Opioids had taken enough of me.
I was in a world of hurt. My body felt like needles were pricking me every way they could, the shaking was uncontrollable, and my mind was screaming for relief.
I hadn’t had a pill in 8 hours — the longest amount of time I had gone since I started taking Vicodin over two years prior.
“What’s wrong with her?” a little boy whispered to his mom, staring at me curiously. “Shh,” she said. “It’s not nice to stare.”
I was in the hospital waiting room with my dad and boyfriend, soon to see my surgeon for the first time since he operated on my spine. We were there to confirm all was well and healing as it should, and afterwards, my dad was checking me into a treatment center to get off the opioids.
“Ashley?” a nurse called, opening the door to the waiting room. “Dr. Walker will see you now.” I went back with my two bodyguards, ready to get this over with and on to the next thing.
When my doctor walked into the room, he was shocked at my appearance. “Is it something with the surgery?” he wondered out loud. “Maybe we need to go back in and see if something’s wrong; you shouldn’t be in so much pain.”
I tried to explain to him the pain was from withdrawals, but he still worried it was more than that.
He told me he wanted to cut me open again to be safe, and nothing I said would change his mind.
We were walking out of the hospital when my dad told me that in light of the circumstances, he wouldn’t be checking me in to a treatment facility that day. He told me to go ahead and take some pills, knowing they’d put me out of my misery.
Popping that pill into my mouth brought an immediate sense of relief, and within 10 minutes I was calm again. The shaking stopped, the pain subsided, and my mind told me all was well again.
That was when I realized — all was not well.
Any substance that had that much power over me was dangerous, and I needed to get away from it. Checking into a treatment center wasn’t the answer, but neither was continuing to take the drugs.
And although my surgeon (who was not the one to prescribe me the opioids) felt another surgery would be best, I knew the most important thing was getting my mind and body free again.
Only then could I really live my life.
I delayed the surgery, and for another few months I struggled. I knew I needed to come up with a plan and I knew I needed to stop taking the drugs, but I was scared.
Scared of the pain I knew I would have to face again and scared I wasn’t strong enough mentally. Scared I would relapse and continue the cycle, on and on for the rest of my life.
Fear was keeping me from change, and change was what I desperately needed.
Fast forward 6 months later, and I was free. With the help of my dad, I had slowly tapered off the drugs that had taken so much of me for the last two-and-a-half years.
Without him stepping in and without me being forced to go 8 hours with no Vicodin during the height of my addiction, who knows what would have happened.
Who knows if I would be here today.
After successfully tapering off opioids, I visited my surgeon again. The change he saw in me amazed him, and he said he didn’t think another surgery would be necessary.
As hard as it was, I’m grateful for that day I saw him, the day where I realized my addiction had to end. I’m grateful I had the chance to really recognize what opioids were doing to my body — to really see the power they had over me.
I’m grateful they no longer have that power.
