This Didn’t Start as a Drug Problem. It Started with Cramps.

How a period prescription turned into an opioid obsession—because women’s pain is still gaslit in pharmacies and Drs.

It didn’t begin with a back alley deal or a wild party. It began in a sterile, overly bright exam room, where I sat curled in a paper gown, clutching my stomach like it was trying to kill me—which, to be fair, it kind of was.

I told my doctor the truth: my periods were hell. Not “take-an-Advil-and-move-on” bad—I’m talking full-blown labor-level contractions every month, only without the cute baby at the end. Just blood, shame, and a heating pad that should’ve had a name and its own lease.

So he gave me a prescription. Thirty 5mg Norcos. I wasn’t faking it. I wasn’t exaggerating. I wasn’t looking for a high—I just wanted relief.
And relief is exactly what I got.

Except it felt better than relief. It felt like stillness. Like clarity. Like control.
Like peace.
Like… something I didn’t even realize I was missing until I felt it disappear the minute it wore off.

So I got more.
And then stronger ones.
Then I tested positive for coke on a random urine screen—a party girl slip-up from the weekend. The doctor cut me off cold. DEA pressure, liability, blah blah blah.

No taper. No referral. Just a polite exit out of the best partnership I’d ever known—me and the pill bottle.

And that’s where it really started. The chaos. The desperation. The street deals and split scripts and lies I told with a straight face while packing school lunches.

But don’t get it twisted.
This didn’t start because I was an addict.
It started because I was a woman in pain who was finally believed—until I wasn’t.