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At 19 years old I’d lived a fairly charmed life. I grew up in an affluent NYC suburb with loving, if flawed, parents. It was the 1950’s and my father believed that women had specific (traditional) roles. As the youngest of 3 the rules were somewhat relaxed for me, but I chaffed under their weight nonetheless. So I rebelled, in a mostly ladylike manner. In the fall of 1972 all that had been before, my childish notions about the inherent goodness of all people, idealistic political views, and my core belief that my parents could fix anything, were run through a meat grinder, never to be the same again. It was the beginning of 20 months in hell.
Why is it that only 2 million of the estimated 40 million people with substance abuse problems ask for help? It is possible that the stigma of addiction prevents them from being honest? For me, the answer is yes.
For years I suffered in silence with multiple forms of addiction. I worried what my family would think. I worried what my friends would say. I worried I would lose my job and my ability to attract a life mate.
A girl voted most likely to succeed and homecoming queen shouldn't puke in toilets. A girl from a good family shouldn't snort cocaine or sleep with a stranger. It took a near death experience to convince me to place my welfare ahead of my image. What will it take for you?