“We grew up in a little town in Louisiana, and I was the youngest of five kids. I was a softball star, and my parents loved watching me play. There was nothing that should have led me down my path except my dad was strict. I dropped out of school my senior year and joined the military. Neither were smart moves for me. 

The Friday before September 11th, I signed the papers and enlisted in the Army. I woke up on Tuesday after the towers were hit and the world had changed.

After 9/11, women weren’t signing up for the Army, so there were only three women in my barracks at Ft. Bliss in El Paso. One of three women with all of those men wasn’t a good place to be. There was a lot of drinking and MST (Military Sex Trauma).

I became a raging alcoholic. 

I would start drinking as soon as I was off work, and men took advantage. A normal person would have just stopped drinking, but my brain didn’t work that way. I learned to pick who I was going home with before they had the opportunity to abuse me. I tried to have some control, but that spiraled.  

Before I was sent overseas, I met a guy I didn’t love or even like, but he was safe and didn’t abuse me. He asked me to marry him. I said yes because I would get a raise if I was married, and married housing got me out of the barracks. If I was killed, at least my obituary would say, ‘survived by her husband.’

I was sent to Kuwait for Operation Enduring Freedom. I drank away my thoughts until I got on the bus taking us to the plane. Then everything started kicking in. What was I doing here? A few weeks later, the war started and the name changed to Operation Iraqi Freedom.

I worked in food service and supply. There was little guidance, and I still don’t know our purpose for being there.It was terrifying, with 3 a.m. alarms for SCUD missiles.  Jessica Lynch was in my unit before she was captured.  When we passed Iraqis on the road, kids in the back of cars either waved little American flags or gave us the finger.

I was there for eight months and turned 21 overseas. I came home and remembered I was married. I ended up pregnant and stayed in my marriage for nine months. I drank during my pregnancy, but not as much. 

Then I discovered pain pills. I had broken bones in my foot from wearing combat boots and running on pavement. They started me on Percocet, and I fell in love.

After my daughter was born, I left my husband and got my own place. I made excuses to drop her off with him, then went out. I was a quiet person, but drinking made me the life of the party. Drinking and mixing pills made me a blast. I had the time of my life, but I didn’t take care of my responsibilities as a mother, as an adult, or as a human. 

I got a job as a bartender, and my work life became my party life. I started doing cocaine and staying out all night. I asked my parents to keep my daughter because I couldn’t take care of her. In my head, I thought my family should be proud of me for being so responsible. I didn’t consider my mother who was fighting cancer. She had been in and out of hospitals most of my life. 

I was diagnosed at the VA with MST, PTSD, severe anxiety disorder, depression, and bipolar. They heavily medicated me, and I took the valium as prescribed for the first month. I became addicted to that, too. Valium calmed me down. It was amazing to lay down at night and actually go to sleep.

The drugs stopped me from overthinking. I felt like I functioned better and thought clearer, but I didn’t see what other people saw. I became angry, violent, and ready to fight anyone. 

Meanwhile, my mom’s cancer returned.  We had a benefit in our town to raise money to send her to MD Anderson. Two months later, Dad called and told me to get to the hospital. 

I knew that meant my mother was dying. Instead of driving straight to the hospital to see her, I stopped at their house to steal some of her pain medication. I made it to the hospital with just enough time to hold her hand and tell her goodbye. I almost missed it because of drugs. That was low. I couldn’t cry and needed to get home to take my pills.

After Mom died, I got worse and pushed my family further away. I once said I would never put a needle in my arm, but drugs no longer provided the feeling I was looking for.  My fiance’s friend showed me how to crush a pill and inject it, then he shot me up the first time. As soon as that entered my veins, my whole body was warm. I told my fiance this was how I was going to die, and I was okay with it.”

Vanessa, Part One