I Couldn’t Live Inside My Head Anymore

By the time ninth grade started, the quiet I had tasted wasn’t enough anymore. Weed had shown my body that relief was possible. It showed that my thoughts could slow and my chest could loosen. Fear didn’t have to run the show every second of the day. But nothing else in my life had changed.

The grief was still there. The bullying was still there. The abuse at home had escalated. And now, shame sat on top of everything. My father had found out about my early relationships, and instead of protection, I was met with humiliation.

I was called names. I was compared. I was made to feel like my body and my choices were proof that something was wrong with me. Whatever self-worth I had left collapsed under that weight. I couldn’t stand being inside my own mind.

School felt hostile. I had no real friends. I felt watched and talked about. Every hallway felt like something to survive. My thoughts never stopped replaying everything — what I’d done, what I’d been called, what I’d lost.

So benzodiazopines became my next crutch. The second month into freshman year I was introduced to Xanbars.. it started as occasional but of course went to every day use within a few weeks. I had to mentally escape, atleast some of the bad things, even if it was just during the school day.

Home defintely wasn’t a place to escape safely. During my dad’s off seasons, he and his wife were home more often — sometimes for months at a time, sometimes traveling together. And I was terrified of getting caught loaded. I knew what happened when he found out someone was using. I had heard the stories about my stepsister. I knew the repercussions. I knew what that rage looked like.

So I was careful. Not because I was in control — but because I was afraid. I never did substances at home. Home felt dangerous. Home came with consequences I couldn’t risk. School, strangely, felt safer. School was the only place where I could disappear without immediate punishment. Where I could get through the day without my fear being met with more violence.

I didn’t use to feel good. I used to function.

For the first time, my mind went quiet — not just softened, but silent. I could sit through class without shaking inside. I could move through the day without constantly bracing for impact. I wasn’t trying to disappear from life, but I slowly did.

I was trying to survive the school day.

What started as something occasional quickly became routine. Not dramatic. Not chaotic. Just daily. My body learned that this was the only way I could get through without breaking down. The alternative was feeling everything at once, and I didn’t have the tools for that.

No one noticed. Teachers saw a quiet student. Adults saw a teenager “taking space” But no one saw a girl making calculated choices out of fear. This didn’t feel like addiction at the time. It felt organized. Contained. Like something I had figured out on my own. It felt like the only way I could keep showing up without collapsing.

Until it wasn’t enough.

Because once your body learns that silence is possible, it starts demanding it. And relief that works today rarely works the same tomorrow. The need grows quietly. The line between coping and dependence blurs without announcement.

This was the moment substances stopped being occasional and started being required. Not for fun. Not to rebel. But to make it through the day without falling apart. And soon the xanx wasn’t enough either.

This wasn’t the beginning of my addiction story — that had already started long before.

But this was the point where it became impossible to ignore.

CLOSING PRAYER

God,

You saw the fear behind my choices. The calculations I made just to stay safe. The ways I learned to survive environments that offered no refuge. I give You the years I spent numbing instead of healing — not with shame, but with truth. Hold the parts of me that were overwhelmed and afraid. Teach my body now how to feel without fear. And thank You for staying near — even when I didn’t know how to stay.

Amen.

XOXO, The Healing Wildflower