Confessions of a Former Soccer Mom Junkie
What a Difference a Decade Makes
For 22 months, I was high every day.
My descent followed the all-too-common pattern: surgery, followed by pain meds, followed by more pain meds, resulting in serious trouble.
My girls were 7 and 5 at the time.
For the first year, it was a mix of oxycodone and hydrocodone.
Twelve months later, at a routine pain management appointment, I casually mentioned to the nurse that I was struggling a bit when she asked how I was doing. Her response? “Fentanyl.”
I hadn’t asked for more, nor had I complained. I was simply answering a question.
I slapped those 25 mcg patches on my arm every three days without a second thought, unknowingly buying myself
two extra weeks of detox down the road. A month later, at my next visit, when I mentioned I didn’t notice any improvement, they called in a script for the 50s without hesitation—adding two more weeks of withdrawal hell to my future.
Whether out of naivety or incoherence, I never thought to question it—completely unaware that I was taking meds to numb the very pain they were causing.