Five years ago, my father died, and three years ago I was living in my car.
While one traumatic experience can be enough for someone with limited support systems to spiral downwards, I have had the bonus of a lifetime of intergenerational exposure to alcohol and other drugs used as a self-medication tool, in a society where access to mental health support for those with a low socioeconomic status is extremely difficult.
My own parents presented well, however, my mother had severe lifelong dependence on alcohol to deal with her own demons, which saw her die way too early, 16 years ago at the age of 61. Acute alcohol dependency was listed on her death certificate, and I make it a point to tell people this, because despite the programs in place, she didn’t fit the mould of someone with a problem and the damage done by alcohol went unchecked. It killed her because she was so good at presenting well.
My father was what I call a state sanctioned consumer of drugs, in that, because of his acquired brain injury, he was prescribed a high amount of pain killers and sleeping medication that he continued to take over decades without regular formal review by the medical profession. At last review, before he died, he was getting multiple scripts for various painkillers and benzos with multiple repeats. And yet, he worked 6 days a week, attended church, owned his home and was an active and involved parent. He presented well.
My experience growing up was that you just get on with things, you don’t talk about it, you numb the pain and the hurt and carry on. And this works, if you continue to present well. Nobody suspected or was concerned for me and my own use of drugs, prescribed or otherwise, when I was keeping a tidy house, working, attending university and looking after my children, father and in-laws.
Sometimes, however, it just takes one tragedy for the wheels to come off.
The worse things got, the more I had to hide how I was coping because every single consumer of drugs and alcohol that I have ever met knows the universal truth – once you admit to what you’re doing to get by, you lose all credibility.
The empathy and concern fade from the eyes of every health professional you talk to because you caused this yourself. It’s your own fault that you are in a domestic violence situation, it’s an unlikely story that you can’t get out of bed, or stop crying, that you can’t focus on what you need to do day-to-day let alone what is coming. Despite a housing crisis, it is your fault you are homeless. Your unrelated medical conditions that are causing you pain are irrelevant because you’re clearly not helping yourself. So, with no other options, you continue to help yourself to keep going the only way you know how and the cycle continues.
That is how damaging stigma is, because not only does the outside world judge you, but you also judge yourself, and you absorb all the shame and self-hatred because everyone else tells you that you caused this and that you can’t be helped and are not to be trusted.
My own redemption with AOD use was using the mantra used often in mental health:
Act – Belong – Commit
Part of my healing journey has been actively fighting stigma by acknowledging that my past is not a dirty secret – it may not be pretty, but it is my lived experience.
My worth as a person is not measured by the decisions I have made.
Once I knew better, I did better.
Slowly, but surely, I did better, finding ways to make connections with others so I felt less alone, replacing old survival instincts with a better toolkit of protective strategies. Allowing myself grace if I stumble, committing to doing my best to stay on track.