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There was a time in my life where I was so low there wasn't any further to fall other than death itself. I grew up in foster care, adoptive families and group homes. I watched the kids I lived with go through alcoholism or addiction and thought I'd never hit that point. The January after I turned eighteen, I finally gave up on school. I had already done time for battery and found myself in a foster home I couldn't stand. I wanted to graduate High School but didn't have the support system to follow through. Between the emotional/physical abuse, neglect and lies I found myself needing to leave. I had hit the point where it was leave it all behind and try again or hurt someone and lose the option.

I ended up homeless and pregnant on Valentine's Day, in 2004. The friends I'd been staying with lost their place and went home to mommy, leaving me high and dry. They had made several fruitless attempts to get me into their Meth scene and all the while I held out for a better day. Two months after finding myself living in an abandoned train, freezing cold in the middle of Wyoming, I gave in. Food was too expensive, I never seemed to qualify for the jobs I applied for (believe me I applied everywhere I saw a 'Help Wanted' sign and even some places I didn't) My lack of a diploma made me undesirable as an employee. I ate what I found, usually left over fast food behind Wendy's or McDonald's. Occasionally I got lucky and someone had ordered pizza but never picked it up.

My spiral into dependency was fairly quick. One day I got an offer for a place to stay, with a dealer, all I had to do was keep an eye on his things and watch over his daughter while he was gone. After a couple weeks of staying there I smoked Meth for the first time. It was the best and the worst at the same time. On one hand I was completely calm, no worries for the first time in a very long time. The other hand held self-disgust and loathing. In an attempt to stamp out the feelings of self-hatred I smoked more and more often, then more and more dope started going into the pipe. Eventually, I ended up being an IV drug user. Through it all I never lost my sense of responsibility. I never shared needles, I never allowed myself to be around children or in situations where I needed all my wits. I would have died if my actions while high had resulted in the injury or death of someone else. The only exception was my unborn child. I had pushed the knowledge of my pregnancy to the

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