Crushed Not Cursed

Written By: S. Tuttle

Most of the stories I share involve a lot of people. Some who were only around for a moment, and others who have been in my life for years. A few helped shape me in big ways without even realizing it. But no matter where the story goes, there are always two women who come up again and again. Two women who made me who I am.

One of those women is my mom – Crystal. Some people knew her as Chris, or Sis, but to me, she was just “Mom.”

And if you really want to understand who I am, you’ve got to understand who she was. There’s a whole story that came before the addiction, the mental illness, and the loss. There was life. So, I want to share a little bit of her story – the version most people never got to see.

Crystal Renee Tuttle-Saylor was born in 1982 to Teresa Tuttle and Steve Fuston. Her life, in a lot of ways, mirrors mine, our lives compared are the evidence of generational curses. Her parents weren’t ready to raise a child. They weren’t capable in the ways they needed to be. And just like in my story, Granny stepped in. Yep, the same Granny who raised me also raised my mom. That woman was a backbone in more than one generation of our family.

Growing up, Mom had a pretty normal-ish childhood; at least, as normal as things could be in our family. But things changed fast. At just 13, she got pregnant. It’s wild to think about now… 13 – but in our family, sadly, that kind of thing wasn’t so shocking. Her mom had done the same. Granny had too. Even Granny’s mom before her. Four generations at least of girls having babies before they were even old enough to drive.

At 14 and a half, she gave birth to me.

Of course, she loved me. I don’t doubt that. But she was still a child herself. And eventually, it became clear she just couldn’t do it alone. So once again, Granny stepped in; this time to raise me.

Mom went on to have two more kids before she was 18. Three kids under her belt and barely out of her teenage years. That’s heavy. But somehow, for a while, she kept her head above water. She had a wild side, sure, but she wasn’t using drugs. Not yet. If drugs never entered the picture, we could’ve made it work. I really believe that.

But everything changed at 21. She started trying some things, just here and there… But, that was all it took. Addiction, already running deep in our family tree, grabbed hold of her and didn’t let go. From that point forward, she spent her life chasing the next high.

Life with her was a constant rollercoaster. There were times she was fully present – fun, beautiful, proud to be our mom. I remember thinking how cool it was to have the youngest, most pretty mom. But then things would flip. She’d disappear for days, weeks, sometimes months. And when she came back, it wasn’t always the version of her that left.

Eventually, she got involved in gang life. Her mental health started spiraling too. She was diagnosed with both bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. That combination? It’s incredibly rare, and incredibly hard to live with. Some days she’d be full of life and love. Other days, it was like she didn’t even know who she was.

Still, even with all that going on, part of her still wanted to be a good mom. She’d go without for herself just to buy us something special. She tried so hard in her own way to show up, even when her mind was working against her. I know now she wasn’t trying to hurt us; she was just trying to survive.

But the survival tactics sometimes made things worse. She’d do things to get us what we needed, and then later in a fit of rage, tell us exactly what she had to do to get it. It was hard. Really hard. Imagine trying to eat Thanksgiving dinner after your mom tells you how many men she laid with to buy it… And yet… we loved her. Through all the chaos, we loved her. And I know she loved us, even if she didn’t always know how to show it.

The part I cling to the most is when she got clean. She had about two solid years sober, and during that time, we got to see the real her. The mom who brought my wife flowers. The grandma who made an effort with my son. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And it gave us hope.

I wish I could say that’s how it ended. But it didn’t.

Life got hard again, and she relapsed. This time was different, deeper, darker. She lost custody of my baby sister again. She kept falling. And then one day, the call came. The one I’d been dreading but always expecting.

She was gone.

I know it makes some people uncomfortable when I say she “lost her battle.” But that’s what it was. Addiction is a disease, and my mom fought it for 30 years. Every single day. Some days she won. Some days she didn’t. But she never stopped being human. Never stopped being our mom. I find peace in knowing she’s no longer struggling. Even as an addict, she was a believer, and I know we serve a merciful God – I don’t know what her last moments looked like, but I find hope in the belief that if she called on His name, he forgave her and we will see her again. 

Despite all the pain, I’m thankful for her. For the good memories. For the strength I learned watching her fight. Even for the things I had to unlearn later on – because they made me who I am. They say there is a reason for everything. Her mistakes made me present for my kids; that’s reason enough for me. 

If you’re reading this and you’re struggling with addiction, I just want to say this: you can still make it out. Just because my mom lost her battle, doesn’t mean you have to. And if you can’t do it for yourself yet, do it for your kids. Because I promise you – there’s nothing they want more than you. Sober. Safe. Home.

I did. I still do.