What if you die? You are no longer allowed to be selfish. If you die that child has nothing. That child has no warm hugs from the only person that can kiss away the pain from scrapes and bruises.

Before I begin what may be the most controversial article I may write, I'd like to say a short little sentence or two.

I am a recovering drug addict. Not only am I a recovering drug addict, I am one who depends (and I say depend strongly, because without it I would not be where I am today) on a maintenance drug to help my recovery.

As some of you reading may or may not know, in the world of substance abuse recovery being on a maintenance drug is taboo. It's shamed upon, laughed upon, and you're looked at as if you have no clean time whatsoever.

With that, let me begin.

As a child, I was often bouncing from state to state, sleeping in whichever house felt the safest at that time to my parents. I was an innocent child, not asking for much besides love and care, and getting only the opposite as my parents chose to be strung out on heroin. I'm sure you've seen on news outlets and from Facebook posters alike the overwhelming amount of parents being recorded nodding out with their children crying in the backseat, a diaper full of pee and stomach empty and void of food. That was me. Maybe besides the food part, as I was always a chubby little girl, but that was me. Crying to my grandparents and begging them to bring my parents home, staying up hours of the night sitting on the stairs, waiting for them to walk through the doors.

My father and I, circa the time this happened.

Imagine This:

You are no older than eight years old. It's a cold night, with winds harsh enough to knock your perfect bowl cut of a hairdo around. Your father has picked you up from the safe confines of your grandmother's house, the only place that no harm has touched you. In your tiny head, you thought the plan was to go to your other grandparents' house in Staten Island, some 45 minutes away. Your father is nodding off at the wheel, and you think he's just tired, so you try to put the music loud to wake him up. You understand, sometimes Momom has to be really loud to get you up for school, after all! It happens. He gets annoyed, muttering under cigarette-tinted breaths to knock it off. You don't know where you are, the graffiti landmarks don't match the ones that lead you to New York. You are scared. You don't know why, but you are scared and the hero of your life known as your father is not enough to calm these nerves, but you ignore it. He will protect you. He will not put you in harm's way.

You pull into a foreign parking lot. You don't really know what it is, but it kinda looks like the place Daddy takes his cars that never seem to work to get fixed. You sense the weight of the world coming off your dad's shoulders as he smiles at you. You love him, he is your world since Mommy is gone because she's sick. He tells you you're allowed to come in with him, but there's no point since he'll be right back. You tell him that's fine! You'll even protect the car for him, since you know it's his favorite one he's had! He smiles and leaves.

Hour one passes. Now you're getting bored. You aren't allowed to use your Gameboy Color on the weekends you spend with him. You can see how cold it is outside by the way the trees viciously threaten to uproot from their spots on the ground and you kind of wish he let you keep the car on, but it's okay. The heat still kind of remains, and he'll be back any minute. It's no big deal. The light shut off in the main lobby of the building. It's no big deal.

It is now hour three. You are scared. What happened to Daddy? Did he forget about you? Did someone hurt him? You have no phone. You've been crying and you know no one can hear you, so you try to honk the horn. It doesn't help and now panic set in. How far are either Momom's house? You heard stories about bad people taking little girls like you, and you are scared to get out of the car. Daddy doesn't let you use the phone anyway, you're not allowed to answer it. You are so scared. You have to pee, and you don't want to be made fun of for peeing your pants. Somehow, deep within your tiny body, you get the courage to get out of the gray Jeep Chrysler and go inside that building. You want to go home with your Daddy now, and you'll do it yourself. You pull your purple bubble coat with the faux fur trim around you tighter and slowly make your way to the door. Your chubby hands tremble as you reach for the door handle, and yet somehow you pull. You yank with all your strength, and that god damned door doesn't open. You start crying again.

It has now been four hours and thirty minutes. You can't breathe. The cold has reached inside the vehicle, and you are now scared. You have convinced yourself this is it: you will be left here. You cry out for your grandmothers and your mother. You miss your missing-in-action Mommy more than anything in the world. When was the last time you saw her? Did you tell Momom you loved her before you left? What about your dog, Kiara? The one you've had since you were four years old? You cry, and that is all you can do.

Your father came back then, lightly joking how you should've came in because it was so fun. There was carnival style popcorn! There was a dog that was friendly! It was so nice in there, and you had no reason to stay out here! The circles under his eyes disappeared, and the fun daddy was back. You were so happy you forgot all about what happened. You didn't realize how much this moment would really mess your whole head up. You didn't realize that when you were going to get drugs yourself, that your PTSD would kick in and you would feel like you were the little girl again. You didn't realize you would cry about this night a lot.

My mother and I.

First hand, I know how hard addiction is. I have no children, but I had a mother who begged me to get clean. That wasn't enough to get me clean, because the bottom line is you will not get clean until you want to. You know what really slapped me in the face? My mother calling my Momom. The same Momom I cried to in the car that night to save me. I started my maintenance a few days after, and never picked up again.

My whole point is this: How dare you bring a child in the world, and let them suffer. How can you let yourself sleep at night knowing that your child does not know whether or not you're dead? I know first hand how numb that drug makes you, and for three years it almost completely silenced my PTSD. It made me feel normal again. But I also know first hand you still know what you are doing. I know you still lie awake wondering how you can continue to hurt someone. How dare you hurt the only person in the world that loves you more than yourself.

What if you die? You are no longer allowed to be selfish. If you die that child has nothing. That child has no warm hugs from the only person that can kiss away the pains from scrapes and bruises. I have respect for every single addict in this world, besides those who choose to put your child through this.

As a child who has saw their own father in his own vomit, literal seconds away from dying, I beg you not to do this. As a child who did not truly know who her mother was, I beg you not to do this. As someone who would sleep with every letter and present her mother sent her, no matter how uncomfortable, please do not do this. As someone who would beg her grandparents, and they would have no answers as to where they were, please, do not do this.

It is never too late to get help. I beg you to not let your child have an upbringing like mine.

Please. Do not do this.

I proudly would like to put in that my mother has 10 plus years of sobriety, and my father has 3. While they both still struggle, they now have their lives back and have taken control.