From Preggers Prisoner to Joyful Jetsetter
When I looked around at the female jail block, where my pregnant ass now lay, I thought I was different from the rest and that I didn’t belong. The judgment was as strong as my terror. I didn’t know what these Indiana white trash hillbillies had done, but I certainly wasn’t going to find out. I wouldn’t be here long. The funny thing was, deep down (I mean, real deep down, under the alcoholic strata of protection), I hated myself. I sat paralyzed by ego manifesting in all its juxtaposing glory, feeling simultaneous ‘better than’ and ‘worse than’ the entire world.
How the hell had I gotten here?
That story: how I had gotten thee has a long and short version. The extended version includes being a pretty privileged middle-class kid who attended honors classes and was section leader in the high school band. I went to an extraordinary performing arts school as a senior. I was selected for one of the top classical music schools in the world. Somehow just completely fell apart at age 19. 20 years later, I had begun to experience the symptoms of an intense hormonal condition called Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder.
Unaware of how uncontrollable and powerful this ailment was, I rapidly cycled between phases of normalcy and phases of immensely impulsive and emotion-driven decisions. Thus, the next ten years of my life were spent systematically destroying everything I had built for myself, living life like a passenger on a runaway train and horrified by what I saw racing by in the coach window.
Sober Cliff Notes Version
The short version of how I had ended up in that jail cell begins with law school and a codependent boyfriend. I was trying to redirect my life back to some modicum of success (with the definition of success is based on society’s standards and my impossible expectations of myself).
Discovering that the legal world couldn’t care less what undergraduate degree you had, I took the LSAT and accepted the offer from a school in Indiana (a strange and corn-laden land of robust meals and men). Why Indiana? They had a law school willing to give me a full tuition scholarship and I was absolutely guilt-ridden about the fact my parents had spent thousands on my music career with nothing to show for it. I was elated to be back on track.
My life seemed acceptable.
I had an ‘acceptable’ career path ahead of me, a way to get it done without breaking the backs of my parents, and a dad who seemed proud of me for the first time in ages (since a youngster, I strained and strained to please my dad, in any way possible….he was a quiet soul who doled out affirmation in bite-sized pieces through tiny little nods and a hand on the back of my neck). Dad drove me to law school orientation and stood in the back of the cavernous lecture hall while all of us imminent 1Ls received instructions on surviving in the cut-throat environment of the Socratic method.
No sooner had I gained a sense of acceptance from dad than his lifestyle (i.e., loaves of bread with butter, bags of puffy Cheetos, meat, and potatoes) caught up with him, and he dropped dead in the middle of that summer before law school was to begin. This unexpected event rocked our family more than I can explain. Over the next few months, my mom and I descended into an alcoholic pit of despair and grief. Certainly, feeling her grief and loss, my sister was left to contend with her emotions on her own, wading through the shit of her mom and sister’s behaviors while tending to her wounds in isolation.
Entering Law School
When law school began, I threw myself into my studies, making success my escape from pain. It worked for a little while, planting me in the top ten of my class at the end of the first semester. Slowly, however, the work hard / play hard culture of law school caught up with me. Going out with friends on the weekend to let off steam started to look different. While others had a few beers and danced until it was time to go…I snuck extra shots between drinks and graduated from beers to Long Island Iced Teas (efficiency continues to be one of my talents in many life arenas).
The drinking increased.
The more I drank, the more clouded I became, and my school performance significantly suffered. Somehow, I made it through that second semester of 1L year with an invitation to be on the Law Review and an intern offer with a local Judge. I’ve never been satisfied with being a big fish in a small pond though…and this would be my demise. I decided that I needed to transfer to a more ‘impressive’ school now that I had proved my worth. Accepted to the University of Illinois for my 2L year, I moved to a teeny rural town outside of Champaign, Illinois and geared up for stardom. Ha.
Law school was painful
Through these painful law school experiences, I managed to acquire a boyfriend who seemed more than happy to put up with my sick behaviors. He picked me up from bars when I called him too drunk to drive home. He fed me marijuana regularly, thinking that weed would be less harmful than alcohol. By the time I left U of I, I had nowhere to go and moved in with him while he continued to attend law school himself. With a never-ending supply of marijuana, I just added that substance to my 24/7 schnookered state.
Getting caught
I promise this is the short version of my story, but I’ll take the liberty of doing a one-two-skip-a-few for the next three years. Basically, I continued to drink daily until I passed out in the garage, which was the only place I could smoke both weed and packs of cigarettes. I eventually got caught driving under the influence (and it’s a miracle it didn’t happen sooner) coming home from a bar. I spent one night in the drunk tank and convinced the probation officer I met the next day that it was a fluke. For almost an entire year, I continued to drink throughout probation with no ability to recognize the risk and damage I was doing. Then one day, I exhibited a rare window of insight and questioned why I had been vomiting each morning when I didn’t ever have difficulty vomiting while drinking. Ohhhhh….. That’s why. Shit.
Pregnancy = Forced Sobriety
So, you might think that a pregnancy is the perfect opportunity to make some changes. Of course, I want the baby to be safe. Of course, that natural instinct will kick in and protect the unborn. Nope. I displayed absolutely zero ability to put anything….ANYTHING….above my drinking. This, in a nutshell, is substance use disorder. No matter how important, obvious, logical, instinctual, you would think stopping substance use should be….we can’t. We just can’t.
That fateful morning
One fine fateful morning, my probation officer called me and asked that I come in for a random urine screen. Oops. I really didn’t think about that possibility. They had left me alone all this time. It would be ten-ish years later when I would learn that someone actually called me in to the probation officer because they knew I was drinking while pregnant. As difficult as it is to admit it, that person likely saved my child’s life. I went to the probation office and gave a sample, all the while knowing exactly what it would reveal. Since they were sending the sample into a lab, I was able to return home and stew on the various potential outcomes when they found out. Rather than waiting to see, my boyfriend convinced me to call the officer and be honest.
Finally getting honest
So, I did. I called her and told her everything…that I was nowhere near ok, and I needed help. She instructed me attend an AA meeting that night and come into the office the next day. I felt both a sense of relief from saying the truth out loud and from my glimmer of hope that I might receive help instead of consequences.
When I showed up the next morning at the probation department, there was very little compassion for what I was experiencing. I was immediately cuffed and told to sit on the floor until a squad car came to ferry me to the jail. That was it. No discussion, no investigation into what I had been going through. Just a ‘do not pass go’ card and a perplexed boyfriend in the parking lot watching me through the cop car window. That brings us back to the beginning.
Jail time served
Sitting in jail, I was petrified, full of judgement, and overflowing with humiliation. After two weeks (where the highlight of my day was a PB & J sandwich I got each night because I was pregnant), I was shuffled to my video court date down the hall and asked if I would participate in Drug Court. What court? What the hell is that? When they ran down the requirements of the program, I was convinced there was no way to follow the rules, even if I had every good intention.
There were daily in person screens at 5am with zero excuses for missing a day, mid-afternoon breathalyzers several times a week with no predictability, outpatient counseling three times a week plus one Saturday a month, probation officer meetings every week, fees amounting to over $300 per week, and a requirement to be employed full time. Say what now? How does anyone possibly meet those demands?! Oh yeah, by the way, I’ll be popping out this baby and learning how to be a mom in a hot second too!
Clueless
I don’t have a clue how I did it. One day in the middle of winter, I slid off the icy highway into a ditch on my way to the 5 am drug test. I called the probation office sobbing and was told with no emotion that a tardy would result in an arrest. In some kind of Hallmark movie turn of events, a man with a truck stopped by the side of the road and towed my car out of the ditch just in time for me to make my screening.
Amazingly, I had a rare boss that was flexible and willing to work with me, allowing me to jump ship for an impromptu ‘lunch break’ when I was called in for breathalyzer tests. Between my various blessings, my obsession with doing things ‘perfectly,’ and my dread of returning to jail, I managed to complete Drug Court one year later (with Honors in fact).
Well-intentioned but still pretty clueless
Although I went through all these well-intentioned checks and balances, I had never truly addressed my substance use during that entire year. I whizzed and whirred through the expectations, checking off each box as I got closer to Drug Court release. However, I never spent one minute on self-reflection. There was a light at the end of the tunnel guiding my way, but no responsibility for how I had found myself in the tunnel in the first place.
Three months into my criminal justice freedom
Only three months into my criminal justice freedom, I was watching a football game and keeping an eye on my wee one, when I had a profound desire to ‘try’ having a beer. I figured it would be totally different now that I hadn’t imbibed in over a year. Surely, I had learned my lesson and could keep it under control, having one or two beers and just enjoying the game. It didn’t take long to have that inner dialogue, nor to win the argument with myself. I downed a couple of beers with ease.
After I had split the 6-pack with baby daddy, I was BEGGING him to go to the store and buy more. That’s all it took. He did not go buy more. Instead, I suffered, aching with craving until I finally fell asleep that night. Since I knew I would be instantly judged for drinking after the entire ordeal I had endured, I went straight to the ugly world of secret drinking. Airplane bottles of hard liquor lined my knee-
high socks inside of my pants every time that I came home. Stops at bars were a necessity every single time I left the house.
Everyone knew and I couldn’t stop
Eventually, with everyone knowing I was drinking but having a damn hard time stopping me, I just drank out in the open again. Multiple pints a day was normal. Wake up and drink while attempting to care for the baby, pass out when she was down for a nap, wake up and start all over, drink with no abandon in the evening. I didn’t do anything that got me caught by the ‘system’ again, but I sure lost all self-respect and broke all trust with others in a heartbeat. The lowest of my lows was when I ran out of liquor and left my baby at
home in the crib while I drove to the store as fast as I could to replenish my supply.
No consequences, no problems, right? (wrong)
As I said, this time there were no tangible consequences that forced me to stop. I have vivid memory, however, of staring at myself in the mirror and realizing that I would either need to get help, If not, I would continue killing myself slowly until I was successful. One night in the garage (maybe 2 ¼ packs into my nightly chain smoking extravaganza), I called and emailed everyone I could think of for help – my old probation counselor, local treatment centers, who knows who else got a ring during my drunken stupor.
The next morning, considering my options with a bit of a clearer head (but not much), I decided to give AA a real shot. I went to a meeting that night, listened to every word said. I remained after the meeting to beg a woman to be y sponsor and take me through the steps immediately. Sharing with her, I told her that I would die if she said no. A rather dramatic way to ask for a sponsor, but the truth, nonetheless.
I found my people
That beautiful soul took me under her wing as her first sponsee. I don’t remember what drew me to her during the meeting, but whatever it was, I saw something that I wanted. As she met with me several times a week and walked me through the Big Book, her sincerity and true empathy allowed me to trust her. She took me to a women’s retreat only about a month into sobriety.
At that retreat, I told her things I had never told another individual and were slowly eating me alive inside. The rush of relief and freedom I felt after unloading my burden was so intense. I immediately knew I was finally on the right path. She stuck with me through all of the 12 steps. My sponsor showed me how to lay a foundation of responsibility, humility, and gratitude that would carry me, one day at a time, into 13 years of sobriety.
13 Years later
Explaining all of the truly phenomenal things I have been blessed to experience and accomplish in the past 13 years would be a very long story. I’ll try to condense some of the biggest into a list though. I have been there, really been there, for my kiddo…who has not had an easy ride but is the gem of my life. Finding love with my new husband that is complex and deep and everything I wish for everybody in the world. Going back to school and acquired two master’s degrees in the behavioral health field. Next I went directly into services to an Executive Director role at an organization that is the other love of my life.
I have learned to take much better care of my body, exercising and paying closer attention to what I feed it. Finally, I have begun travelling quite a bit, hungry to see what the world has to offer and expand my cultural horizons. I have pursued adventure relentlessly, with a fervor only someone who knows they’ve been given a second chance can understand. In short, I now live a life of joy. I can honestly say with every fiber of my being that, if you want a joy-filled life, you can have one too.
Click here to learn more about Megan
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