No One Is going to Rescue Me…

CW: Substance abuse, mental health

As I sat in the chair of despair, legs in stirrups, I laid back into a position I never felt comfortable with. I allowed a man to look at my no-no square! I hated Pap smears, but this was a truth I had to face. It was the middle of COVID… or maybe the beginning, I’m not sure. Everyone but me and my tweaker friends feared this COVID, and this appointment felt like life and death collided in one moment—shattering all the lies I’d been told and thought.

No doctor was ever available these days from fear of COVID, except one. He came in as a favor, or shall we say a hunch, from a friend of the doctor who called him to check me because no one else could give me a straight answer. COVID was deadly—worse than anything, even worse than cancer, they all thought. But God shined on me that day to save my life, through all the confusion, that cloud of death I was in.

As the scraping started, pain shot through me. I went completely numb—just like thousands of times before when I was a child, but I had learned to be good at one thing called dissociation, something we all learned during the Gen X days, way, way back then. But now… I was drowning in this moment, deep down where only darkness was escape. My pain became a nothing. No feelings. I missed my meth. I missed drowning the pain into the nothingness. I loved swimming in the pool of nothings! But here, there was no relief from this truth. No one was coming to rescue me. I was detached from God. I had been on meth so long—years of raw dogging this meth—I forgot how to pray. Or maybe God did love me, but I was so lost I couldn’t even care. The pain was the only thing real—the real me I had been running from. This was so freaking weird, to be like this. No one should have to go through this shit show! Was I born for a time like this?

I thought about all the times I tried to get sober, tried to get help. I remembered limping out of my car after work at Smith’s three years before when it all started. I was with my ex back then, who I had no love for anymore. He cheated and lied so much; I hated him and was planning to leave him soon. Nine years of this guy! Wow. I don’t know how I stayed with him—negative, bipolar, schizophrenic, Satan-worshiping man who played the victim. I once loved him more than myself. Codependency led me to a dark, dark truth: no one cares about me but God, maybe.

As I got out of the car, here came Mike, looking like he was hiding something, as always.

“Your home early. Why are you limping? Are you okay?” he said. I didn’t want to hear it anymore. I had been limping for days and nights, and now he cared? Odd.

“Yeah, just my plantar fasciitis. My foot is hurt, but it’ll heal. I have to wrap it with tape, it’ll be fine. It’s not that bad. I’m just being a pussy,” I said. Not wanting attention. Not wanting his empathy.

Deep down, I heard the old voices from childhood: Don’t be a pussy. Be tough. Let no one see you weak, or they’ll take advantage of you. Me, and my Gen X ways, strong as hell. We raised ourselves. No one should feel sorry for me. That’s how it all went wrong. I chose meth to numb the pain and escape this toxic relationship. Meth took the pain away… it also helped me numb Mike’s insults and his lies until I finally left him.

Mike and I went to St. George one evening. He wanted to sniff Xanax, do meth, drink. I was against it, but the Xanax helped with the pain; it worked fine until it didn’t. Meth was easier to get, so I picked it up! Meth was way stronger anyway! Xanax felt like drinking three energy drinks, so it sucked. I ended up leaving him after two weeks. I moved to St. George and… never went back. I took my kids. Long story short, I left him, moved to my mom’s after living in Mesquite, NV, for four years—I disappeared. I left him and the home behind. I fought a good fight—lots of drama, robberies, nothing good. My mom watched the kids until she didn’t. I got my own home after being homeless on and off. COVID hit. Everyone was in fear, but me and tweakers ran around with no cares. Everyone else was scared, but we were too high to care. Really! Vegas was a ghost town. It was insane, but this all took me to a place—death’s door.

Finally, when I went to the ER, I had to sober up just to get there. That was complete hell each time I went to the doctors or hospital. The pain got so severe I could barely go without meth! But I’m tough, and I did it. Of course, this was during COVID. No one wanted anyone at the hospital unless we had COVID; this meant they would get paid thousands if we had it. In my opinion, it was all about the money. I still went in, and they gave me the rundown: “Don’t you know you can die catching COVID? You’re not safe!” I looked at them in so much pain, I cried and screamed, “I am hurting so bad, just help me!” They helped me as much as they could, since I did not have COVID. They took the wrong X-rays, saw some “bumps,” and said, “Oh, that’s normal. You’re good.” The doctor said, “You’re fine, I promise.” They did an ultrasound that went into my vagina and saw some bumps that were normal. So I left and started street drugs again.

The bleeding was so bad. Sometimes it felt like I was bleeding out! I was peeing all day like dripping urine, and I had no idea why—maybe it was discharge! But it smelled like urine, so I just got more and more high. I was forced to survive, to sell drugs, flip a pound to pay for my kids and rent. I would Google my symptoms, and even Google said it was older age! Maybe it was just age. Older women bleed more, right? Older women pee—it’s normal! But deep down, I knew something was wrong.

I was deep in my addiction. I couldn’t stop long enough to rest. I stayed up 60 days straight. The world around me was melting, but I held my emotions and held my mug. People came and went—gang members, chaos, fighting. I had a lot of fun with guns. I’m an optimist; I loved life no matter what! If it was around me, I was in it—in every trap house, doing the most! No peace, no sleep. Pain was constant. Finally, I’d had enough. My friend went with me to InstaCare. They took X-rays, looked at them, then said I was fine. Then they laughed. These Mormon women were lames. They looked tough, but I was way, way tougher. I could tell by looking at them—they feared me. I had tattoos, black hair, and was very beautiful—not like the Utah fit Mormon look. I was embarrassed at being weak!

“This is just old age, sis,” they said.

I told them, “I’ve never bled more than three days in my life. Never had cramps.” They laughed, looked at me with jealousy, and said, “Well, guess what—it’s your time.”

I thought, Wow, I’m such a pussy. Of course, again, I’m Gen X. We raised ourselves with no fucks given.

They gave me a shot in the hip that would last three weeks. I was so happy. For a moment, I thought maybe they were right. But then the pain tripled—way worse than before. I was bleeding out as I sat on my bed, blood leaking through my pants. It was bad! I had to throw my blankets and sheets out in the trash each night! I had to go to the thrift store trash, where they threw away a lot of nice stuff, and get new comforters and sheets almost every night. Thank God.

I started fainting mid-conversation, freaking out my friends. One time, we were dressing in black masked up, to rob a junkyard for parts for my truck—my favorite thing to do. Suddenly, I woke up on the floor, my friend yelling, “BOSS! BOSS!” trying to pick me up. My fist met his face. “Let me go!” I said.

I had enough I got sober again and went to the ER. They said I needed a Pap smear, but no one was available. One doctor piped up: “I got someone who will help.” He left the room and came back with a sheet of paper. “You’re down for tomorrow at Building 3, next door, at 4 PM. The man will help you and please Wear a mask.” I hated wearing masks! lol

And that’s how I ended up in that room—short version anyway.

After he scraped me, he turned his back. The nurse sat me up. I looked at him—his face was so sad. No, no, not me. Please, no! Anxiety hit. Fear of the truth. All that blood I had hidden for so many days! I saw the sadness in his eyes. He cried:

“You’re so young and beautiful. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but… you have cancer. Your uterus is bloody and swollen. I pray I’m wrong, but you have cervical cancer.”

I held onto my strength. “Okay, we’ll get through this,” I said. His sadness scared me, but I toughed it out, thanked him, and left.

I went home screaming in pain, alone in my bed, stuck in my head. Over and over: How do I get out of this one, Somer?

My friend called. “I need a ride! I just escaped rehab, my tracker is looking for me, come get me!”

Without thinking, I threw on my shoes and went to pick him up. Driving the hour in pain, I sang along to songs on the radio to take the edge off. By the fifth song, I finally arrived. I called him, and he said he meant someone else and was on some random people’s porch. As I drove up, I saw him with rednecks on a porch—an old granny even in a rocking chair, lol.

I shouted, “I’m here!” He came jumping off the porch. I yelled, “You drive, bro.”

He said, “Where’s the dope?”—because I always had meth.

“I’m sober, bro. I need to stay sober to go see if I have cancer!” He was shocked. “WTF is going on?”

“I’m really sick. You have to help me stay sober.” He tried to process it all at once, shock written on his face. He knew I was crazy, didn’t fully get it, but he was trying. He had no clue, lol.

As he drove toward a red light, he hit the brakes—but there were none. We skidded, and he fought to keep the truck from flipping.

“Oh shit, I forgot to tell you—I have no brake fluid,” I blurted out.

I moaned and groaned, trying to help steady the truck, then leaned back with my feet up on the dash as he stabilized it. (Later, he said I sounded like I was having sex when he told the story, lol.)

“You got this, bro!” I yelled as we slid perfectly into the lane. He looked at me like, WTF was that?

I just shrugged and said, “BUT DID YOU DIE?”

We made it home, swerving and switching seats between driver and passenger because a cop was behind us with lights on. We did it perfectly, lol. But the pain was insane. I was yelling and screaming all the way home and into the next day. He stayed in the front room, spun out, cleaned the house, and watched the kids.

Finally, he made me go back to the hospital. I went in before results were ready from the pap smear. I was missing four pints of blood. They put the blood back in me, then sent me home again, waiting for Pap smear results after all the COVID was a killer so it was safer to be at home. The next day, I went back to the hospital because I woke up in another pool of blood. They saw I was missing three pints. I had bled out again. They doctor ordered the right X-ray this time. Then all hell broke loose. I was carried up to the cancer floor! They told me I had Stage Four cancer. My pelvic area was full of cancer. I had been peeing into my blood because the cancer clump was on my ureter tube blocking my urine going to my bladder! The cancer was in my lymph nodes and was going to spread to my entire body if I didn’t act fast!

I had to call my ex because he had to watch the kids. I’ll never forget his exact words:

“Just die. I fucking hate you. I know you’re doing this for attention.”

I didn’t care what he said other than he needed to watch his kids. I hung up on him, never cared what he thought, i had other things to take care of!

The doctor said the pain I was feeling was as bad as passing gallstones. They hooked me up to an IV filled with pain meds, blood, and fluids. For the first time in years, I finally felt a moment of rest. I was in good hands—but make no mistake, the fight had begun that day.

I had hung around low-lifes, addicts, thieves for almost two years. From then on, I had to fight everyone and everything. But the biggest battle? My own mind. Die or live.

I had five kids, and my two youngest were still at home. I would never leave them behind. Even in the middle of the hell I was living, I made sure to see them as often as I could. Then came the moment when everything shifted—I realized no one was coming to rescue me. I had to rescue myself… from myself. I had to fight to live. I had to fight myself and others to stay sober, and this fight was personal. I was done with the pain, the addiction, and the version of me that kept me stuck. I was determined to win back my life—the life I never had as a child, the life I had always dreamed of for myself and for my sons. A life they truly deserved. And this time, I was going to build it with my own hands. No one was going to get in my way. I made up my mind—I wasn’t going to date again. I was going to stay single and focused, forever if I had to.