Who I Am

Growing up, I often felt “not good enough.” For whatever reason, I always had a hard time being proud of who I was. I always thought people didn’t really like me, boys didn’t really think I was pretty, teachers didn’t really think I was smart. I would get a sick feeling in my stomach when I said something I thought (in retrospect) was “stupid,” or if a friend didn’t call me back after I left a message, or if anyone looked at me in a way I interpreted as disdainful.

Because of this, I had extremely low self-esteem. Which may or may not have caused my life to take the twists and turns it ultimately did. In any case, I wound up pulling myself out of the hellhole I had been calling my life, stopped using drugs, and built a brand new life which I am very proud of. I never pulled any punches when it came to my past, because although it may not be a part of my life I am proud of, it made me who I am today. I have no problem telling people I am an addict, that I have eleven plus years clean. Obviously – or I wouldn’t be writing “TBOTE.” I feel it is a major part of who I am – the lessons learned both while I was “out there” and while I was in the recovery process are important ones. I learned to stand on my own two feet, to claim back my life under my terms, to accept help when I need it but to bust my ass to try to make things work on my own first.

It took all those years and all those experiences to make me strong, to make me accomplished, to make me mature. And yet there is still a part of me that aches when people look at me sideways, intentionally or not, still a part of me that feels that pang of insecurity when confronted with a group of people having a good time and laughing – wondering if they are laughing at me. Sometimes I can convince myself that it doesn’t matter what people think – that I know who I am, and I am a good person. Usually I manage to brush off the insecurities and realize that people like me for me, no matter what my faults are, and that nobody is perfect anyway.

And then I encounter a situation like the one last night and I feel like that stupid little girl again – wondering if I screwed up, feeling that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Even though at the time I thought nothing of it, and honestly still don’t, my parents have a way of making me feel ashamed, and I hate that.

See, some of the younger guy servers were standing around discussing drugs. More specifically, cocaine and crack. Their conversation amused me. One of them was saying how once you got addicted to crack, you were never the same. You were so messed up mentally and physically, that no matter what, you would be obviously scarred for life.

“Really?” I asked, trying to suppress a grin.

“Oh, yeah! I have a friend – he is really bad, man. You can just look at him and tell. And he like lost part of his mind, too. He like can’t get a job or anything.”

“So what you’re saying is that if you are addicted to, say, crack, even if you quit, you've pretty much screwed up your whole life?” I inquired.

The other two servers nodded gravely and also explained to me that basically addicts were ruined for life, because anyone could spot them a mile away since they deteriorated physically so extremely. Plus, they killed so many brain cells, they really could barely even form coherent sentences, even after they quit. Oh, and emotionally? They couldn’t bear to socialize with people anymore, they just lived in the dark and pretty much went crazy.

Ok, so maybe it is a good thing that these twenty-somethings truly thought that addiction was that bad. But it still struck me as funny, I mean, come on!

“Ever heard of CA?” I asked nonchalantly.

Initially – a blank look. Then, “Oh, yeah! Cocaine Anonymous, right?”

I smiled sweetly. “Just over eleven years.”

The looks on their collective faces was priceless. One of them shook my hand. “Wow! You? Eleven years clean though, huh? Amazing!”

Yes, me. This thirty-something single mom working two jobs, a slightly overweight but still pretty enough woman who can string together plenty of coherent sentences, the waitress who goes straight home to her daughter after every shift instead of joining the young’uns at the bars… I am an addict. I survived the hell I lived in, and I have no problem talking about it. I mean, I don’t go around saying “Look at me! I used to smoke crack!” but if the subject comes up, I don’t shy away from it. Why should I? I am a good person who made some bad choices. And if I can help other people understand addiction, or if I can stop someone from using by sharing my experience, or if I can plant the seed of recovery into a fellow addict’s mind – well, then, yay me.

But when I got home and called my father, anxious to share my “funny story,” he cut me off.

“You didn’t tell them about you, did you?” he demanded.

The old uncertain me always wanting to please kicked into overdrive. “No, of course not,” I responded meekly, suddenly not thinking it was that funny.

“Good, because people don’t need to know. It changes how they think about you. It’s not something to talk about,” he responded.

I hung up the phone feeling guilty and ashamed. Why did I tell them? I was a bad person, and now they all knew it. I was no longer dasi the nice server, I was dasi the lowlife addict.

But then I started to get angry. Angry at my dad for making me feel that way, and angry at myself for letting him. I called my mom to vent.

“But honey, there are some things you just shouldn’t discuss,” she said gently. “You know, people don’t need to know everything.”

“But mom! It’s ME. A part of MY life. And I may not be proud of it, but I’m certainly not ashamed,” I explained, wanting her to understand.

But she didn’t.

“Yes, well, we certainly aren’t ashamed of you, but it’s just not something you should really discuss with people.”

So sweep it under the rug and pretend it never happened. They are ashamed. And even though I have made great strides in my life, even though I beat my addiction and clawed my way into a better life for myself and my daughter, we just "won’t discuss it." Because nice families and good people don’t have addictions.

Well guess what? I DO. And I know I am a good person. And I am NOT ashamed of who I am. I have regrets, but I don’t dwell on them. I have moved forward, and I will continue to do so. I will talk about my history and answer peoples’ questions, and some people may judge me for it, but I don’t care. I refuse to hide who I am to please society or my parents.

I am dasi, and I am an addict. Deal with it.