The Lies I Told Myself

Theme: Self-deception during active addiction — before kids, before marriage, before I even knew what “rock bottom” meant.

I used to tell myself I needed more Norcos because my period was coming. Or because it might come. Or because when it did, it was basically the Devil himself crawling out of my uterus with a chainsaw.

This was before kids. Before marriage. Before I had any grown-up language for pain—or boundaries—or addiction.

I told myself the pain was medical. Hormonal. Unfair. “Unlivable” if you’d asked me. And when my OB told me to take Advil, I looked at her like she’d just told me to rub dirt on it and drink some water.

Advil?
I needed the real stuff.
I needed something strong.
I needed more.

At least that’s what I told myself.

So I found a guy.
Not a “dealer,” of course—not at first. He was just a friend of a friend who “had some extras.” A guy who made my problems go away for $200 cash. He gave me more Norcos than I could afford and more than I needed. And in my twisted little brain, that meant I had solved the problem.

No more begging doctors. No more pretending my period was that bad (even though it kinda was). No more being treated like I was dramatic, or hormonal, or drug-seeking.

Except…I was.
All of the above.

At the time, I genuinely believed I was managing pain.
But looking back, it wasn’t just physical pain I was trying to numb.

It was the shame of being dismissed.
The loneliness of being misunderstood.
The deep, buried ache that maybe I wasn’t as “tough” as I pretended to be.

Painkillers quieted more than cramps.
They dulled anxiety.
They muted insecurity.
They made the silence bearable.