Looking back at my childhood pictures, I feel like I am staring at a stranger.

I can no longer remember that toothy smile or those small moments that made me so happy. But they tell me that these are my pictures – it's not believable, but I do seem to have the same nose and similar dark hair with the happy little girl in those pictures.

My drug use started soon after my tenth birthday – you read that right.

I was only 10 years of age when I had my first taste of pills. Growing up with parents both of whom had substance abuse problems, it really wasn’t hard for me to beg for a taste of mommy’s magic pills that made the sadness go away. Of course I didn’t realize the serious implications of substance abuse at that time. I only wanted to be cool like my mom, who was more of a friend than a parent.

To be honest, I don’t remember the first time I took pills or when I got hooked.

But I do remember that the birthday present I wanted most for my eleventh birthday was a bottle of pills, not an iPod or Barbies. Whenever my mom left the house, I would calmly find the latest additions in her stash of happy time medicine. She never seemed to notice, or if she did, she never asked about it. Taking pills every now and then had the effect of drawing me into the deep abyss of depression just as I was about to enter my teenage years.

The years that are supposed to be the best of your life, where you can be afford to be carefree, and generally enjoy every moment with family or friends weren’t so rosy for me. I didn’t understand what was causing the depression so I turned to the only cure I knew: pills.

Percocet and Vicodin were the ones I used the most. The instant hit and feelings of elation and joy were hard to beat with anything else.

My teenage years weren’t filled with happiness or a bunch of great, supportive friends. I was constantly depressed, didn’t eat well, and felt awful all the time. My reliance on pills to stay happy went up and I also started cutting, had bulimia, and anorexia. I didn’t form any healthy, meaningful relationships with my fellow students and instead kept bringing guys in and out of my life.

Four years down the road, I was in a shelter and a regular user of coke, meth, and ecstasy. The police took me to my dad’s place a couple of times where finding these drugs lying around was no big deal. I had finally had enough when I was about to turn seventeen and ran away. It wasn’t until I turned up at a friend’s house that I realized the horrors my mind and body had been through.

I know this gets thrown around a lot, but I truly couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror. It was like staring at a stranger – just like that ten year-old that looks nothing like me and I don’t remember ever being.

-Secret Writer

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