Amy Brune

I grew up with young parents. They were 18 years old, but in the early 90s, that was more typical of families in my neighborhood of Hazel Park, Michigan, located in Metro Detroit. Hazel Park runs along the 8-mile border that separates the suburbs from Detroit. The area is now up and coming, but when I lived there, it was lower middle class with a lot of substance use. Despite his young age, my dad was quite successful. He became a master plumber at 18 and worked steadily, even starting his own business.

My father had great potential, but his substance use disorder kept things at home chaotic. It was feast or famine, with high highs and low lows. I now realize I had a front-row seat to the progression of addiction in a young man throughout his life into older adulthood by bearing witness to my dad.

He was magic—good-looking, charismatic, very funny, and charming. Women in my neighborhood often made comments about my dad or told me they always had a crush on him. A neighbor once asked if I thought my dad liked her. I was so upset I ran home and told my mom.

He could be really fun. He often took us on impromptu adventures, bought fireworks and toys, and hated us sitting around the house. He always encouraged, even demanded, that we get out, explore, and learn. Sometimes our adventures became dangerous or even illegal, but when my dad was in a good mood and wanted to hang out with me, I would have done anything with him. Looking back, I realize these were signs of manic episodes, substance use, or a mixture of the two. I take the best of these adventures and carry the same spirit into my parenting. Of course, it’s a healthier, more organized approach, but I try to keep some of that magic and excitement alive.

My father’s substance use disorder skyrocketed to an extremely painful level when I was finishing 7th grade. It was hard for me to function. I barely slept, found it hard to eat, let alone focus on schoolwork or sports. I was embarrassed and terrified. He had lost his business. All the employees that once depended on the health of my family had to walk away to save themselves. My dad had started using heroin and crack when it was still very taboo in the suburbs. He had probably been using those substances for a long time, but now he was gaunt, riding a bike, dirty, and clearly very sick. He was covered in sores and often completely belligerent. He was leaving my mom and our family for another woman. She walked away from three children and a husband of her own and was an active alcoholic. They seemed to bond over their desperation to escape their spouses and live life the way they wanted.

They rented a little house together while my mom was losing our family home. It was the recession of the early 2000s, and she was working for meager pay at a factory. She eventually ended up taking my little brother to live on the couch of a family friend while I took to the streets.

My mom would have done anything to take care of me, but I was angry and prideful, and I had already started smoking cigarettes regularly and dabbling in substances myself when I could get them. One day, months earlier, after a physical fight with my dad, I had taken a handful of my mom’s pills. I’m not sure if it was a true attempt at death, but I wanted my pain to end. It wasn’t a cry for help because who could help me? No one around me could even help themselves. The pills turned out to be antidepressants and only made me really sick. So, I took a second bottle of something different. These pills turned out to be Xanax, and while I passed out and slept for a really long time, I felt so good. My internal pain, fear, gnawing, and anger all disappeared. It was an absolute miracle.

Over the next few years, I lived with friends and other kids whose parents were in the throes of their own addictions and basically ran “flop houses,” as my mom would call them. Barely any of us were 16 yet and could legally work anywhere. Even if we could, work was really hard to find during the recession. So, we begged, borrowed, and stole day after day to buy drugs and alcohol. I stayed with a nice family for a while that took care of me and treated me like their own. I met their daughter when 9th grade started, and we both made the cheerleading team before I ended up dropping out. It was too hard. How could I go to school and maintain sports with no support and while my dad was literally dying in front of me? Her parents let her smoke cigarettes, and we stole weed from her dad daily. They kept a roof over my head and took care of me for almost a year.
When I was 16, I met an older guy who gave me access to new drugs. He was in the rave scene, and we spent a lot of time going to after-hours events and using club drugs. He knew people who sold prescription pills, and I bought them as often as I could. There were still days and weeks when I didn’t use, but that was only because I didn’t have money or access. I would have used daily at that point if I could have.

Our relationship was really toxic. He was paranoid and accused me of all kinds of strange and bizarre things. I had a desperate need for security due to my family issues. Looking back, I realize that he was using crack, and I was so young and naïve that I didn’t know. His behavior and paranoia were caused by his use. I would try to prove him wrong, and we would go around and around. There were physical fights, cheating, and lots of drinking and drug use for six years. When I turned 21, things became so unacceptable that I finally left him for good. I was single for the first time since I was 16 and old enough to legally drink and start working in bars.

For the next several years, my substance use increased steadily, just like I had witnessed in my father. Jail, treatment centers, terrible relationships. My mom got a good job and a stable home. My father would do better here and there, and sometimes the roles were reversed, and I was worse than him. He was the one angry and embarrassed by me. Part of me liked to show him how it felt. “How do you like it? It’s your fault I’m here,” I would think to myself. He was remorseful and ashamed, and I used that to get money and pity from him. It created a dynamic that supported my addiction and desire to punish him.

When I was 26, I became pregnant. I always knew that I wanted to be a mom. I loved the traditional family dream: white picket fence and 2.5 kids. When my family was good, before substances wiped us out, it was amazing. I couldn’t wait to have that. I moved in with my mom and stopped using. I had just finished a 90-day treatment program that I had been sentenced to for violating probation. While I did return to use afterward, it had only been a short time before I got pregnant, so I think it made staying abstinent more manageable than it would have been if I hadn’t had any formal treatment.

My dad was so excited to be a grandfather. One of my aunts told me he used to say, “I don’t want to be a dad, but I do want to be a grandpa.” When he was a kid. He sobered up, got a job, a new car, and a new place, all in preparation for his granddaughter’s arrival. I was really impressed. Getting sober on my own wasn’t something I had ever been capable of, and I perceived his substance use disorder to be more severe than mine. I could never understand how he did it.

While I was pregnant, some of my friends started using heroin. I was isolated at home and kept myself away from it. Heroin was always the one drug I would never touch. It ruined my family, destroyed my dad, and was already a source of a lot of pain in my life. I saw the chaos it created in their lives and outwardly rejected it. But I knew subconsciously that after my baby was born, I was going to try it. Somehow my dad’s recovery permitted my thoughts to use. I would have never used heroin while he was using it. Now that he was sober, it somehow made it fair game. I also would never put my baby in jeopardy. Reflecting back, I think I believed that I could use a few times and stop, even though my history proves I have never been able to do that.
In December 2011, my baby was born. She was beautiful and perfect. I was over the moon. Staying sober for nine months wasn’t easy, and when the doctor prescribed opiates post-birth, I welcomed chemical relief. It wasn’t the physical pain I wanted to escape as much as the pain of being abstinent for so long. I took the pills and intensified my joy. In the weeks that followed, I introduced my usual substances while caring for my baby.

The moment came when I finally hung out with some friends. I chose to connect with people I knew used heroin. Before the outing was over, I had some of my own, and it was everything I thought it would be. I saw exactly why so many people were addicted. Within a week of using it, I started feeling the effects of withdrawal in the mornings without it. It was hard to get but exciting. Finding a dealer and going downtown provided no shortage of adrenaline. Pair the ups and downs of the ritual of getting and using the drug with its effects, and it was a chaotic storm with risk and reward. There is also a culture among users, with its own players and rules. I took it all in.

My family found out about my heroin use, and the consequences started to deepen. I held my daughter as collateral to my bad behavior. If my parents wanted to see her, they had to play by my rules and stay off my back. I also needed money. Between bottles, food, outings, clothes, and appointments, there was no shortage of excuses to ask my parents for money to support my habit. The guilt my parents felt created a perfect scenario to fund my use.

Within a year, the demands of using heroin had worn me down. It was exhausting—getting, using, and withdrawing from heroin felt like a full-time job. It didn’t provide relief anymore. My emotional pain was acute and persistent, a constant gnawing in my gut, likely my conscience doing all it could not to explode inside me. I had experienced recovery in short durations while inpatient. I had never been able to stay sober once I got released, but there were weeks and months I experienced myself without drugs. I didn’t like it, but it was manageable in a controlled environment. I had met people in recovery, but never outside of a treatment center. There were no sober people in my community. I had never seen one of my friends or even acquaintances get and stay sober in the real world, but I couldn’t live like this and hoped it was possible even if only for a short time. A sober lifetime was completely outside the scope of possibilities.

I knew I had to do something. The person with the longest length of sobriety I had ever met was a girl named Bethany. She was in a treatment center as a long-term resident due to the order of a treatment court program. She had two years of sobriety, was working, taking buses to meetings, and was in remission from a severe heroin addiction. She taught me a lot, and we had a lot of fun sober while I was inpatient. Bethany returned to use about a year later and passed away, but I never forgot the mark she set as the person with the longest sobriety time I had ever witnessed.

If Bethany could get two years sober on a drug court program, maybe I could. I decided I wouldn’t dodge the cops or try to control my addiction; I would go all out until I got arrested. I was such a drain on my family. I was a walking misery. I hadn’t drawn a sober breath in at least a year, and I was the worst mother in the world. Even if I went to prison for years, at least I could write my daughter coherent letters, which was more than I was capable of now.

Within a week, I was arrested—my second DUI and a possession charge. I settled into my jail bunk, bracing myself for the withdrawal I knew was coming. I had experienced withdrawals in jail before and was lucky to be alive. I was a heavy benzo user, and going cold turkey guaranteed a spot in a psych cell. Detoxing from benzos comes with hallucinations and, for me, a proper psychotic break. I warned the jail nurse and explained that I had PTSD from past detox experiences. I knew people who had died in jail from benzo withdrawal. This wasn’t just a fear; it was an actual reality. But I knew I wouldn’t be heard, and no one would help me. All I could do was hope I survived this part of the process because I was absolutely powerless over my medical care in jail.

The withdrawal began. I was sick, hot, nauseous, anxious, and aware that my cognitive abilities were compromised. I knew I couldn’t rely on my thoughts because some of what I thought was happening wasn’t real. My last withdrawal came with days of hallucinations that I’ve still not been able to reconcile. There was no control. The cell opened, and I heard the officer call my name, “Amy Wilson, you’re being released.” No! Why? I wasn’t supposed to be going anywhere! This was my plan—to get arrested. I was told I made bail, and I was furious. My parents took me home and got me an attorney for my daughter’s sake, and I hadn’t prepared for this scenario. I started to hallucinate at home. My parents were absolutely terrified.

A few days later, we met with the attorney, and I told him I wanted to be in jail. I was going to die, and I couldn’t live like this anymore. In my desperation and mental state, I made quite the scene. It’s likely that this attorney had never had a meeting like this before. Most defendants want out of trouble, and here I was begging him to lock me away. I told him about Bethany and drug court and my desire to get into one. He had a connection and got me into one right away. He told my mom, “Chain her to a radiator and get her into court on Monday.” It was a long weekend, and on Monday, I went in. I was physically and mentally destroyed, but I dragged myself there. I knew the requirements were going to be grueling, but I was ready.

I met with the coordinator for intake and sat in on my first court session. I saw a young man stand before the judge. It was the dead of winter, and he was wearing layers of hooded sweatshirts and a coat. He reported the things he was doing for his recovery: living in recovery housing, seeing his therapist, working with a sponsor, chairing meetings, and working for Habitat for Humanity. He needed to get back to work after his time at the stand. The judge dismissed him and called me up. I went to jail that day. I lied on the stand about not using over the weekend when I had. After about a week in jail, I went into a month-long women’s treatment program. My daughter visited a few weeks later on her second birthday. I wasn’t sober on her first birthday, but I’m proud to have been in recovery on her second. She is 12 years old now, and we’ve spent 11 sober birthdays together.

I married the young man who I spoke about in court that day. We have ten years of sobriety and another daughter. We are proud members of the recovery community. I now work as a recovery coach in local drug courts and as a recovery community coordinator at FAN (Face Addiction Now), a local non-profit organization.

My dad stayed in recovery for my children for ten years, but last March, he had a return to use that took his life due to fentanyl poisoning. We had repaired our relationship, and he was the best grandfather. I am grateful that recovery gave us many years together that weren’t promised. He didn’t like to talk about his addiction and didn’t do much work on it despite my position in the community and my efforts to end stigma. I think shame rooted in stigma took a lot from him and hurt his recovery. It is my goal to educate the community and create conversation around what happens to so many families. I felt so alone in my childhood, and I am raising my children to talk about these things. My daughter is a safe place for other kids dealing with substance use disorder in their homes, and I am most proud of that.

My days are spent removing barriers for people affected by substance use disorder. I get to provide support, encouragement, and hope. I get to walk my participants through the stages of recovery and it is a beautiful career. I am truly blessed by all of the support I received to get where I am and it is my duty and absolute pleasure to be given the platform to pass it on. I have have gone on amazing group trips with people in recovery, we have taken our children to Mexico several times and just came back from a camping trip with over 60 people in recovery. The exciting life my dad tried to get me to get out and live as a kid is something that I have found only in recovery.

Growing up I never knew a person in recovery. Although I do feel the pressure and shame of stigma I work to find the courage, speak up and be that person. Someone’s life could depend on it.