The Dark Secret I Hid While Raising My Daughter

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5 days ago

The moment I knew for certain that something was wrong with my toddler was on her 3rd birthday, when she hid in our garage from the Disney princess we'd hired to entertain her and her friends.
Rainy loved watching the magical princesses on television and had yearned for Sleeping Beauty to visit our home. So we proudly hired a genuine ex-princess from Disneyland, thinking we'd win some kind of parenting trophy.
Instead, as Sleeping Beauty tried to dote on Rainy, she pulled away, uncomfortable with the eye contact and the infringement upon her physical boundaries. It wasn't until we asked Sleeping Beauty to leave, rushing her out with apologies and a large tip, that Rainy finally calmed down.
That night, my partner Johnny and I understood something we never had before: Our daughter wasn't just shy or quirky. She needed help.
During Rainy's first 3 years, we had noticed that she avoided other kids, struggling to handle the sounds, excitement and demands of group play. As a baby, Rainy had hated to be held or interacted with by strangers, or anyone who wasn't us.
There was also this: Rainy was failing tummy time. Tummy time was a big topic in our baby group. Our pediatrician told us that tummy time is 'crucial to the development of all babies' and that sensory issues are usually the culprit when a baby can't perform the appropriate tasks. We were the only couple in our group whose 3-month-old failed to reach for an object while engaging her core.
Time marched forward, and Rainy's other target milestones were not being met either, not by a long shot. At 18 months, she was still babbling sounds that didn't form words. In the knowing glances of the other moms, I sensed concern, fear and judgment.
After Rainy's 3rd birthday, we decided we needed to see a specialist.
While waiting weeks for our appointment, I suddenly remembered the Percocet my doctor had prescribed to me for my postpartum cramping. I took two. A warm haze erased my fear and doubt, replacing them with something very close to confidence, or at least a lighter spirit.
The pills were clean, too. No smell, no taste, no detection. They allowed me to escape the fear that I was simply not cut out to mother my child.
The days were long. I tried desperately to create a schedule that was both healthy and fun, as Rainy seemed to retreat further into her mind and away from us, becoming increasingly imprisoned in her imagination. My mother had been agoraphobic, scared of wide open spaces. Now my daughter, too, was flailing whenever we went outside, bringing back my most difficult childhood memories.
Around this time, I upped my dose to three Percocet a day.
The specialist we saw a few weeks after her birthday party observed Rainy doing extensive testing. We were finally summoned to hear the results, coming in nervous and hopeful. I impatiently listened to a long list of scores and percentages until the doctor used the word 'autism.'
While I stared at her blankly, she said, 'You'll have to lower your expectations. Her development will be slow, and she may never be independent.'
As we exited the office, Johnny let go and began to cry. That's good, I thought, one of us needs to feel something. I believed that I needed to conceal my own emotions. We couldn't both be devastated at the same time.
Yet, I promised myself I would show up for Rainy. I decided to leave my career in documentary television to take on the challenge of intervention, assembling a team of professionals specializing in speech therapy, occupational therapy, behavior modification, social skills, and coordination.
What I didn't notice was that as I was putting everything into my daughter, I was also losing myself. By now, I was up to five Percocets a day. I needed to nod out to escape the unbearable awareness that I may not be able to be a champion for my daughter to thrive. But what I was really doing was running on a treadmill. I needed to find pavement again.
When Rainy turned 3-and-a-half, I unexpectedly became pregnant again. We couldn't decide whether to keep the pregnancy or not.
What if a new sibling proved harmful to Rainy's development? How would she react? Then there were the pros. What if this was meant to be? What if a sibling comforted her? Dr. Spock never covered this conundrum.
'If you have this baby,' my mom told me, 'you'll ruin yours and Rainy's life.'
Would it, though? After many nights turning the subject around and around, we decided I would have an abortion. My mother's words rang in my ears on the hour, every hour, for a long time. Was I making the decision to abort for my mother or Rainy? For Johnny and me? I still wonder to this day.
Johnny and I recovered from the abortion day by day. The world, Rainy's world, was fragile. We avoided most birthday parties and declined invitations for playdates, which were dwindling anyway. I started to feel like we were porcelain figures acting out a family.
By now, I was up to 10 Percocet a day at times, as I willed myself to pass out through more and more of my life. Slipping away from one's own life into an opiate-induced haze was one thing, but slipping away from the demands of a struggling child felt criminal.
But Rainy's fourth year brought improvements. She could speak. She was making more eye contact and completing tasks. She was taking her meals seated at the table in restaurants rather than under the furniture. She was able to attend preschool with a one-to-one 'shadow' teacher. She even danced to Beyonce's 'Crazy In Love' at the school talent show. The ground felt firmer, and Johnny and I began discussing the possibility of growing our family again, which left me feeling both terrified and optimistic.
On a random, desperate day for me, when the 10 Percocet no longer made me feel better, I drank the hydrocodone cough syrup my doctor had recently prescribed for my strep throat. The more I drank the magical elixir, the floatier I felt.
When I blacked out from drinking too much, Johnny had to take me to the emergency room. My stomach was pumped. There was a psych consult, and I did a verbal dance to avoid being admitted.
'I just needed a break,' I told the doctor with the well-practiced poker face that came from being a survivor of trauma. 'This was the first and last time I'll do something like this.'
I knew that was a lie.
Once it was determined I was not a threat to myself, I was returned to the care of the ER doctor. 'It's very dangerous what you did, for you and your pregnancy,' the doctor told me. I hadn't known I was pregnant. His words filled me with shame and joy all at once.
Johnny and I had another chance to bring a baby into the world. I convinced myself that Johnny and I were more prepared now, and that having a second child would somehow force me to get myself together. So we continued with the pregnancy. But I kept my ongoing use of opiates a secret from everyone, including Johnny.
I managed to wean myself off the pills with the help of a doctor, an outpatient Dialectical Behavior Therapy program and a new regimen of antidepressants. It didn't help that for nine months, migraines haunted me day and night. Nonetheless, in the winter of 2012, we welcomed our second daughter, Lulla, into the world.
They say that relapse is part of the recovery process. When Lulla was a year old, I took two opiates and then some more. You'll have to ask Johnny about how he discovered me passed out in our driveway while our children slept inside.
I mostly never took pills when the girls were in my care, saving my pill-popping for when I was alone or the babysitter was with the children. The sober me was a hardworking mom fighting for Rainy and caring for Lulla gently through her babyhood.
I knew I was putting my daughters at risk when I relapsed. In some way, my urgent self-destruction felt empowering, because it felt like taking my 'medicine' was the one thing I was doing for myself.
As my tolerance grew, I doubled, then tripled the dose until the drugs consumed the beautiful part of me that had begun to grow in sobriety. I was sick and desperate to feel normal again.
I returned to therapy and started a new course of anti-anxiety and depression medication. For one month, a nurse came to supervise me as my body went through withdrawals from opiates. I felt hot, then cold. There were aches and pains that felt like voltage running through my body. I couldn't eat. I would take laps around the house, but that was as far as I could go. In this way, I detoxed for what I hope will be the last time.
It's now 13 years later, and it's a Friday night. Rainy is trying on her prom dress, and her sister is memorizing lyrics to her favorite song. According to her doctor, Rainy no longer exhibits many of the symptoms of her autism; we now use the broader term 'executive functioning disorder.'
Today, people talk about autism in a way I couldn't have imagined in 2007. Now there are chat rooms, Reddit threads and reality shows about people with autism. We understand better that 'normal' or neurotypical is a spectrum of its own, and that many of us are divergent in some way. My mom's mental illness is one example. My struggle with addiction was, too.
It took almost a decade and a half to get here, not to mention all the ways I lost — and then found — myself.
Now I do my best to show up for life's highs and lows. In therapy, I have worked to drop the 'perfect' persona and the fight, flight, freeze response of my childhood trauma. I am grateful that the girls were too young to remember the days when their mom could only take care of herself by taking a substance. I don't feel like a member of a porcelain family anymore — I'm no longer so easily shattered.