by MADISON CAMPBELL | 3^rd Place, student prose contest

When you’re young, you tend to think you’re invincible. You hear horror stories filled with bad luck and tragedy, and you think “that won’t happen to me.” It’s never until you’re in too deep or you get a reality check that you realize you’re just as vulnerable as everyone else. When I started abusing drugs, that was the mindset I was in. I told myself, it’s just recreational, it’s just on weekends, and it’s just to relax. Rationalization is a dangerous tool to those that know how to wield it. I was so nonchalant about my drug use; I don’t even remember the first pill. I do, however, remember the anticipation of the thirty minutes between swallowing it and waiting for the tingly euphoria of a blank mind.

At the time I started using, I had been dating someone for about a year and she and I had started our experimentation with pills together. We talked each other into continuous use, even though we knew it was dangerous. I was aware that all we were doing was putting a Band-Aid on deep rooted mental health issues, but at that time I didn’t care. You don’t feel depressed or filled with anxiety when you’ve numbed yourself out of sensation. Once we started, we never stopped. Well, at least one of us never stopped.

All it takes is one time and, before you know it, you’re someone you don’t recognize. Sober, I consider myself an honest person. I’m compassionate. I’m kind. On drugs, I spewed hate to those that cared about me. I lied, I stole, and I brought suffering to myself and others. When you use, it’s only a matter of time until you’re caught.

I don’t remember driving, and I don’t remember being arrested. I woke up in jail covered by a burlap sack of a blanket.  My eyes blinked involuntarily, trying to adjust to the yellow glow of a single lightbulb fixed in the middle of the cell ceiling. When I could finally see again, I let out a shocked gasp at the sight. A metal toilet-sink contraption sat in the corner.  Undignified as that may be, it was all I was provided. I lay on a concrete slab disguised as a bed in the opposite corner. Scared. Alone. Confused. The small bits I did remember of the previous night seemed like a horrible nightmare. Only flashes of blue and red crossed my mind as I squeezed my eyes shut trying to will my memory to fill in the gaps. They never fully returned. I spent the longest four days of my life in the general population of the jail until being bailed out.

That afternoon, when I got my car back from the impound, there were small indentations all along the top of the driver’s side door. I remember standing in front of it, pondering what those could be. When it hit me, I thought I might lose my jail sanctioned breakfast. They were from a cop’s baton. The arresting officer had to hit my car door to wake me up because I was in the driver’s seat nodding. As horrifying as that realization was, it wasn’t enough to keep me clean.

During my time in jail, I saw women who had ruined their lives with drugs, yet when I was back on the outside, I was high again within the week. That’s the thing about using: it starts out here and there for fun or to relax. Then it increases, and you only think about the next time you’ll get that release. Before you know it, you’re driving far or waiting long to spend your last few dollars on whatever you can get your hands on. It’s a slippery slope between recreation and addiction, and you never know how far you’ve slid until you’re damn near the bottom.

Four years of my life I spent chasing highs and passing up help. I knew what path I was heading down. My partner and I finally broke up. We had reached a plateau in our relationship where all we did together was drugs. Watching TV? Drugs. Go out and do something? Sure, but we better split a pill first. We had a long, exhausting conversation that ended in us separating. We blamed it on other factors, but realistically, I think we had differing opinions on how long we could keep up our current ways. I knew I would end up dead or back in jail if we continued.

When you step back and examine your life from the outside, your rationalizations tend to look a lot less rational. I had been to jail twice, I had crashed two cars (I was lucky enough to not have seriously injured myself or anyone else), and I had lost a few weeks’ worth of time being blacked out.

Shortly after the split with my partner, I met someone new, someone sober. One day, after my shift as a waitress, I bought the last two Xanax I’d ever buy from one of the line cooks—I know, shocking. I went home with my new partner who didn’t know I was using and swallowed one of them with a glass of soda I’d taken from work. I faded into blissful numbness, but I remember my partner commenting on how I was acting. “Are you okay?” she asked, followed up with “you’re acting different.” To which I probably replied something snarky and mean because I felt guilty. I nodded in and out of nothingness, but her words stuck with me.

The next morning, I woke up, managing to remember more of the previous night than I usually did. She left for work, and I lay in bed, still zoning, but drifting in and out of deep thought. Suddenly, hot tears streamed down my face. What the hell was I doing? A rush of guilt flooded over me like a dam breaking and I wept for what felt like hours but was probably only thirty minutes or so. Usually, the pills numbed emotion, but that morning the leftover high from the previous night seemed to elicit them. When I ran out of tears, I managed to drag myself out of bed. The remnants of last night’s inebriation made me wobble. I put a hand on the wall to steady myself and slowly made my way to one of my many hiding places. Anyone who has dealt with an addict knows they tend to have stashes everywhere.

I took the other pill I had bought and turned it over and over in my palm. My sweat drenched hands began to rub the coating off, which stuck to me and gave my hand a blue hue. Was I ready to quit? Was I even capable of it? I stared and stared at that little blue rectangle that had brought so much wreckage to my life until my vision blurred. “I am ready,” I told myself and squeezed my hand shut. I took the longest walk I’d ever been on to the bathroom and pulled the door shut behind me. Standing in front of the toilet, I turned the pill in my hand a few more times, only half noticing the parallel between my current stance and the time I had spent in front of the steel toilet in the isolation cell of the county jail. I dropped the pill into the water and pushed the handle down with more force than needed. I stood watching it swirl for too long, almost as if to make sure it was really gone. Finally, this chapter of my life was over. I had never felt lighter. A weight lifted off my shoulders, and I knew I was free from the grasp of the cycle I had been stuck in.

The next year was not easy. I had court fines. I had lost my license. I had court-ordered drug therapy. Most importantly, I had relationships to repair. I caused a lot of suffering to my loved ones, and it took a long time to let go of the guilt I held from that. I still get a knot in my stomach thinking about it sometimes. I had been blessed with a loving family and a supportive partner who all aided my recovery and taught me how to forgive myself through their forgiveness toward me. Now, I have been clean for five years. I completed all my requirements through the courts. I have my license, and my life, back.

Ω

Madison Campbell is a twenty-four-year-old, first-year college student. She enjoys spending time with her family, skating, and listening to music. Maddy wrote this piece after being given the prompt to write a story about resilience. She hopes it will stand as a cautionary tale to anyone in a similar position.

Hallie Fogarty is a poet, teacher, and artist from Kentucky. She received her MFA in poetry from Miami University, where she was awarded the 2024 Jordan-Goodman Graduate Award for Poetry. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Poetry South, The Lindenwood Review, Hoxie Gorge Review, Harpur Palate, and elsewhere. Besides writing, she loves cardigans, dogs, and everything peach-flavored.