The Journey to Rock Bottom
Its 3 am and like always, around this time of year, I find my self struggling to do much of anything. Even writing this is a struggle, I'm not sure I can win.
I'm sorry to my loved ones reading this. I'm sorry for the pain and hurt this post might cause. Just know that nothing, NOTHING, you did caused me to be the way I was, and that everything you did, helped me become the person I am today.
You see this is the anniversary of the rock bottom.
I'm talking real, scary, not sure if I would make it out alive. rock bottom.
I'm talking passing out on the bathroom floor, virtually unresponsive, of a funeral home, rock bottom. True, honest to god, I didnt care if I lived or died rock bottom.
5 years ago this week I had the worst thing happen to me. The thing that pushed me over the edge.
At this point the Ex and I had been in active addiction for quite some time. Neither of us were working, and it was getting harder and harder to support our addiction. Our dealer had his claws in us, as did the Dope, so we did whatever we could. I went sick, while he got the hookup. The Ex always was more willing to do things for drugs than I was. Dont get me wrong, one of our friends felt bad for me and would help me out when he could. It was living hell and alot of times J was the only reason I wasn't sick.
5 years ago to the day, as I type this, we were sitting at J's house, all three of us dope sick as fuck, waiting on his dealer to get back from Kensington. We left him borrow our car in exchange for drugs. I mean gotta do what we gotta do right. Dude was gone for like 6 hours. The Ex was so sick from withdrawl, he couldn't even stand. He was so sick he was on the verge of calling his mom. We had been going on days of just barely getting enough to keep us from being sick. It was taking its toll.
Finally.... Finally J broke out the last bag he had, and a suboxone. "Just to take the edge off." He offered to share everything he had, to hold us over until The Dealer got back. He split the bag, a line for each of us, and a shot for him, and cut the Suboxone in to three parts.
The Ex and I were still snorting.
Snorting is all I ever did. At least I had that going for me. ANYWAYS.
I did my line, wrapped the little orange strip in some plastic wrap and prayed to feel even just a little bit better. The Ex, well he was a true junkie, an all or nothing kind of guy. We all knew the dangers of mixing dope and suboxone, we knew precipitated withdrawals were a thing. He even said " I'm gonna be sick as fuck later" But he didn't care, he had the means to feel better and he took it. All at once. All or nothing.
The Dealer finally got back, with no drugs, no money, and a lot of pissed of people. Claimed he got ripped off, and well in the drug game anything is possible. The Ex and I took the car and went back home. We had a few people in town that we could score from and we needed to do something. But first thing was first. This was the first time in a few days either of us felt normal, and sleep was much needed.
I woke up to hell. For those of you who don't know what a precipitated withdrawal is, it is a severe reaction to taking a opioid blocker (such as suboxone) too soon in to the withdrawal process. Since The Ex took them within such a short time span, he woke up sicker than he had been in days. I found him laying in the tub, shaking uncontrollably, vomit, cold sweats, chest pains. We tried to ride it out. He took he last piece of Sub I had, and a few Xanax, I as able to get from another addict. To this day I don't know if he passed out from the withdrawal, the combination of drugs, or was just down enough to sleep. But sleep he did. I occasionally checked on him, and he seemed fine. Thursday passed in a blur and Friday came. Friday was worse, if it could get worse. He actually begged me to call his Mom. His Mom who hated me, blamed me for his addiction, blamed me for enabling him. I simply had no choice. She had me rush him to the hospital, and met us there.
The next few hours were a blur of yelling, screaming, tears, doctors, phone calls, social workers. I was starting to withdrawal myself a this point and just wanted to go home. I was scared, and alone. I got myself into this mess and decided then and there I was going to get myself out of it.
The social worker was able to get him into an inpatiet rehab facility but he had to go right away. While his Mom dealt with the paperwork, I was giving a very specific list of things to go home and pack for him.
On the way home I called J. I was alone for the first time in my active addiction and I was terrified. We talked for the whole car ride back to my apartment. I decided then that If the Ex was getting clean so was I. J was out of Suboxone, but he had a few Percocets he was willing to give me if I swung by. Sure why the hell not. I mean I had some time to kill before I could even meet them at the rehab and its better than the Dope. Plus I was ready to try but I wasn't ready to deal with The Mom, and checking The Ex in to rehab sober. I went to sign the Ex into rehab, on a Friday night, with an handful of Percs in my pocket.
What a shit show. What a train wreck. And it only got worse. I remember thinking that this had to be it, rock bottom. Ha. Rock bottom was not where I thought it was.
My mom knew The Ex was using, and she may have had an idea I was but I'm not entirely sure. I called her and checked in, told her what was going on with him, and his Mom. I don't even really remember it. I just remember telling her how scared I was, about him going to rehab, about being alone in my apartment. She was in the hospital herself but told me to call my brother and they would figure out a way to get him down to me.
I was broke, with no gas in the car, no money to do anything and I was exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted. Between the lack of sleep, all the driving, the stress, and emotional toll, I was running on fumes. I put on some music, broke out a Perk, and went to sleep. Tomorrow was another day.
A day that I'm not ready to write about.