanti

Editor-in-Chief

Image courtesy of http://www.targetprocess.com

I always understood the real dangers of drugs.

I got all the usual warnings. There was health class (yes, I actually paid attention) and my parents always believed I was better off educated than sheltered and naive. Regardless, the idea that drugs are bad, and to “just say no,” are inescapable in the media: television, movies, books, news articles, the Internet. All the facts were right at my fingertips.

I knew the repercussions of taking drugs, short-term and long-term, but I never understood why people took drugs in the first place. With so many natural ways to get “high” and feel happy, why risk your life by using drugs? What I didn’t realize in my preteen years was that I would soon learn the answer to that question firsthand.

A lot of circumstances in my life contributed to the bad decisions I made. But the real source of my issues has always been my relationship with my dad. When I was younger, I was the only kid I knew who didn’t look forward to the weekends, strictly because I was forced to see him. He was controlling and abusive, psychologically and emotionally. He was short-tempered, condescending, stubborn, and had violent tendencies in addition to being an alcoholic and a bully.

I constantly felt like I was walking on egg shells around my dad, never knowing what would set him off into a rage next, or how far it would go. His usual bit involved insulting and belittling me, usually accomplished by making me feel stupid or useless. My report cards were never up to standard, even when I got straight A’s. In fact, nothing I ever did was good enough. My younger half-sister, on the other hand, was unable to do any wrong in my dad’s eyes. He would say that he loved us both equally, but I didn’t believe him.

Even though I only saw him on weekends, my dad still tried to control every aspect of my life: my friends, my boyfriends, my attire, the way I thought. I had to ask permission for everything, including the phone, the computer, the microwave, and even to play in the backyard. My dad disapproved of most of my friends and all of my boyfriends, which meant he did everything in his power to isolate me from them while I was under his roof.

One night, when I was ten years old, my father took his bullying to a new level. In a drunken stupor, he said that my mom should have had an abortion and that he wished I had never been born. He proceeded to back me into a corner, threatening to kill me right then and there -- with a fork of all things. His bark turned out to be bigger than his bite and he backed off, but it left emotional scars that are still with me to this day.

Any chance of saving our deteriorating relationship disappeared forever in that moment. I still have not forgiven him, and I don’t think I ever will.

I spiraled into a deep depression at a young age. I stopped caring about my health, school, or anything. At thirteen I began smoking cigarettes, drinking, and cutting myself. At fourteen I attempted to take my own life. I just wanted to escape life. When I awoke the next morning I was disappointed, but not entirely shocked.

My plan had failed, but I felt deathly sick all day so I sought refuge in the nurse’s office at school. The nurse didn’t believe I was ill though and, in my frustration, I accidentally blurted out what I had done the night before. An ambulance was called to take me to the hospital. From there I was immediately, and involuntarily, placed in a psychiatric hospital.

My dad only visited me once, briefly, and refused to take part in therapy. He firmly believed that nothing was wrong with him and demanded to know what was wrong with me -- no surprise there. My mom was my only support system through the entire ordeal. She visited me every day and came to every therapy session she could. She was my rock and for that I am eternally grateful, but she wasn’t the problem.

I was discharged from the hospital after two weeks on the condition that I complete six months of out-patient therapy in addition to personal therapy. None of it “fixed” me though. My dad only came to one family therapy session, but he may as well have never showed up at all. He spent the whole time arguing and insisting that he wasn’t the problem -- I was.

Every therapist I went to wanted me to forgive my dad and try to repair our broken relationship. I refused every time, and eventually stopped taking my counseling seriously. During one particular session, my therapist made a safety plan in case I ever decided to hurt myself again. “When you feel like harming yourself, who are you going to call?” she asked me. I replied, “Ghostbusters!” and burst out laughing.

By the time I was fifteen, I had already begun experimenting with drugs. It wasn’t long before I was using everyday. Drugs provided the escape from life I was looking for, and I didn’t have to die to achieve it. I didn’t want to face my problems or talk about my feelings. I just wanted to forget everything and be happy -- a state of mind which drugs helped me achieve. Honestly, it seemed like a win-win solution at the time.

My friends at the time were not merely just people I did drugs with. It was more than that. We were a tight-knit group, almost like a family. We understood each other and bonded over the abuse we endured from our parent(s), whether it was emotional, psychological, physical, or sexual. We may have done some bad things, but we weren’t bad people. We were just a bunch of depressed teenagers seeking solace in a messed up world.

I was heading the wrong way down a one-way street though, heading straight for a dead end. I had two options: Keep going, or make a U-turn.

I shudder to think where I would be right now if my mom hadn’t intervened. I constantly lied about my drug use to her, but I couldn’t fool her forever. When I was 17 years old, two years into my drug spree, she found out. She was disappointed and angry, but worried more than anything else. We worked out a deal: I didn’t have to go to rehab and I could continue living with her, but I had to get clean and stay clean. That was over four years ago.

Quitting drugs was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The withdrawal symptoms were hell. In the beginning, I relapsed a few times to make them stop, but learned the hard way that it only started the detox and recovery process all over again. There was no easy way out or shortcuts. The saying is true: If you want the rainbow, you have to put up with the rain first. I began applying that idea to every aspect of my life.

Getting clean meant I could no longer run from my problems, specifically my relationship with my dad. I had been giving him chances over the years, hoping he would change, but he never did. I had to face the music. I could either keep trying, which was putting my recovery in jeopardy, or I could give up. Now, the only time I see him is on holidays, once or twice a year maybe. We don’t talk on the phone; we’re not even friends on Facebook. It was the best decision I ever made.

I can say, without a doubt in my mind, that if it had not been for drugs, I would be dead right now. It’s ironic but true. When things got tough, all I wanted to do was leave reality behind. To accomplish that goal, I thought I only had two options: drugs or death. In retrospect, I’m glad I chose the path I did because I’m still alive.

Most people are shocked when I first tell them I’m a recovering drug addict, and some don’t even believe me at first. People usually say that they would never expect that from me, or that they never would have known that if I hadn’t told them. I’ve heard a few times that I don’t “look” or “act” like a drug addict, which is utterly ridiculous, not to mention stereotypical. I understand why I elicit that reaction in people though.

Although I dropped out of high school, twice, I earned my G.E.D. with honors. I started attending Housatonic Community College (HCC) in 2008 and have made the Dean’s List for academic achievement a total of five times. I have a 3.54 GPA (grade point average), and I was one of the ten people chosen to receive a full scholarship for the 2010-11 academic year. This semester marks my second as Editor-in-Chief of HCC’s student newspaper, Horizons.

I don’t regret anything in my past because it helped shape the person I am. All my experiences have just made me stronger and smarter. Every mistake I made was just another step in my journey, leading me to where I am now.