When Numb Feels Easier

A Woman Contemplating Taking Medication While Reflecting on Past Trauma from having an Alcoholic Father.

I’ve always known addiction—not because I struggled with it personally growing up, but because its shadow lived in the fabric of my family. I grew up with its echo in our stories, its silence in our pain. And maybe that’s why I’ve always carried a deep, almost irrational fear of it touching the family I’ve built—my husband, my children. But I never expected it would try to creep in through me.

It started with a wisdom tooth.

A few years ago, I had an infected tooth that I ignored for far too long. I tried to manage the pain with over-the-counter meds—Ibuprofen at first. But soon, I found myself taking far more than the recommended dose—10, 12, even 16 pills at a time—just to get a little relief. You might ask why I didn’t just go to the dentist. At the time, we didn’t have insurance, and I couldn’t afford the out-of-pocket cost.

One night, while working in a warehouse, the pain became unbearable. I left work early and headed to the ER, crying as I drove. The pain worsened the closer I got, like my body knew I was finally seeking help. I was prescribed Hydrocodone—something I had taken before but had always avoided. It made me feel out of control. But this time, I was so desperate I didn’t care. I needed the pain to stop. And it did.

Too well.

At first, I was unsettled. But within a few days, I heard myself thinking, “This isn’t that bad.” Even when the tooth pain was gone, I kept taking the pills—justifying every dose. Somewhere inside me, I knew: If I don’t stop now, I won’t be able to. So, I did the only thing I could trust—I flushed the rest of the pills down the toilet.

The truth is, I wasn’t just in physical pain. I was emotionally unraveling. And those pills weren’t just numbing my tooth—they were numbing my life. Still, even in that low place, I knew I couldn’t let my children suffer under the weight of a drug-addicted mother. My self-love may have been broken, but my love for them... That’s what saved me. That’s what carried me through.

That experience opened my eyes. Addiction doesn’t come wearing a warning sign. It doesn’t announce itself with bad intentions. It often shows up in pain, offering comfort. It disguises itself as a solution before it ever reveals its cost.

I’ve known addiction more intimately through others than through myself. My father battled it. So did some of my aunts—one of whom overdosed over 20 years ago. An uncle, once a preacher, fell into alcoholism after his wife grew ill. I’ve watched people I love disintegrate under its grip, and I’ve seen the heartbreak of relapse after years of sobriety.

One of my closest cousins—like a sister to me—has walked through the fire of addiction again and again. After years of struggle, she got clean. I had hope. I prayed this would be the last time. But then she relapsed, and this time feels worse than the others. I had to make the painful choice to step away—not out of anger, but out of self-preservation. Watching her spiral is a grief I carry in silence.

She is one of the most generous, funny, big-hearted women I know. She loves God. But the pain she never spoke of—the trauma she endured as a child—became a breeding ground for the addiction that now owns so much of her life. I won’t tell her story here. That’s hers to tell. But I will say this: Addiction is rarely the beginning. It’s almost always the consequence.

We often shame addicts without acknowledging the trauma underneath. But the truth is, shame is what fuels the addiction. It’s what keeps people from getting help. It’s what convinces them that the drug, or the bottle, or the self-destruction is safer than the truth.

But you cannot heal what you don’t acknowledge.

So, if you’re loving someone caught in addiction, I see you. I know the exhaustion of hope and the heartbreak of helplessness.

And if you are the addict—or feel like you’re on the edge of becoming one—I need you to know this:

You are not worthless. You are not too far gone.

God hasn’t discarded you. In fact, He wants to redeem this part of your story too.

The enemy wants to drown you in shame, but there is another side—a better side.

Yes, the path to healing is painful. But it’s worth it.

You are worth it.

To my cousin, if you ever read this—please know: I didn’t walk away because I stopped loving you. I will always believe in you. I will always carry hope for your future, even if we walk different paths.

And to every reader navigating the shadows of addiction—whether through your own pain or someone else’s—I love you to life. I’m praying for your healing. I’m praying for your freedom.

And I’m believing in the beauty that still exists in your story.