Meth Wreaks Havoc on Lives of Young Mothers and Their Kids

March 3, 2006 — -- Kristi Stirens knew she always wanted to be a mom, but she never expected to be an unmarried mom living in a tiny bedroom in a rehab clinic. Kristi says she wanted to have a baby with somebody she loved, and if that wasn't possible, then at least she wanted to be with her family.

"The last place you want to be is in rehab," Kristi says. But that's where her son, Christopher, was born 6 weeks ago.

It wasn't supposed to be this way for the 33-year-old, who was raised by parents she describes as strict, with middle-class values. Kristi went to high school in upscale Orange County, Calif. After graduating, she tried methamphetamine, or crystal meth, for fun and because she was told it would give her an extra boost of energy. "It was like having 10 cups of coffee and not having the jitters," Kristi says.

But crystal meth is highly addictive, and Kristi says it was extremely easy to get. "It was like a guy offering to buy me a drink at the bar. That's how common it was."

After a decade hooked on meth, Kristi became pregnant three years ago. Knowing she was in no condition to raise a baby, she gave him up for adoption; she says it was the hardest decision she ever had to make.

"Every day, I tell myself that was a selfless things to do," she sobs. "It wasn't selfish, it was selfless. I wanted to give him every opportunity he deserved, and where I was in my life, I couldn't give that to him."

Losing her baby didn't make Kristi quit. She hadn't hit rock bottom yet. Last year, Kristi got pregnant again while still using. At first, she tried to hide her pregnancy because she says, "I was humiliated and ashamed. I didn't want people to know that I was pregnant and using."

She offers no excuses, only regret. "You don't intend on becoming pregnant. You don't intend on being an addict," Kristi says. "You think to yourself every day, 'How weak am I?' But that's the power of addiction, and it'll take me a long time to forgive myself for that, and I don't know if I ever will."

Women Finding Common Ground

Kristi didn't want to give up another baby so she decided to get help. With the support of her parents, she moved into a treatment center located in a quiet suburb in Southern California for an intensive 90-day rehabilitation program. It's called A Woman's Place -- a clinic for women and their children. She says the time had come to step up to the plate. "If you're going to become a mother, you're going to have to take that responsibility," she says.

Most of the 30 women at the clinic are addicted to crystal meth. Some of their children were born addicted to the drug as well. A Woman's Place provides a safe haven for women to share their embarrassment and shame over allowing a drug to take over their lives. There's a communal atmosphere at the clinic -- the women cook for one another and take turns watching one another's kids.

One pregnant mother, Belan Sanchez, tells her therapy group that she knew it was wrong to keep shooting the drug while pregnant. "The addiction was so powerful," she says. "Every time I put that needle in my arm, I couldn't stop. I know that I could be killing my kid but it didn't matter because it was so strong."

The women find common ground in their reasons for taking the drug in the first place. "It helped me lose weight. I didn't want my husband to think I was fat," one of them says. "It makes you feel like Superwoman. You can do anything," says another.

Researchers say mothers are more likely to seek treatment and stay with the program if they can keep their children with them.

"She is going to have a better chance of getting clean and sober," says Toni Wallace, a researcher at Harbor-UCLA Medical Center. "You're going to have a child who is going to attach to that mother and is going to be more likely to not follow in her footsteps as we see the generational happenings now."

Crystal meth use is at an all-time high among women. Craig Lambden, the executive director of A Woman's Place, says his two decades in the recovery business taught him that men and women addicted to meth must be treated differently. "The research demonstrated women need this kind of service. It's respectful to their child care needs. That's what needs to happen," Lambden says.

But there are not enough clinics to treat women. A Woman's Place has a 10-week waiting list. Despite the need, the clinic is in constant danger of losing government funding, which would force it to close its doors. Lambden warns of the impact of not treating meth addiction.

"You're going to pay now or you're going to pay later," he says. "Research shows that for every dollar spent in treatment, $7 is saved to the taxpayers, and that's a tremendous investment."

Tracking Down Moms and Kids

And crystal meth has become the drug of choice in places you'd least expect it -- the suburbs. On palm tree-lined streets in California's Riverside Country, for instance, where the average home costs almost half a million dollars, crystal meth use has reached epidemic proportions.

One of the soldiers in the street war on crystal meth is narcotics Detective Brandi Swan, with the Riverside County Sheriff's Department. On any given day, her team will seize 5 1/2 pounds of the drug in a single traffic stop. "I've never seen anything like it in my 10 years at the department," Swan says.

With so many addicted mothers, Swan has a new responsibility -- protecting the children. She heads the child endangerment program, and in many cases, her job is to take these kids away from their meth-addicted moms. She travels in a caravan of police vehicles and, with a case worker from child protective services, roams the streets of Riverside County.

The night we joined her, her team had received a tip that two children could be in danger, a 2-year-old and a 1-year-old. Swan and her team find the home, but the 21-year-old mother is gone -- kicked out by her parents. Her mother tells Swan, "She was a 4.0 student. But she lost everything when she began doing meth."

The mother hands over a small plastic package of meth she says she found in her daughter's purse. The police test it and discover it is indeed the drug. Now Swan is more determined than ever to find this mother, and more important, her children. She learns they're in Temecula, a town 40 miles away.

During the drive, Swan explains the philosophy that keeps her going every day. "Since I have had my own child, the hardest thing I've had to do is to take somebody out of a mother's arms and put them into protective custody," she says. "But when I leave and I go home, and I look at my child, and I think, you're in a safe place. Then reality sets in again, and I say, 'OK, you made the right decision.'"

When they arrive at the home in Temecula, the children are playing in the garage and their mother is nearby. After Swan pats her down, she begins interviewing her. "When was the last time you used?" she asks.

The young mother says it was three weeks ago. So Swan tells her she's going to test her. "One last time," Swan says. "Are you going to be clean?"

Swan's initial assessment is that the mother is clean and this night will have a happy ending. But one of the other officers searches the mother's car and finds traces of methamphetamine -- enough to arrest her and put the children in protective custody.

When asked if she felt she was winning the war against crystal meth, Swan said, "No, I don't know that we ever will. This is an ugly drug that is reaching an all-time high of users. The unfortunate victims in all of this are the children, and that just devastates me."

Swan may have little sympathy for the mothers who expose their children to crystal meth but says she has to continue to hold out hope that, with help, they can kick this destructive habit.

Kristi Stirens, who had her baby in rehab, is one of those mothers trying to make a fresh start. "I'm very afraid people are going to judge me," she says. "It scares me every day to think of what tomorrow brings. But I'm just clean for today, and I can handle that."

One day at a time, goals are met. The new mother and son will move out of the clinic and into a halfway house next week.