5,601 days

Early in the spring of 1991, I hit my rock bottom.

I had dropped out of high school, and moved out of my parents house. I was living in a dirty, tiny little basement apartment, with no phone, a shared bathroom, and a shower in a laundry room.

My boyfriend and I were on welfare, with no job prospects. We spent all of our money on rent, beer, cigarettes and pot. There was nothing left for food, or anything else.

The few friends I had left could not be bothered to come see me anymore, and I had no money to go see them. I had to walk 20 minutes just to get to the closest payphone, so I never talked to anyone.

I was with a guy who was mentally unstable, who wanted to do nothing but sit on the couch all day, in a pot induced haze. He got his kicks out of teasing me, putting me down and making me feel more worthless than he did.

And I had no one to blame but myself for where I was.

I knew I had to clean up. I was already trying to cut back on my drug use. I had completely stopped taking anything heavy, but I still was smoking up a few times a week.

I tried looking for a job, applied at such stellar places such as Tim Horton’s and the Esso Station down the road. I talked of going back to school, getting a good job and moving to a better place, but I had no idea how to do it.

I was terrified that was it for me. I felt like I was going nowhere.

I was one of the lucky ones though. I had good parents that would not give up on me. Sure, they were pretty pissed when I moved out, but they soon calmed down. They began to let me come home on weekends, so I could have a good dinner, and do my laundry. I always left the house with a bit of food, a precious roll or two of toilet paper and the feeling I belonged somewhere.

It was early June when my Dad called and told me he had a temporary job for me. He worked for CIBC and needed someone to come in and help out doing data entry for a few weeks. It was stuff I had done for him in the past, when I was still living at home, and I was thrilled that he was going to trust me to do it again.

My parents bought me a few nice things to wear and Dad picked me up each morning on his way to work. Being in his office, with all the nicely dressed people, doing something productive and making my own money was the biggest boost to my self esteem I could get.

Dad put a lady named Fran in charge of me. I think he must have confided in her about me, because she made a point of taking me under her wing, giving me advice and telling me when I was doing a good job. She made me feel so good about myself, like my future was not so grim after all.

I guess I did a good job, because that two week job turned into a summer long job, and when the summer was over, Fran recommended me for a permanent job as a teller in a branch close to where my boyfriend and I lived. I was able to walk to work each day, and I had a job that provided many more opportunties than the Esso Station ever could.

For most of that summer and fall I stayed fairly clean. On weekends I would drink and get high, but during the week I knew I had to stay focused. Eventually, the idea of being in an altered state just did not appeal to me anymore.

So that New Years Eve, the night 1991 turned into 1992, I smoked my last joint. I was at a party, and a bunch of us were standing in a shed, smoking one joint after another. I found I really was not enjoying myself. I kept wondering why I had liked this crap so much.

Finally, just after midnight, I proclaimed that that would be the last time I ever would get high again.

Everyone laughed. No one would believe that I could do it. I was the girl that for 18 months was perpetually high. I was the one that for months would buy a quarter ounce of hash a day, and smoke it with my boyfriend. The girl who rolled the best joints, the one that always had a little something on her to make the party better. She was going to be the one who quit...yeah right!

Well I did it. For 15 years, 4 months and 2 days I have been off drugs. Really it was not that hard. I never really got into anything that was physically addictive; I had only been emotionally addicted to being high. For awhile there I had forgotten how to function without it. But I had found myself again, and I decided I liked me better sober.

Besides, when I make a promise, I stick to it.