A Bitter Pill

Except I’m not just like you. I’m a recovering drug addict. I say recovering because no one ever recovers from their addiction; it’s with them every single day, like a diabetic lives forever with diabetes. Baruch Hashem, I’m now in “remission,” and my life has stabilized. But it wasn’t always like this.

I grew up in a warm, wonderful family. My parents loved my siblings and me, we never lacked for hugs and kisses. But from the age of adolescence through my teen years, a relative repeatedly abused me. Then, in a completely different set of circumstances — they say that lightning never strikes twice, but it did for me — at 17 years old, I was abused again, by someone else.

I never told a soul. I was scared. I felt that it must have been my fault. I felt no one would believe me especially since it had happened again and again. Mostly, I was ashamed.

At school I stuck to myself, didn’t participate in any school or after-school activities. I was friendly to all but preferred to keep to myself. My parents had a lot on their plate — getting my older siblings into seminary and yeshivah, financial matters, and other issues. Ours was a full house. I made myself as invisible as I could, and I succeeded. Nobody suspected a thing.