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PostPosted: Tue May 19, 2009 1:03 am 
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Well, I'll go first. I have a very interesting background. I may skip around a bit, and of course I'll forget about 100 stories. I have enough to fill a book believe me.

My father was a doctor, like Dr. Junig was before psychiatry. He was an anesthesiologist in a few hospitals in Chicago, IL.
My father was an overworked unhappy man. Originally from Cuba, he came to the United States for residency but was unable to return (gee, wonder why).

I remember that he used to keep vials of morphine in the refrigerator, and once a month, he'd have a delivery from a pharmacy company. When I was about 11, I watched him open one box, and it contained '1000 Diazepam, 10mg'. he drank a lot sometimes, and sometimes would even become violent.

My mother was a severe alcoholic (and more... I'll write about that later). From the time I was 7-10 years old, she'd lay in bed all day and drink over a fifth of vodka a day at least. She'd wet the bed and be nearly comatose, and didn't take care of me or my siblings. She cleaned up for a bit around 1981 and started AA which seemed to help her, along with antabuse.

Around 1983, my parents seperated and divorced, and this is when life became a lot more 'interesting'. I was 13.

My mom relapsed, and relapsed bad. She started to get into drugs and started to hang out with some real real shady people. She started mainlining cocaine, and attempted suicide at least once a month by overdosing or slitting her wrists. I didn't know about the cocaine until once I called an ambulance, and at the hospital the nurse was injecting a drug. I asked 'what are you giving her?'. She said 'Narcan'. I said 'Narcan?! Why?'. She held up her arm and showed me track marks and said "Thats why!".

I think in total, I counted 32 suicide attempts. That might be low. I was on a first name basis with the paramedics!

These 'friends' of hers Stole everything we owned.. They took my guitars, my computers, and MY CLOTHES! What kind of a sick bastard steals someones clothes?! I was 15 years old.

My mother kept relapsing and relapsing and would never stop the drinking or the drugs. Her psychiatrist had her on ungodly doses of Xanax (like 8mg a day?!). She once had a psychotic reaction to Vivactil (a tricyclic antidepressant, the doc had her on 3x the recommended maximum dose!). She was never able to get off the Xanax, she'd have seizures so she took it the rest of her life.

Lets go back to my father. He started to slide downhill and I heard he was doing cocaine and that a friend of mine sold it to him. He started to become very paranoid and had something called 'morbid jealousy' (doc: Othello's syndrome). He was convinced my mother was having affairs (which she sort of was with her loser friends). He would always say strange things like "If I ever die, take my schedule II pad and burn it", and "I have a go away kit just in case". He started to have my mom followed by PI's in order to prove his delusional jealously. One time he came over to the house and put a .45 to her head. She called the police and he was arrested for assault with a deadly weapon. We tried to get my dad committed, but he could fool any doctor. I found his 'go away' kit and tossed it but he just replaced it.

When I was 16, it was the summer of 1987. I was at my girlfriends house and some 'thing' told me 'go home, go home'. I decided to go home. The doors were locked, so I had to break into the house through a window. I went upstairs and found my mother NOT BREATHING, eyes rolled back in her head but she had a pulse. She had taken an overdose. I was panicked and called my father who said "Let her die". I told him to f*ck himself, which was our last conversation we ever had.

I called the ambulance and we were already on a first name basis with the paramedics. They took my mother to the hospital for treatment AGAIN. I was 16 years old, no money, no license yet, all alone. I had to take care of myself for 2 months all alone.

July 31, I went over to my sisters house and she was crying. She told me "Dad is dead. He overdosed with an IV in a hotel room". I didn't shed a tear. *I* had to tell my mother who was in treatment that my dad was dead. I will never ever forget that call for as long as I live. I'll never forget the terrifying scream she let out when I told her.

We buried my father, and my mother of course relapsed again. This time, I didn't handle it well. I became severely depressed, and I had to be hospitalized myself for over a month. My mother was so bad that during a visit to me they committed her! How embarassing is that?! I remember I came home on a visit and some coke dealer was after her for money. I decided not to return home after that experience.

I never did drugs or even drank back then. I hated them. In fact, I started working with the police to prosecute every one that sold my father and mother cocaine, including a good friend of mine. I was going to get them back for what they did to me, and I did! I did drug buys for the police from them :) They deserved it!

My mom finally got off all of the drugs. I called my dads hospital, and arranged a FREE 90 day treatment for her. I told her "Everyone else has given up on you. If you blow this, don't ever speak to me again". She stuck to it and things turned around for a bit. At this point we had lost everything. My father cancelled all his insurance policies just to screw us over too, and she snorted the $80K he left her. We lost the house, the car... the furniture (at least what her coke friends didn't take)... EVERYTHING..

After that treatment, She got back into nursing and things were a lot better.

Later in life, she told me a lot of stories about my father. He would inject her daily with Demerol for a few months and then just stop to torment her. He was shooting cocaine, demerol, morphine, you name it, but would never allow himself to become dependant on opiates. I found his Schedule II pad, and he was writing friends (probably for him) prescriptions for Dexadrine, Percocet, etc.

My mother died last year to lung cancer. She was drinking off and on the rest of her life, but never got back into cocaine.

Supposedly, I have 'PTSD' or so I've been told. I really don't think about any of that stuff any more but maybe subconsciously I do. I love to tell others my story though because I want others to learn from it. Its strange mentioning my dads suicide because others get all akward and say 'oh, um, I'm sorry' but honestly I love to talk about it. Its part of me and made me who I am today, and I think I'm a great person in spite of all the horror I've seen in my life. I'll tell you one thing.. I despise drinking. I haven't drank myself in 6 years at least, and before that maybe 2-3 times a year. My wife had/has alcohol problems and her last relapse nearly killed her but that's another story.

My mother was a wonderful, loving and caring person. She just had a problem. With my dependency on opiates I really developed a new understanding of how she behaved and why. I finally understood why she drank or took drugs, it just made more sense somehow.

Drugs destroyed my family, and they destroyed a good part of me before I ever put a pill into my body


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PostPosted: Sat Jun 06, 2009 4:39 pm 
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Wow, that is such a sad story. I'm glad you're willing to share it though, because we all need to know that our behavior affects everyone in our lives.

When I first started using opiates, I thought they made me a better mom because I wasn't in pain so I could do more stuff with my daughter and I was in a better mood. But after a while the low times between the highs got so much worse, and during those times I didn't want to do anything.

Realizing that I wasn't being the best mom I could be really pushed me to get treatment. And I'm not saying I did anything bad to my kid, I just realized that I wasn't as emotionally available to her and that my ups and downs were having an impact on her too.

She said to me one night: Mommy, I liked it better before daddy broke his ankle and you weren't sick all the time. Partly she meant my fibromyalgia, but I also know she meant the times that I was "sick" because I was trying to quit the pills or ran out or something. I'm so grateful that the really heavy part of my opiate use only went on for a few months, and that I was able to get on Suboxone and fix my life. Cause I really don't want to mess up my kid. She didn't ask to be born, and I feel that I owe her the best childhood I can give her. Mom being on drugs really doesn't fit with that.

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PostPosted: Sun Jun 20, 2010 10:50 am 
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Wow- It is amazing the hell some of us go through. Thanks for sharing that intimate part of your life!

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"It is never too late to be what you might have been!" - George Eliot


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Fond Du Lac Psychiatry
Dr. Jeffrey Junig, M.D., Ph.D.

  • Board Certified Psychiatrist
  • Asst Clinical Professor, Medical College of Wisconsin

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