Hindsight.

Anonymous life experiences.

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Too easy.

I had been toying around with the idea for about a week, maybe a bit longer. It wasn’t that I wanted to get high, it was that I didn’t want to feel the way I felt. I didn’t want to be uncomfortable. I was fucking tired of it. I wanted to be ok. I knew, of course, that getting high wouldn’t solve that. It never had, not since that first time. After that, it was just chasing that feeling that I would never get again. Nine months without a drink or a drug. Nine fucking months. I hadn’t had nine months in thirteen years. Quite honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted ten months or eleven months or a year. I wasn’t sure I wanted the whole recovery thing with all of its highs and lows and uncertainty. I knew what I would get from getting high; I knew I would get misery and darkness and despair and possible death or jail. What scared me was that I didn’t think I wanted to go on living. I thought of suicide every day. My solution to this was that I would either kill myself or pick up. Between the two, picking up seemed wiser.

It was Friday, and I had gotten off work and was on the first bus of the two I took to get home. The thought of getting high was gnawing at me. I had been fighting it for a while, telling myself that I would get high tomorrow, just not today, that I would wait until I had nine months, and get high after. Well, I had gotten nine months the day before, so now what? Being from New York, I didn’t know anyone in Arizona so, I thought if I looked I could find someone. But I was tired. And then, like a good junkie, I became very resourceful because I wanted what I wanted. I contacted a rehab buddy, who I had a strong feeling wasn’t sober. It was too easy. After some texts asking how each other was, I asked if he was sober. Bingo. The answer, as I suspected, was no. And the next thing I knew I’d found a dealer, because as “luck” would have it, he was dealing. Like I said, too easy. In my experience, things that are that easy are never worth it in the end. I had the option of getting heroin that night but, I put it off until the next day because I figured I could hang out at his place and escape the watchful eyes of the women I lived with in my sober house.

And then, back at the house, I thought about how I didn’t really want this. I didn’t really want to put a needle in my arm. I didn’t want to throw everything away again. I had experienced freedom, real freedom. I knew I could get back there. So I decided against getting high the next day and I went to sleep.  I woke up on Saturday, and I was grateful that I hadn’t picked up but, it was still eating at me. It was under my skin and in my head, lying to me and slowly pulling me in. I asked for help from the universe, burned some sage, talked to my sponsor. I got a very frank response from her when I told her of my musings. If I didn’t take some action in the other direction, I would end up picking up again. She was right, as she often was. So once again, I decided to stay sober. But I was restless, so I thought that I could take the money I’d withdrawn from the bank and buy something useful, go on an adventure and find some incense or some Christmas gifts or something. So I packed my bag, put on some red lipstick, and bought a bus pass and stood at the bus stop. As I listened to Stone Temple Pilots and waited, the text from my rehab buddy asked me if I was still coming to his apartment. How did I respond? With a resounding yes, that I was waiting for my first bus. I know, right? What the fuck? My thoughts exactly.

My higher self was screaming at me to stop, that this was a terrible idea, that I didn’t have to do it. But my body didn’t obey. I got on the bus and when he said he could pick me up at my stop and drive the rest of the way, I said ok. And in the ten minutes I waited for him to arrive, I didn’t tell him not to come. And I got in the car. And I walked to the apartment. And I sat down and paid for heroin. And I asked to borrow a pin. And I washed it out with bleach. And I shot up. And I got high. And I lit a cigarette and walked into the bathroom and fell out. I woke up to rehab buddy on the phone with the paramedics. Shit, not again. I realized I must have overdosed on the toilet because I was now in the hallway outside the bathroom with my panties all bunched up at my knees and my jeans pulled up to my waist. Glamorous.  I told him I was fine and stood up. It was too late, the cops and paramedics were there 30 seconds later. I sat down in the same chair I shot up in and the paramedics took my vitals and checked my blood sugar and heart and cleared me. I couldn’t believe this had happened again, and this time it was from straight heroin, and the first time doing it after a respite. Usually, I at least got a month or so before I did a combination of drugs and overdosed.

The paramedics left and it was time for the cops to ask questions. For some reason, I was crying by this time. It was as if the universe had tried to guide me in the right direction and had to kick me in the ass quick for me to wake the fuck up. I had, after all, asked for help. Usually, female cops are bitches, but this one seemed like she had some pity or sympathy or something for me. She asked where I had gotten the drugs and I told the truth. That’s not something you do. There’s a junkie code. But the program had taught me honesty and I realized I was now closer to that than to the life I once lead, when lying came naturally. I didn’t even think about lying. I just told the truth and eventually, after a few questions as to what made me do it were asked and somewhat answered (I didn’t know why any more than they did), the female cop told me that I should get my things and leave. I was expecting cuffs, so I was a bit paralyzed for a minute, as if it was a joke. And she said that I was an adult, and I could do what I pleased, but that I didn’t belong there. I didn’t belong there? For some reason, that I heard loud and clear. Because I didn’t. I never had. Nobody really does.  I grabbed my backpack and the police escorted me down the hallway and out the door. She grabbed my 6-month keychain and told me to “keep doing this.” I just cried and walked to the bus stop.

I was pretty fucked up still. I don’t know if it appeared that way but, on one of my buses, the girl sitting next to me noticed my keychain and asked me if I was still in the program. I said I was, and then I blurted out that I had just overdosed and I started crying right there on public transportation with people around. I didn’t care. I was too fucked up to care. I needed to say it and I knew I couldn’t tell anyone else. I felt the weight of the world, the weight of everything I’d gained in recovery crushing me. I couldn’t reveal what had happened to anyone. I couldn’t take hope back from my family again. They finally had some peace and I couldn’t destroy that. So this poor woman who happened to be on the same bus got the brunt of my guilt, shame, and remorse. We exchanged numbers and she departed. I wiped the tears from my cheeks and rode home the rest of the way in a daze. Part of me wished I had just died. When I got back to my house, I took a shower and got into my pajamas and curled up in bed, wanting to disappear. Nobody was home so I just zoned out and played games on my laptop while listening to music. I talked to my sponsee briefly, pretending like I was trudging the road to happy destiny or some bullshit, and then climbed back into bed.

I woke up Sunday morning unsure how I felt about being on the earth. I felt like I had been in a fight, and I guess I had. My stomach hurt, my back hurt, my head hurt, my whole fucking life hurt. I’d been defeated before the match even began. Of course, I’d been defeated long ago. When I went to the bathroom upon waking up, I noticed I had a pretty impressive blister on my thigh. I had nodded out while sitting on the toilet and burned right through my jeans and into my flesh. The headphones I’d bough just days prior were now useless because I had used the cord to tie off and now only one side worked. The anxiety set in about how quickly I could be out on the street or in jail. All it would take was a drug test or a knock at the door.  I perused the internet, looking for information on the laws regarding drugs in Arizona.  What I found didn’t exactly serve to ensure that everything would work out just fine. I came across articles by esteemed lawyers and judges that stated that Arizona has some of the most severe penalties in the United States. Apparently, in Arizona a person can be charged with drug possession if a drug test is positive. What the fuck. I decided that perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to cause more anxiety by reading about potential consequences for saying “fuck it” on a Saturday. I just needed 48 to 72 hours before I tested negative on a drug test. Laying low since I got to the sober house assisted in this area. I stayed to myself and played the sick card. In a way, I wasn’t really faking not feeling well. I wasn’t at 100%, not nearly. It wasn’t a stretch to act as though I’d caught a bug from the many people around me who were all sick within the last month.

But the anxiety was overwhelming, suffocating. I was waiting for a knock at the door, that undeniable characteristic knock that all cops must learn in training. They never seem to use doorbells. Maybe they learn that in training too. But every time the doorbell did ring, I froze, listening for the walkie-talkies. I went to work, despite wanting desperately to call out. I faked my way through the next couple days. The drug test never came, and after a couple weeks, I realized the cops weren’t coming either. I was safe. But I knew what had happened. I knew, and that was enough. But I couldn’t get honest. I couldn’t let everyone down. I couldn’t cause immense pain and anxiety for my family anymore. I couldn’t lose my place to live. I couldn’t tell anyone, not even the woman I trusted more than anyone. I was supposed to be a beacon of hope. So I stuffed the secret down so deep that it was crushed into a delusion. I told myself that the overdose didn’t count. I hadn’t gotten high, I had almost died. The woman who did that heroin was not me. It had happened to someone I didn’t know. I made the truth into a lie that I believed because that was the only way I knew how to deal with it, without it choking me to death. It didn’t exist. If I could get a real year, I would come clean. Until then, it would stay buried.

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Priorities: Part III

But it didn’t end there. All of those feelings of worthlessness and guilt and hopelessness and anger came back, along with a healthy dose of terror when, I heard that unmistakable sound of breaks on a police car. I was studying in my room a week later when my ears were filled with that high-pitched squeak. Instant dread. Two cops walked across the grass and into the backyard. My eyes followed them until they disappeared, and when I heard the knocking on the glass door I froze. They knocked a second time, a little more forcefully. And then the voice of my Grandpa traveled up the staircase.

“_______, there are a couple of officers here to see you.” “OK, I’ll be right there!” I immediately ran up to the attic. “Uncle Paul? The police are here for me…I don’t know what to do.”

I followed him down to the kitchen, where the cops stood in the doorway. He asked them if they had a warrant, which they didn’t seem thrilled about, but they let him read it as my hands were cuffed behind my back. I was escorted across the front yard, in front of my new neighbors, to the police car. My uncle and Grandpa followed us to the precinct. On the way there, I asked why I hadn’t simply been arrested the day I overdosed. The answer I got was, “Because you almost flat-lined.” My brilliant response to that was, “Yeah, but I didn’t.”

I was taken before a judge and hot to experience the unique humiliation of my “crimes” being read aloud in detail with Grandpa and Uncle Paul sitting in the plastic chairs a couple rows behind the table I sat at. I was relieved, to say the least, when the bearded man in a black robe said “ROR”. Those three little letters may as well have been a beautiful melody. I was free for now. That was all I needed. The metal  bracelets were removed from my wrists and the monster was released once again. Escaping consequences only fueled the fire. A “scare” was much too little much too late, and in fact, the feeling of getting away with something no longer stopped at being completely ineffective, it now fanned the flames.

As for Louis, well, he had to spend that whole week behind bars. When he was finally released, I gave him a big hug on the sidewalk down the block from Grandma’s house. He hadn’t had a shower the whole time he was in there, so he smelled of B.O. and his hair was stuck to his forehead with grease. This had been all my fault. I felt like his parents would have killed me with their eyes if it was possible. I cried as Louis got in the van with Lydia and Lorenz and drove down Line Street and disappeared around the corner. The guilt became a brick in my throat, and I dragged my feet back to the house, as if each one was in quicksand.

I found out what happened during the blackness when I talked to Louis that night. Apparently, after shooting up, I began falling out and he tried to get me to eat a blueberry muffin, which of course just fell out of my mouth. He slapped my face but, I became unconscious, completely unresponsive. He put me in a cold shower in an attempt to revive me but, I didn’t wake up. He called 911 and a woman staying in the room next door heard him yelling and panicking and came over to help. She felt for a pulse and tried to calm him down while they waited for the paramedics. I was barely breathing and turning blue. When the EMTs arrived, they gave me oxygen, but didn’t immediately give me Narcan. Louis said he was freaking out while they taunted him, saying things like, “I don’t know, should we give her the shot? We don’t really want her puking everywhere…” Eventually, I was given the Narcan shot, which I assume is when I briefly awoke on the stretcher. Louis also said the cops were reading my journal while this was going on, calling us junkies…not like that’s out of character or shocking in any way. To the law, drug addicts are scum.

After I was taken away, Louis went to the parking lot and was about to get in the minivan and drive to the hospital when he was arrested. In the jail, he ended up in a turtle suit, lured by the promise of a bigger cell in a quieter section. His appointed lawyer advised his parents to let him sit in there rather than bail him out, so he got to be dope sick for a week with nothing but Tylenol to take the edge off. That was his punishment for saving my life. @

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Priorities: Part II

Fluorescent light entered my irises. I slowly became aware I was in the ER. I was wearing 2 hospital gowns and my hair was sopping wet, the product I’d used that morning binding the strands together to form a matted, tangled mass on top of my head. It felt as though my entire brain was throbbing inside my skull. As consciousness waned and waxed, figures in yellow scrubs entered and exited the space around me, penetrating my limited awareness with questions regarding insurance, address, and those designed to determine my cognitive ability. I’m not sure how much time passed in that emergency room but, eventually another yellow-clad figure, or perhaps one I’d already interacted with, informed me that a taxi had been called. I was aware enough to realize that this meant I was to grab my plastic bag of soaking wet belongings and skedaddle. I recall quite clearly, shuffling around the parking lot waiting for my ride. It was an unpleasant sight, and for some it was probably frightening.

I’ll paint you a picture. There was a young woman, pale like those hospital gowns, the ones that covered bones threatening to cut through the thin skin that draped over them. She was really more like a little girl, stumbling around that parking lot in the bright white afternoon like it was the darkest night of the year in an impossible labyrinth. And she held that bag like it contained the weight of the entire earth, and that blanket clenched with the other hand was the only insulation from the sun. A cigarette dangled from those fingers, lighting mini wildfires in the synthetic blend, the smell of burning polyester triggering bursts of frantic extinguishing, only for the cycle to repeat and repeat as vacant eyes closed slowly and opened with the speed of a shutter over a camera lens. That was me at that time. I had no idea what was happening or the gravity of the position in which I had put myself.

When the taxi arrived, I just wanted to see Louis and get high, this time without ending up in the back of an ambulance. What I didn’t realize was that Louis was in handcuffs, being processed at the county jail. I was operating under the delusion that I’d be able to resume “business as usual.” So, when I was dropped off at the hotel, I marched up to the front desk and demanded to be let back into “my” room. Little did I know, it had been process by the police and cleaned by housekeeping, and my boyfriend and our drugs were long gone. I said the same thing again and again to the poor receptionist, unable to grasp the concept that I was not welcome there. I sat in the lobby, determined to go to the room to get my “belongings.” In no time at all, there was an ambulance at the entrance and paramedics rushing into the lobby to take me back to the ER. I didn’t understand. I had just been to the hospital, and I told these intruders exactly that. I was hysterically saying, “No, I was just there! No, I’m NOT going back! I don’t need to go back to the hospital! I was JUST FUCKING THERE!”

As I was showering the very people just trying to help with profanities, my Grandma and uncle arrived. I was still under the impression that I was being reasonable and these people were not understanding. Yes, the wild-eyed skinny chic with the Swiss cheese blanket was the sane one! In no uncertain terms, I stated I wasn’t going anywhere. The paramedics threw up their hands in frustration, had me sign an AMA form, and filtered out of the hotel. Grandma, on the other hand, told ME in no uncertain terms that I was going with them. As soon as I protested, attempting another litany of derogatory remarks, she made it know I’d better heed her wishes or I’d find myself in a chokehold. My uncle wasn’t going to stand next to his mother and allow me to show her such sickening disrespect. He looked at me with disgust and told me to “get in the fucking car. NOW.” Looking back on my behavior and playing the tape through, someone possessed by a demon is very much the same. An argument could also be made for a spitting viper.

The ride back up the hill to Grandma’s was laden with tension, without even the sound of clearing one’s throat. As soon as I got to my room, I collapsed on the bed, burrowed underneath the covers, and slept for the next 12 to 14 hours. When I stumbled to the bathroom in the morning, I stared back at a stranger in the mirror; I didn’t recognize myself. At some point during the night, I’d turned into an animal. My reflection resembled me, but was disheveled, with my hair unable to pick a direction, all color drained from my face, a sewer rat. I wanted to dive back below the twisted blankets and sheets and disappear forever, or else just sleep through the rest of the year. The thought of venturing downstairs to face the poor souls who had hoped with all the hearts for a happy ending was nauseating and instantly sent my heart into somersaults. All I could think to do was to convince everyone that this was a minor slip, not a continuation and inevitable consequence of my addiction. No, it wasn’t my disease progressing like I’d been told it would. This had been a hiccup in my recovery.

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Priorities: Part I

2010

I woke up that morning, in the tiny bedroom that was once my Grandma’s sewing room, to some very angry voicemails from Louis. As I slowly came out of my Xanax-induced haze from the night before, dread rose up from the pit of my stomach and spread outward as I realized that my dear boyfriend had arrived in Easton while I slept through my Grandpa’s attempts to wake me. Louis had spent the night at the gas station around the corner fighting for sleep in his minivan. I pushed back the covers and shuffled to the bathroom to empty my bladder and brush my pearly off-whites. Upon returning to my bedside, I noticed my cell phone vibrating underneath the pillows, the sound against the sheets seeming more like a blaring foghorn than a gentle hello.

“Hey…” “Babe, what the FUCK?!” “I know, I’m sor…” “I was at your house and your Grandpa said you were asleep and you wanted to be left alone. I had to sleep in my van at the fucking Turkey Hill!” “I know, Babe. I’m so sorry! I’m coming now.” “Hurry up. You’re lucky I didn’t just go home!” “OK, OK. Babe, I’m coming, I’m coming.” ::click::

I threw the phone back onto the bed, hearing it bounce on the mattress as I grabbed jeans and a shirt from the dresser drawers and nearly tripped over myself trying to pull the denim up to my waist. I stretch my shirt over my racing mind as I jammed my feet into my plaid Nikes I hadn’t bothered to untie before slipping them off prior to entering a disturbed version of dreamland. Now that I’d spent less time on fashion choices than on the phone, I figured I’d left myself enough time to achieve a good Xanax buzz before meeting up with Louis. Diving across the blankets, I snatched a decoy cigarette pack from my purse and removed a green bar from the cellophane, placing it beside a dollar bill on a textbook. Crush, crush, crush. Snort, snort, snort. Out the back door. I walked down the block as fast as I could manage without breaking into a runner’s stride. I wasn’t sure what I was walking into. I knocked on the passenger side window and Louis jumped, looked at me, and unlocked the door. I gingerly slid into the leather seat and said,

“Babe, I’m soooo sorry. I don’t know why nobody woke me up.” “Your Grandpa told me to call you tomorrow….” “I’m sorry…I looove you!” “I love you too. Let’s just go.”

And off we went, down the hill to the hotel, the haziness washing over me as the Xanax dripped down the back of my throat. We checked in at the desk in the lobby and took the elevator to the smoking floor. Louis grabbed some complimentary muffins from the basket near the coffee machine downstairs before heading up. Insert the plastic card in the slot. Green means go. Access granted. I excitedly skipped into the room, like a first grader on her way home from school, and bounced on the edge of the bed as I sat impatiently, waiting for the highlight of my day to be under way. Let the games begin. Before handing me anything at all, Louis specifically asked me if I’d taken any Xanax.

“Of course not! I finished it last night.”

See, I knew that if I admitted my morning…enhancement…he wouldn’t let me do any heroin, and I simply couldn’t let that happen. So I lied to Louis’ face, without a single shred of guilt, confident that I was of sound judgment and “knew my limits.” I insisted I was being truthful, and I took the bags I was given, immediately going to the bathroom sink to fill a complimentary coffee cup with water. I grabbed for everything I needed for my shot like an insatiable monster from a children’s book. Gimme, gimme, gimme. Gimme a pin. Gimme a cotton. Gimme a shoelace, a wire, a belt, anything that will work.

And then life became ever-darkening snapshots. The sound of Louis  saying “Babe!”, again and again. The taste of blueberry muffin. An inability to chew and crumbs falling from my mouth as my tongue no longer seemed to fit right. “BABE!!” And then…black.

The hallway came into view. Two officers were digging through my belongings and flipping through the personal pages of my notebook. Straight ahead, at the end of the corridor, Louis looked frantic as he paced back and forth. I yelled out to him. He threw his hands in the air as if to say, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do.” An outburst of anger, a “fuck you” escaped my throat and hurdled toward the cops still standing in the middle of the room with judgment and ignorance. Dark edges around my eyesight rushed inward as the stretcher I was strapped to began rolling toward the elevators.  

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Never give up.

I have 42 days clean and sober today. After seeing jail, institutions, and nearly death over the last decade, I have been given a gift, a miracle...desperation is an effective catalyst for change. Growth occurs when we walk through pain.

[souvenirsofmistakes]

So you want to be a junkie...

On May 3, 2015 I entered another detox. My habit was up to 30 bags per day, plus coke, not the beverage obviously. On May 7, I was discharged. Within 20 minutes of leaving I was on my way to cop. Since then, I’m back to using every day, back to the same amounts that led me to detox. I’ve been giving blowjobs for drugs, kneeling over the center console of my car to suck the dicks of men who don’t give a fuck about me, who insist I call them Daddy. I’m writing this on my phone because I sold my laptop, the only valuable thing I had left. I rooted around in Louis’ mom’s dresser drawer and took anything made of gold that I could find; I brought these items to my dealer and traded them for drugs, thinking nothing of knowing they would be melted down, never to be the sentimental valuables that were so cherished, that held so much meaning to Lydia. She welcomed me into her home, trusted me to be there alone without locking up anything worth a dime; I repaid her by breaking her heart. Hasn’t this woman lost enough? Hasn’t she suffered enough? Wasn’t it bad enough that in the past 2 years her only son died from his addiction, and her husband died of cancer, without me imposing my addiction on her when she’d already been through hell with Louis? I hate these things I’m doing. I hate this person I’ve become. I want what I once had; I want sobriety, peace of mind, a chance at recovery, at happiness. I had that and I threw it away. Getting back there has proven to be so damn difficult. Instead of putting effort into getting better, I’m wasting energy on getting worse. Why am I bothering to type this and share it with the handful of people here who read what I write? Maybe a few of you, or one of you, or none of you will put on the breaks in time to not go careening off the tracks and into the ditch beside them.

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Sinking...

People always speak of the “yets”, those dreadful deeds that haven’t been checked off the list of desperation just “yet”. I don’t have too many of these left that haven’t changed from “yet” to “been there, done that.”

One line I swore I’d never cross was that which separated me from the world of trading sexual favors for drugs. I wanted to keep a tiny thread of dignity. I would do just about anything else: stealing, manipulating, lying, fraud, panhandling, etc…anything to avoid blowjobs and riding the dicks of strangers. But the way “yets” tend to work is by catching up to you and shoving you in the dirt. Every “yet”‘I check off my list serves to feed my diseased mind, and make other "yets" easier to rationalize. These acts of desperation break my heart. I'm losing myself.

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Update

So, I think it's time to admit to where I'm at, a confession if you will. Unfortunately, I first tried heroin 8 years ago, and I haven't yet managed to put together more than 6 months. Currently, I'm at a point where I can no longer keep up with my habit. I've worked my way up to bundle shots, and in addition, I've discovered the world of shooting crack. My arms are a mess, bruised and lumpy from missed shots. Addiction is in no way glamorous. I seriously considered becoming an escort, because the amount of money that can be earned is huge. I figured that it wouldn't be so bad, give some blowjobs, collect money, get high, repeat. But I do know that I'm sinking..I'm losing the battle. Once again, Queen Addiction keeps her title as champion. And I'm so afraid. I'm afraid to keep going but, afraid to stop.

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Lower and lower...

I'm scaring myself. How much further down can I go? I'm destroying myself and I don't know how to stop it. Life is beautiful, and I'm wasting it. I'm beyond human aid once again. Heaven help me.

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Either everything is illusion, nature as well as revelation, or experience alone can explain faith.

Mettrie, Julien Offray de la. Man a Machine. 1748

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Again: Part IV

Antidepressants and mood stabilizers and opiate addiction medications aside, Quannacut gave me breathing room, a time-out so to speak, from the chaos that had become my life. The drugs I was prescribed could take up hours of writing just by themselves. I would instead like to shift your attention to the program and people themselves. While I had stayed at many rehabilitation centers and participated in many outpatient programs, this was the first full 28-day treatment that I completed. My other stays were cut short by one of the following: a) my own brilliant idea to jump ship, b) my insurance’s unwillingness to cover more than a couple of weeks, or c) my error in judgment in following the “rules are meant to be broken” mantra. There were numerous times when my desire to get the fuck out of Quannacut almost led to doing so; Some days this occurred several times before I’d even made it to lunch. But for some reason I stayed. I suspect that I had finally been beaten severely enough, and I simply didn’t have the energy to pack my shit and go on another run. I was flat on my back and my opponent was standing over my body, fists raised and declaring victory. This sounds negative; It seems as though I just couldn’t hack it and I would be dragged back to my corner to feel the full weight of defeat. But I would discover that I had only lost the fight; I had to surrender my title, but I would be given the chance to claim a new one.

Now, I had always tried to convince myself that I didn’t need anyone else. I wanted to believe that I was an island, when in reality I needed other people. All of those years of pushing people away and  walking around like I didn’t care for anyone else’s company, were leading me to finally realize that while I was trying to hurt others before they could hurt me, to reject “them” for fear that I would be rejected, I was really only hurting myself. I will most likely never be the type of person who loves everyone and will talk to anyone and makes friends easily, but I’ve gotten better at communicating with those who have my welfare in mind, and who I, in turn, care for and about. Not all people are such a chore to be around. Not everyone thinks that I am nothing and nobody. Not everyone wants to hurt me. I’d been living in this world of isolation, of self-inflicted loneliness. No, I wasn’t the captain of Quannacut; I wasn’t that person who was loved by the entire population, who made a joke and everyone laughed; But I was liked by some, and even that handful of other humans made that 28 days a little more tolerable; Having people who cared that I was alive, people outside of my family who I always felt had an obligation to at least try to like me, helped me to begin picking up the shards of my existence and begin making some sense of the war zone around me.

I didn’t hear anything in ELIH that I hadn’t heard in South Oaks or Keystone or Marworth or Seafield or any of the other rehabs. It was the same script, the same storyline for the most part, with different faces. The counselors didn’t lead me to any great breakthroughs; There was no insight into addiction that I hadn’t already discovered from the constant whirling thoughts and ideas in my mind. There were no group activities or topics of discussion that resulted in me walking away with a sense of awe. No, none of the treatment tactics used were groundbreaking. That’s not what makes someone walk away from a program and feel their life had changed. The different faces, this is the factor that changes the equation. Whatever great force is at work up there, and inside of us, and all around us, works through people. We are vessels that, through contact with one another, exchange contents and create a constantly changing reality.

My best buddy in Quannacut was Joe. We had been on this journey together from the beginning. I entered detox the day after he did, and now we found ourselves in the same rehab. Joe was extroverted, an outgoing, outspoken person, indeed my opposite in those aspects of personality. We related on the basis of interests, and of course on the particular drug that brought us to our knees. I had hoped that Stacy, my roommate from detox, would come over to rehab with us, but she was adamant about leaving after detox. I tried to stress that most of the time, going to detox and being discharged to an outpatient program without rehab in between was unsuccessful, not because inpatient programs kept anyone clean, but because living the dope lifestyle for years and having only other addicts for support on the outside wasn’t the best formula for staying clean. Being in an inpatient program allowed for time away, as well as networking opportunities, both through counselors and the meetings that were brought in from the outside. But, if a person doesn’t have their own best interest at heart, usually someone else can’t make the healthiest decision for them. I wanted her to stay because I knew what she was returning home to, and I was afraid that she would end up where my boyfriend, Louis, ended up. He wasn’t coming back, and I didn’t want her to be another casualty.

Joe and I ate our meals with a morbidly obese man named Rick. At each of the tables in the common room, there were four chairs, and so a group of up to five people, who most of the time hung out together, was stationed at each table. Joe and I had moved from our previous table due to a desire to no longer be subjected to the absurd behavior of a large, and quite gross, black girl named Twanda or Teneesha or Tanya or something stereotypically African and beginning with a T. She acted like a savage; This is probably the best word I can think of to sum her up. I hesitate to even call her a person or a woman, because these typically describe a human being. Am I being harsh? I really don’t think so. Her hygiene and etiquette were both severely lacking, and “polite” was a word missing from her vocabulary. Her default setting was intimidating and yelling at people and forcing her will upon everyone else. I got a kick out of the fact that Joe refused to let her dictate what he could and could not do. Within a couple of days, he was elected the leader of the unit, removing her from the position. When Twaneeshanya lost the election, she, of course, pulled the race card, claiming that she lost the vote because she was black; This was slightly disappointing because it was just so typical. I, and I’m sure the rest of the patients, relished in her defeat. In the end, she was “Therapeutically Discharged” due to her behavior.

Anyway, Rick was a pathological liar; He claimed to have toured with Motley Crue and Guns and Roses, and told everyone he had millions of dollars, two houses, boats, cars, the whole nine. He was also apparently an artist and musician. In reality, he was on food stamps and lived with his mother in Shirley, and he couldn’t play a note or draw a straight line…Ok, that’s not entirely true. He could draw a straight line. It was sad, really, besides being irritating. Of course, any time someone tried to call him on his shit, presenting clear proof of his lies, he became a big, fat man-sized child throwing a hissy fit, hurling empty threats and other nonsense. I felt so bad for his roommate, Dave, because Rick’s physique made him prone to sounding like a large boar while sleeping, leaving the poor guy staring at the ceiling all night and nodding off over his meal trays the next day. Rick sat with Joe and I, simply because he was there before us; We wanted to sit together and his table had three empty chairs. As time wore on in Quannacut, Rick became increasingly more flirtatious towards me, uncomfortably so by the time I was discharged, as witnessed by an inappropriate hug that lasted far too long by my standards of duration surrounding creepy occurrences.

That reminds me…remember that man Harold from detox? During my stay in the rehab, he tried to call and visit me several times. I wasn’t threatened by him in a way that made me feel I was in any physical danger; I was creeped out, a bit thrown off, a bit unsettled. I don’t believe that he wanted to harm me, but I wondered what it was that he did want. After all, I had only spoken to the man, for more than a minute anyway, perhaps once while over in detox. What did he want from me? Was he just a nice gentleman offering company and support? Or was he an emotionally disturbed man who would become my own personal stalker upon my exit from ELIH? Oh, such fun we can have when we pack our bags and go to rehab! What an adventure awaits! 

For the time being, I couldn’t concern myself with Harold. I had something being given to me, a gift, in becoming close with my buddy Joe. I believe he was put in my life at the perfect time, when I was receptive to belief and willing to take action. Joe would provide something simple, but effective. I was to begin my day by 1) thanking the Universe, or God, or the Great Beyond, for waking me up that day, and 2) asking this power, this force, to keep me clean/sober and remove the obsession and compulsion to drink/use. I was to end my day by simply thanking this same power for another day alive and clean/sober. While this is simple, it’s also very strange for someone who isn’t accustomed to it. I had grown up going to church and sunday school, but never because I wanted to. The older I got, the more resistant I was to attending mass and believing in God. So, of course it felt odd to talk to some unknown force, some creator who I couldn’t see, hear, or touch. But practicing this every morning and night gradually became easier and began to make a cumulative difference. In addition, Joe and I read from the AA text - the Big Book, as it is known - on our free time. All of a sudden I was reading about myself in the form of a business man living in the 1930s.

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Great minds.

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Life. Question.

Life life life. Life is: unfair, beautiful, tragic, short, long, complex, strange, meaningful, meaningless, chaotic, miraculous, brutal. Death. Death is all of these things. Dark. Light. What have I learned? What do I have yet to learn?

A woman loses her only child. That same woman loses her husband. Both are lost in a time span of less than two years. Unfair. Tragic. Brutal. What have I learned? What has she learned? What do we have yet to learn?

Do we really know anything? Is our knowledge ever complete? Do we only think we’ve experienced life? Do we only think we know of death, simply from seeing it before our eyes?

Are we alive? Have we lived? Love is boundless. Hate is binding. Heartache is punishing. Time is infinite. Death makes us feel life. Death tells us to live. Two eyes closed open hundreds more.

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Again: Part III

Quannacut was set up in the following way: The nurses' station was connected to the detox unit and the rehab, so that one could walk from one unit to the other. There was a large main room where we ate our meals, had community meetings, and hung out between activities. The walls were painted  pastel yellow, with a paper tree on the wall opposite the cabinets that held snacks - granola bars, popcorn, pretzels, crackers, and a variety of fruit. There was a refrigerator with juice, milk, jello, and ice cream, as well as a coffee station with a microwave next to the bathrooms. The bathrooms included showers - one women's, one men's, and a coed - and were in the middle of the long wall, across from a row of wooden tables and chairs. Essentially, it was a rectangular room, longer than it was wide. The bedrooms were all along the main room walls, with a few extra rooms in the hallway near the nurses' station. When walking down this hallway, straight ahead was a beautiful mural, a scene representing the four seasons, winter to autumn from left to right. At first, I didn't pay it much attention, but as my time there wore on, boredom caused me to walk around between activities, and eventually stop to notice the detail in the painting, and the time it must have taken for the anonymous artist to complete such a piece. 

My first two weeks were spent huddled underneath various sweaters in the same chair at the same table in that main room. There was also a room off of the common room in the back corner where we were permitted to watch TV at designated hours. The counselors' offices were offshoots from the yellow-walled cage that, with each passing day, threatened my sanity; I was assigned to a female counselor with black brillo hair and either a strain of color-blindness or simply an inability to match clothing when assembling an outfit. This didn't make her a bad person, or a bad counselor; That said, she was a less than decent therapist, and this had nothing to do with her lack of fashion sense. I'm sounding quite shallow, aren't I? I have nothing against anyone who lacks style, as long as the person is kind-hearted with good intentions. I don't judge others based on appearance, but rather, on character and actions. My impression of her was not a result of the neon green stockings paired with a turquoise patterned frock and black clogs; I personally felt that the time spent with her discussing my afflictions and setting up aftercare did nothing to improve my state of mind or bolster my feelings about my future. 

Perhaps this was due to an overload of appointments with psychiatrists and therapists, medication cocktails, treatment programs, and NA, AA, and CA meetings. Perhaps all of the advice and opinions and suggestions over the years had left me jaded. I felt as though there was nothing that I could be told that I hadn't heard before. I began to wish that I had gained no insight at all, or that I was oblivious to any knowledge about my condition, or that I was new to the world of rehabs and psychotherapy. I wanted all of this information to be brand new. If only I had listened back when I was a newbie. If only I could sit down with this woman and receive everything she was saying with virgin ears; Maybe then, I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss her capabilities, and maybe then, my opinion of her would be different. Who knows, maybe I would sing her praises! That's the problem with this disease, or one of the many problems: Self-knowledge does NOTHING to assist in our recovery. Shit, if more information and awareness were the solution, there never would have been a problem.

After two weeks of deep depression, I decided to give Suboxone maintenance a shot (excuse the pun). I had been resisting this option, for fear that I would simply be entering into another addiction, beginning another relationship with a substance that I would end up needing just to function. But I couldn't stand the misery anymore; I couldn't handle waking up in the morning and having to muster up all of the motivation I had deep in the recesses of my soul just to get out of bed. So I was awoken at 6AM with the other patients on maintenance and stood in line for my dose, an orange rectangular strip that tasted like I imagined bug spray would. It melted underneath my tongue and filled my mouth with chemical saliva. There were certain advantages to waking up before the other patients; I didn't have to wait for the shower, and I got to use the one in the coed bathroom, which had superior water pressure to the one in the women's bathroom. We had first dibs on a fresh pot of hot coffee, and the coffee was caffeinated, unlike the lukewarm, brown-colored impostor the cafeteria included on the breakfast trays. We watched "My Name is Earl" in the TV room while we waited for the other patients to be woken up at 8AM and stand in line for coffee while the metal food cart was rolled into the common room. The handful of us awake before the rest of the population could ease into the morning and have two hours of blissful quiet time before the mayhem began. 

Once I started Suboxone maintenance, my depression lifted somewhat, I wasn't shivering despite wearing heavy sweaters anymore, my appetite improved, and getting out of bed in the morning was no longer mission impossible. I'm not saying that Suboxone is the cure for junk addiction by any means, but it certainly took the edge off of the suffering. I had struggled with the decision for so long because I didn't want to take the easy way out, but I also realized that I wasn't getting anything out of being there because I was finding it difficult just to manage daily tasks, let alone pay attention to lectures, complete assignments, or participate in activities. Once the mental fog was lifted, I could do more than just exist, more than just eke by every day before collapsing into bed at night, exhausted from the daily mind fuck.

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Again: Part II

In addition to actually being sick and tired, I enjoyed the privilege of wearing one of those sad, thin cotton gowns that make even healthy people look ill. The aid and I took the elevator up to the third floor and through a set of double doors. There was a long hallway with rooms on either side and a nurse's station in the foreground where I was dropped off to be evaluated. I sat next to one of the desks behind the dutch door, the kind that allows the top and bottom halves to open separately. An older woman with blonde hair, cat eye glasses, and floral scrubs asked me a series of questions to determine my level of withdrawal. After my duffel bag was searched, I was taken to my room, where I flopped down onto my bed and began to get dressed. I didn't want to walk around in that hospital gown; Detox is far from a fashion show, but I wanted to maintain some level of dignity. I was told that the doctor needed to confirm my dosage of Suboxone and other medications prescribed to take the edge off of withdrawal hell. All I could do was assume the fetal position and hope that the doctor's confirmation came sooner rather than later. Not long after I arrived, a tray of food was placed on the table at the foot of my bed. Opening the plastic cover released the smell of caesar chicken salad, which immediately triggered my gag reflex. Eating just wasn't on the agenda in that moment.  

I will briefly introduce the other patients on the ward. My roommate, Stacy, had hair that was dyed a shade of mahogany red and worn in a ponytail. She was quite busty, and wore tight shirts and those yoga-type pants with words like "juicy" and "love" written across the ass. I must admit, I definitely judged her by her appearance; She reminded me of those girls in high school who all the guys wanted and who wanted nothing to do with me. However, once I talked to her I realized more similarities between us than I thought were possible. I discovered that she had a three-year-old daughter, and was in a relationship with an abusive boyfriend that she felt unable to escape. Stacy was close with Erin and Joe. Erin, I really didn't care for. She always seemed to have an attitude and she created drama and chaos that was completely unnecessary. It seemed that Joe was into Stacy, and that Erin was into Joe. However, Joe wasn't opposed to hooking up with Erin. As the days went by, Joe and I became close friends, minus anything physical. He was tall, with dark hair cut close to his scalp, and a face with Romanesque features. He was cocky, walked around like he owned the place, but I didn't get the impression that he was malicious in any way. There was also an older black man named Harold. The poor guy was spent, worn down from so many years of drinking and drug use; He was nearly incontinent and had tremors constantly. I felt bad for him; It was sad to watch. Then there was a woman in her 40s named Sharon, an alcoholic. I didn't often see her outside of her room, but her door was usually open and she could be seen reading in bed.

The medication and vitals schedule was odd; We were woken up at midnight, only two hours after lights out, for blood pressure, temperature, and pulse, and given our round of medication. Try going back to sleep after that. I suppose at least we were given mild sedatives to assist us. For me, this was a bit of a nuisance, but nothing compared to my stay back in 2007 for anorexia. Every hour was checks; An aid opened your door and shined a flashlight on you and your roommate, so all night your sleep was being interrupted. Waking up once in the middle of the night is a piece of cake when I think about it that way. What I remember from my stay in detox is limited;  I recall being passed out in the day room and waking up to a huge therapy dog laying at my feet, with the other patients petting him and the plump woman who brought him talking to the counselors; I remember having lengthy conversations with Joe and writing poems on my free time; Snack time was like feeding goats at the zoo, clawing at each other for the graham crackers and ice cream. In trying to determine where I would be going for 28 days of rehab, I was told by my counselor, an outspoken black man who was an addict himself, that I wasn't approved to enter the program there in the hospital; I was going to be sent to a halfway house while I waited for a bed to open up at CK Post. I had heard only negative things about that program, and I wanted no part of it. Somehow, the director of the ELIH rehab got wind of my situation and double-checked my insurance. Someone was looking out for me, because suddenly I was approved for a full 28-day stay in Quannacut, the program right across the hall from the detox.

I had to stay in detox for an extra day, because I I became sick, not dope sick, but actually ill with some sort of virus. I suppose that's what happens when you fuck up your immune system with an 8 year dope habit. After puking my guts up all day and night, I shoved everything I'd brought with me back into the duffel bag and was escorted over to Quannacut. My roommate and I had the same name, which was more amusing to everyone than it actually was. I guess people get a kick out of coincidences like that. I, on the other hand, didn't really think sharing a name was cause for excitement. She was a pill addict, and she never shut up. She would call her asshole boyfriend, and then tell me the same story every time she got off of the phone, telling me how he was abusive and how he lied to her all the time, how she didn't know what to do; Of course, I would then give her the same advice I would give anyone in her situation, to end the relationship, to leave and never look back. But as these conversations always went, the result was that which would have happened if I had said nothing. She wouldn't change her circumstances because someone else told her to; She needed to figure out what she wanted and what she would put up with, and take action herself. At first, I felt bad for her, but after hearing the same tune time and time again with no effort on her part to take control of her life, I began to lose patience and I stopped offering advice that I knew would not be taken.

[souvenirsofmistakes]

Again: Part I

Summer 2013

Tuesday, one week and two days after Louis died. I was broken, spiritually bankrupt as they say, and I suspected I couldn't be much lower by my standards. There was an hour and fifteen minute drive ahead, to Greenport where another rehab awaited my arrival. Displaying withdrawal symptoms was an actual requirement; Admission depended on how sick I was, or at least how sick I appeared to the doctors in the emergency room. After all, limited availability meant severity mattered. So, stripped of my price and manhandled once again by my addictions, I put my duffel bag in the back seat of my mother's car and buckled myself into the passenger seat; We set out for the North Fork early in the afternoon, approaching twenty four hours since my last shot of heroin.

Thankfully, and surprisingly, my mom was understanding rather than dismissive. The ride would surely have been nearly impossible to handle if she gave me the cold shoulder the whole time. I'd taken those rides and they weren't happy additions to the memory bank. Along the way I felt Louis with me; I noticed several establishments that included Duffy, the name of Louis' dog, in their name; I saw this as Louis' way of telling me I was going the right way, and doing the right thing. As we drove along the North Fork I couldn't help but think it such a shame that the beauty of the area would go unappreciated, at least for the time being. Really, the east end of this island I live on is stunning, with its pine tree forests, beaches, wildlife, views of the ocean, and of course the Montauk Point lighthouse. Greenport is no exception; It’s a beautiful seaside town with quaint little shops and a carousel.

The hospital was located on the water, with views of the fishing boats and yachts. Fortunately, the emergency room was far from busy. I signed in at the desk and sat next to my mom in the narrow waiting area with its turquoise vinyl seats. My legs were moving involuntarily and my palms were sweaty as I filled out the usual thick packet of paperwork asking everything from allergies to previous treatment programs to familial diseases, and of course, insurance information. No insurance means no admittance, no matter what medical establishments claim. After completing said paperwork, I was lead back to triage for evaluation. The triage nurse was a young blonde woman with kind eyes and a warm smile. I sat next to her desk as she took my vitals. By some miracle, when she checked my insurance, the Medicaid application I had filled out only a week ago had been approved. Perhaps I had some help from the spirit world. I like to think this to be true.

A second nurse, a thin black woman with braids in her hair, lead me to a bed and instructed me to undress and wear the hospital gown she handed me as she closed the curtain around my little temporary section of the ER. I placed my clothing and shoes in the plastic laundry bag that came with the gown and curled up on the hospital bed, freezing and sweating at the same time. The nurse came back with a blood draw kit; She tied the tourniquet around my upper arm and palpated the veins on the inside of my arm opposite the elbow. The spot that I always used had built up scar tissue from so many times shooting up, but it was the only working vein the poor woman could find. I was amazed that she actually listened to me when I told her none of the others worked. Usually the phlebotomist wants to figure this out for themselves, when really it makes more sense to listen to the junkie because they are the most familiar with the map of veins in their own body. After all, we junkies have to find working veins every goddamn wonderful day.

So blood was drawn, vitals were recorded, urinalysis was conducted, and I lay there in that hospital bed defeated.My skin was pale, with self-inflicted holes in my skin that I had been ripping open over and over; I was thin, with no visible muscle, but rather, wasting away. The doctor, a middle-aged man with a slightly receding hairline and light blue eyes entered through the curtain, reading my intake information attached to the clipboard. He asked me how I was feeling, and I simply state that my entire body hurt. He told me that there was very limited availability in the inpatient substance abuse program, but that he would do his best to get me admitted. My mom sat with me, and I tried to lighten up the mood with my witty comments, hoping she would crack a smile.

Eventually the doctor came back through the curtain divider and propped himself up on the counter to deliver good news. By some stroke of luck, or perhaps not luck at all, I had been accepted to the program. An aid instructed me to sit in the wheelchair he was pushing and put the plastic bag with my belongings on my lap. I said goodbye to my mom and off we went, destination: detox. I'd been through this routine so many times that it actually became comforting. But, even so, detox was worse each consecutive time I went through it. My body was sick and tired; I had abused it so much over the years that each time I relapsed, bouncing back took longer.

[souvenirsofmistakes]

A friendly reminder...

We are loved; We are worthy; We live in the light of the spirit; We deserve acceptance and refuse to settle for less than fully experiencing all that life offers - good and bad - for without struggle there could not be growth, or the joy that comes from surviving the sorrow.