Becky Libby has taught herself just about everything. She is space freak who can draw a map of the constellations. She makes beaded earrings out of semi-precious stones. She plays the guitar and she shoots pool. But trauma takes its toll. Becky still suffers from grand mal seizures, sleep-walking syndrome, dissociative disorder without mania, and anxiety attacks. Despite that, in her 30-something life she’s been a critical care home health aide; a jack-of-all-trades at Friendship Trap; a house cleaner; a manager at Maritime Farms; and these days, as Millard Creamer’s stern-man, slinging three or four traps at a time onto the back of his boat.
It’s the tightening in your chest. It’s the burning in my veins. It’s the anger out of nowhere. It’s the never-ending pain.
It’s the happy when I wake up. It’s the bridge on which I stand, it’s my comfort when it’s needed, it’s the devil that holds my hand.
It’s the laughter when I need it, it’s the place I lay my head, it’s that voice that brings me comfort, it’s my constant safety net.
It’s the fear when I’m without it, such a void I cannot fill. It’s the weight that leaves my shoulders when you finally find that pill.
It’s the hollow, even after, when you feel it slip away, twenty minutes of relief and then you’re worse off anyway.
It’s the repetition thinking that tomorrow you could stop, it’s the condescending attitude informing you cannot.
It’s the beacon that you follow, it’s the friend you’ll never love. It’s the false sense of security of which you’ll always choose. It’s the reason for the sadness I see swimming in your eyes, it’s the fear to go without it, that ensures you’ll never try. It’s the final page of this chapter, it’s the last page of your book. It’s the reason we’re all broken, from your life in which it took.
– Becky Libby, October 2022
I was born with Hirschsprung’s disease where you can’t control your bowels. It’s almost always diagnosed between birth and a few months. They diagnosed me when I was 16 years old with a stomach so distended it looked as if I was about to give birth. I went through grade school, middle school and part of high school wearing diapers. I can’t even describe how much it hurt physically.
I literally almost died right before they operated on me. Afterward, they told me it was the worst documented case of Hirschsprung’s disease in the country.
So, I really don’t remember much about my childhood, except for the names people called me, the ways I tried to hide my stomach and how much pain I was in physically.
I was twelve when a friend introduced me to Grubba. He was 46. I was weird and I didn’t have much friends so I started hanging around his house. He fed me beer. I was drinking 12-packs and the next year I was drinking and taking pills. He fed me Xanax, Vicodin and there was something else for pain, a little green capsule that alleviated the physical pain I was feeling.
But there were instances when I’d wake up and find myself partially undressed while men I knew from Friendship were moving around the room. I think my brain blocked out the trauma.
It took me four years to pull away from him. He threatened my family. At least once a week I was calling the Maine State Police. He was a bad, bad man.
After my operation, I had a boyfriend, and we did drugs together. When I had my wisdom teeth pulled, the doctor prescribed me 5mm tablets for thirty days. Every five days, I’d call him, and he’d refill it. I got to the point where the days all blended together. And if I needed to do something, I’d take an Adderall because I was diagnosed ADD/OCD/ADHD. Then I’d take a Vicodin when I got home.
But I always knew I wanted to do more. I was a very active person. I had had my colostomy bag reversed. I had a clean bill of health. I wanted to get off drugs and he didn’t. I was 22 when we parted.
I moved back with my parents and went partying. I was done with the pills, but not with the drinking. I was so reckless. I’d drink even when I was driving. So, I’ve had more than one crash. The first one tore up my face from my forehead to my chin. Over the next days, my head doubled up which scared me. I started drinking more.
The second crash was two weeks later, going to Augusta to see the doctor, drinking my way up there, and completely shit-faced. And no one noticed because I was a chronic alcoholic. I sideswiped an undercover police car, passed out and woke up in Kennebec County Jail with no recollection of what had happened or how I got there. To me, that was God screaming, “NOOOOO!”
Bottom was on New Year’s Eve when I was drinking beer and pounding Fireballs. I got so messed that I couldn’t move, laying on my bed and vomiting so it pooled around me and dripped down in a puddle on the floor. When I came to and realized what had happened, I put that picture and feeling in my head to help me quit drinking. January 1, 2018 was my first day sober.
It wasn’t easy. I didn’t need to get sober, I wanted to get sober. I put my mind over the pain to get there. That’s how I passed through withdrawal. I’ve programed myself so well that if someone even talks about chugging a shot, I want to vomit.
But I had a slip this past July. I was working at Sami’s Entertainment, stressed about a break-up and serving alcohol. I thought, “I can handle this,” and I poured myself a shot. I kept pouring, kept drinking. The next day, I was still drinking. Nobody could tell. But when I drove to Sami’s that night for work, I didn’t get out. In the car as I chugged more shots, I got as weird feeling in my stomach: “This isn’t going to end well.” I realized this was completely out of my control.
I called 911. The first thing the cop asked was, “You realize you have conditions and not supposed to be drinking?” I said, “You realize I just called for help because I’m in crisis?”
They took me to the hospital and got me on a bed where they gave me a blood test. It read “toxic” on MyChart., but no one came to examine me. Other people were coming in, being seen, and being discharged. But not me. I felt I was a low priority because I was drunk.
But I wasn’t just drunk. I thought I was going to die. I had just lost seven years of sobriety. But they didn’t see that. I ended up walking out of the hospital.
Sometimes I think about all the things that should have killed me and didn’t. It tells me that whatever higher power there is out there, that spirit believes there’s a reason for me to be here.
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