Yesterday my sister came to pick me up and we headed down to the methadone clinic for my weekly urine test. I've aquired five days worth of carries so far, no small feat for someone with such a long history of drug use. I hadn't been out for awhile and the spring air against my skin was a much needed comfort, actually feeling it not short of a miracle. It was nice to see the nurses again. It always amazes me how quickly and easily I bond with people especially after being in hibernation for so long, especially after having had come face to face with the ugly nature of human behaviour in the last few years. I am not the shyest of people and I could tell that others respond to me positively. I am not fooled by their laughter, however, not for even a second for I have learned not to trust. For a moment I feel normal and not like some sort of misfit trying to navigate through life with the least amount of discomfort possible. But discomfort is putting it mildly: I truly think that there are some of us that are too sensitive to deal with the world, whether this comes from childhood trauma or observing and ultimately refusing to deal with the cruelties of life or a combination of a number of things. I've asked myself a number of times before who wouldn't take drugs to escape if only for awhile? Attempting to make sense of everything is truly a taxing task, especially if you don't have the proper emotional "equipment" to deal with life's ups and downs.
After finishing up at the clinic, my sister drove me back home and I fell asleep at around 4:30 with a pounding headache. I never thought in a million years that I would deal with a migraine by taking a nap, no painkillers involved. Then again, any excuse to pop pills would have done back then, never mind a valid reason. I don't know if this is due to my anemia or the fact that I am allowing myself to rest after experiencing a number of traumatic events these past few years but I find that for every day that I have an energetic, productive day, I need two days to pretty much sleep. I do not allow myself to feel guilty, especially since I've talked to my doctor about this and finding out that this is normal for a person who is recovering plus getting used to the methadone. For once--and this has been nothing short of a miracle--my mother is being understanding and supportive. I guess it had to come to me almost dying for her to finally step up, and step up she did. I will forever be grateful for her being there for me and I forgive her for everything. I just want to feel free and light and go on with my life and hopefully live up to my potential.
I rarely get any cravings these days and the methadone seems to be working wonders with my sleep and keeping my moods stable. I was under the impression that time would go by slowly without drugs but the opposite seems to be true. Ocassionally, I wonder how much fun it would be to snort a line or two while I write on the computer or watch TV, but then I think about the bitterness dripping down my throat, the pounding of my heart which at times resembled panic and the inevitable insomnia for which I would need a downer. The more drugs you do, the more you need. What comes up must come down. The phone calls, the chasing, the guilt, the rush, having to scrounge money together, running out, and then having to do it all over again. Personally, I am a lazy addict that's why it worked so well for me to work at a strip club: the tips were there, the dealers feet away, my room upstairs ready for me to crash. There was no going to dangerous neighbourhoods, hustling with strangers, putting myself in harm's way even more. Being an addict is full time work, especially when you cross over to the hard stuff. I would need to go "searching" for a dealer, I would need cash. The whole viscious cycle would start all over again and the end result would be the same, but much worse this time. It always gets worse. Why would I want to end up helpless and sick, weak from vomitting, regretful about the past, confused about the present, and having to rethink the future ALL OVER AGAIN? But that's what addicts are: gluttons for punishment just to experience that perfect moment of being far, far away in a world where you don't hurt, in a land where anything is possible and your dreams are not so far beyond your reach.
A few times, it had passed through my mind to sneak a swig from the next day's methadone drink, which I keep in my bedroom, always within reach along with the other bottles filled with methadone and Tang and my prescription of Clonazepam from which I am slowly weaning under the doctor's supervision. Fortunately, the urge leaves me quickly and I am wise and experienced enough to know that one swig would surely lead to another the next time until one day I would be left with nothing but withdrawal and endless prayers for the next day to arrive quickly so that I could go to the drugstore to pick up my drinks. No matter how lonely I feel on a Saturday night, I resist. I even consider putting my carries in the fridge, farther away from reach but I know damn well that if I wanted to do it, nothing would stop me.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Regression
Every day seems to be the same: I wake up in my childhood bed after a night of strange dreams and then I spend the rest of the day watching TV , playing around on the computer, and talking on the phone. I try to avoid going out because I just would rather hide from the world and I look forward for evening to come so that I can go back to sleep and I don't have to think about anything. I am thankful that at least I could sleep through the night and don't have to wake up and pop whatever pills I happen to have on me. Even back then my sleep was short but at least it was deep, like I had died for a bit, forever never having to face the world again. I am such a dreamer at heart and nothing could have prepared me for the realities of life. I blame others for fucking me up but an important part of recovery is looking at how you've contributed to your own demise which for someone as stubborn as me is tough because to admit this is to have to take action and work through all the wreckage and somehow figure out a way to change. And that is terrifying because I would much rather crawl into bed, anemic and exhausted, slightly woozy after taking my methadone and fall in and out of sweet consciousness all day, breaking only to check out what is going on in the celebrity world of Perez Hilton.
But alas, there comes a time where the iron pills have finally kicked in and your energy is back, the methadone is working to stave off your opiate and benzo cravings and your mind is able to put your thoughts into some sort of order. This is when it gets scary: I'm 42 years old, living with my mom in the suburbs and undergoing methadone maintenance treatment. Seems surreal that only six months ago I was in rehab. Two weeks prior to graduation I took off with a guy there. I was 40 but looked younger than most 29 year olds and certainly played it up. I caused problems in the rehab by flirting and doing what I knew best: feeding my ego by attracting males. Everything fell apart two weeks later when the guy I was with robbed a Domo to feed his crack addiction and I was left in a scummy hotel without protection, my disability money already spent. So I got a job in a strip club and spent the next five months feeding my fragile ego, popping pills and and acquiring a 150 dollar a day cocaine habit. I was the classiest waitress there and refused from the beginning to do private shows in the back, even though I absolutely adored to be asked.
The owners put me on the payroll because I refused to sell private dances and I decided to take a room there as well. The room they rented me used to be where they stayed. It featured a mini-fridge and plush carpeting. The bed was huge with a luxurious mattress and above it was a black and white framed poster of Marilyn Moroe. I secretly called it my little call girl room. The owners were strange from the start. They also had a habit of getting pissed out of their faces and spying on the staff through cameras they had at home but at least they got to observe my work ethic first hand.
But it wasn't by accident that I got a job there. My fragile ego coupled with my unconscious desire to have easy access to drugs was certainly at work. Gone were the days where over the counter codeine mixed with benzos and gravol would cloak me in a soft blanket of sweet oblivion. No, I needed something more potent now and the money to buy it and what better place than a strip club?
I got hired on the spot and started making a load of cash, no hustling involved. My seduction was quiet, sexuality brimming barely below the surface. I was old enough to know exactly what I was doing and I knew that the guys loved it: hard-to-get but flirty, I'd spoil them with quick service, a touch on the shoulder, and leaning in a bit too close when putting their drinks down. I knew that men loved sweet smelling perfume as much as females found it offensive. I doused myself in marshmallow scented body spray every hour on the hour. The fact that I was thin with boobs, had smooth, young skin and blonde hair didn't hurt either. I looked different than the rest of the girls with my almost black eyes and Meditteranean lips, far from the white trash variety of girls the guys were used to at the club. I hid my desperation expertly as it gave me an edge on the other girls who mistakenly thought that acting like a porn star is attractive. I figured that at 41 this was going to be my last hurrah, the last time I would be able to compete with the younger girls and boy did I ever give them a run for their money: there is nothing more gratifying for a needy ego than having a twenty year old hating you because a customer is paying more attention to me than her.
But alas, that bubble had to burst, as all things without any substance do. Soon, I was spending all of my tips on coke. Soon, once I got one line up my nose, my addictive brain took over and I needed more and more. I would be running up and down in my room or into the public bathroom instead of doing my job. If it looked like I wasn't going home without any tips (or not even making my float money in order to pay back the bar at the end of the night) I would attempt to find a drunk and high guy (not the most difficult of tasks in there) and ask him for "some". Most would happily oblige. But I knew I couldn't go back a second time, I didn't want to obligate myself to anyone . Soon, I got the rep as being just another "cokehead" at the bar and inevitably, I got fired.
But alas, there comes a time where the iron pills have finally kicked in and your energy is back, the methadone is working to stave off your opiate and benzo cravings and your mind is able to put your thoughts into some sort of order. This is when it gets scary: I'm 42 years old, living with my mom in the suburbs and undergoing methadone maintenance treatment. Seems surreal that only six months ago I was in rehab. Two weeks prior to graduation I took off with a guy there. I was 40 but looked younger than most 29 year olds and certainly played it up. I caused problems in the rehab by flirting and doing what I knew best: feeding my ego by attracting males. Everything fell apart two weeks later when the guy I was with robbed a Domo to feed his crack addiction and I was left in a scummy hotel without protection, my disability money already spent. So I got a job in a strip club and spent the next five months feeding my fragile ego, popping pills and and acquiring a 150 dollar a day cocaine habit. I was the classiest waitress there and refused from the beginning to do private shows in the back, even though I absolutely adored to be asked.
The owners put me on the payroll because I refused to sell private dances and I decided to take a room there as well. The room they rented me used to be where they stayed. It featured a mini-fridge and plush carpeting. The bed was huge with a luxurious mattress and above it was a black and white framed poster of Marilyn Moroe. I secretly called it my little call girl room. The owners were strange from the start. They also had a habit of getting pissed out of their faces and spying on the staff through cameras they had at home but at least they got to observe my work ethic first hand.
But it wasn't by accident that I got a job there. My fragile ego coupled with my unconscious desire to have easy access to drugs was certainly at work. Gone were the days where over the counter codeine mixed with benzos and gravol would cloak me in a soft blanket of sweet oblivion. No, I needed something more potent now and the money to buy it and what better place than a strip club?
I got hired on the spot and started making a load of cash, no hustling involved. My seduction was quiet, sexuality brimming barely below the surface. I was old enough to know exactly what I was doing and I knew that the guys loved it: hard-to-get but flirty, I'd spoil them with quick service, a touch on the shoulder, and leaning in a bit too close when putting their drinks down. I knew that men loved sweet smelling perfume as much as females found it offensive. I doused myself in marshmallow scented body spray every hour on the hour. The fact that I was thin with boobs, had smooth, young skin and blonde hair didn't hurt either. I looked different than the rest of the girls with my almost black eyes and Meditteranean lips, far from the white trash variety of girls the guys were used to at the club. I hid my desperation expertly as it gave me an edge on the other girls who mistakenly thought that acting like a porn star is attractive. I figured that at 41 this was going to be my last hurrah, the last time I would be able to compete with the younger girls and boy did I ever give them a run for their money: there is nothing more gratifying for a needy ego than having a twenty year old hating you because a customer is paying more attention to me than her.
But alas, that bubble had to burst, as all things without any substance do. Soon, I was spending all of my tips on coke. Soon, once I got one line up my nose, my addictive brain took over and I needed more and more. I would be running up and down in my room or into the public bathroom instead of doing my job. If it looked like I wasn't going home without any tips (or not even making my float money in order to pay back the bar at the end of the night) I would attempt to find a drunk and high guy (not the most difficult of tasks in there) and ask him for "some". Most would happily oblige. But I knew I couldn't go back a second time, I didn't want to obligate myself to anyone . Soon, I got the rep as being just another "cokehead" at the bar and inevitably, I got fired.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Health Sciences Detox
"I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being." (source unknown)
After having spent two weeks in detox, I found the above quote scribbled on a piece of paper in one of my bags when I got home. Of course, I broke out in tears because I couldn't believe that someone cared enough to write this and slip it into my bag. I kinda had an idea who it was but that was not the point. I felt deeply touched and vowed to look at it every morning when I awoke. Why? To remind myself that I exist, that I am actually human because many times I have this deep sense of depersonalization, that I am just not "there" and that is when I have to look in the mirror and peer at my reflection, to make certain that I do, indeed share space with every one else in the universe and that we all breathe the same air. I reckon that after being told so many times in your life that you are useless, a burden, a dirty creature that doesn't deserve to live, you start to wonder if you are actually visible, even to yourself. You begin to question your very existence, your sanity.
I love going to the hospital to detox. I adore the welcoming little sections with curtains for doors, like little cocoons ready to accept those of us who have felt rejection one too many times elsewhere. I love the way the nurses never refuse requests for more meds (unless, of course, you are over the limit and in danger of ODing), meds that will more than ensure a good night's sleep and a comfortably numb day. I like all the different people who happen to share the same disease and their willingness to share their stories for anyone who is interested in listening. I like the way the staff structures our days, little mini-breaks from the routine of sleeping, eating (blech!), and med dosing. AA or crocheting anyone? What about some finger painting? I feel so pampered when the nurse asks me to come over to the nurse's station to have my blood pressure taken and my pupils checked in order to determine how well I am doing. The best is when the doctor comes to visit you personally first thing in the morning and devotes some time to you. I get excited when they increase your dose of benzos and methadone when you convince them that you are suffering more than you really are. Yes, drug withdrawal is a bitch but succeeding in convincing a doctor to overmedicate you for the first few days makes things so much better. What do you expect from an addict,anyway, presumably one who has crashed and and is forced to get off the rollercoaster or die--what's a few more days of floating on a cloud?
Detox always makes me feel like a kid in summer camp with everyone sharing and trying to outdo one another with their "war stories" and playing Scrabble until bedtime. I wish I could stay forever but inevitably the day comes when you are drinking your no-name peach juice and asking the nurses for something to "take away the nausea" and you are called into the doctor's office, told how great you've done and that it's time to go in a few days. Go where? It's such a scary world out there but you vow that things will turn out differently this time: you'll find a job you really like, you'll find the perfect boyfriend. Never again will you come across people who try to drag you down and if you do, you will never allow them to succeed. The short time between detox and going home is a time of hope, hope that this will be the last time that you'll ever have to start all over again.
After having spent two weeks in detox, I found the above quote scribbled on a piece of paper in one of my bags when I got home. Of course, I broke out in tears because I couldn't believe that someone cared enough to write this and slip it into my bag. I kinda had an idea who it was but that was not the point. I felt deeply touched and vowed to look at it every morning when I awoke. Why? To remind myself that I exist, that I am actually human because many times I have this deep sense of depersonalization, that I am just not "there" and that is when I have to look in the mirror and peer at my reflection, to make certain that I do, indeed share space with every one else in the universe and that we all breathe the same air. I reckon that after being told so many times in your life that you are useless, a burden, a dirty creature that doesn't deserve to live, you start to wonder if you are actually visible, even to yourself. You begin to question your very existence, your sanity.
I love going to the hospital to detox. I adore the welcoming little sections with curtains for doors, like little cocoons ready to accept those of us who have felt rejection one too many times elsewhere. I love the way the nurses never refuse requests for more meds (unless, of course, you are over the limit and in danger of ODing), meds that will more than ensure a good night's sleep and a comfortably numb day. I like all the different people who happen to share the same disease and their willingness to share their stories for anyone who is interested in listening. I like the way the staff structures our days, little mini-breaks from the routine of sleeping, eating (blech!), and med dosing. AA or crocheting anyone? What about some finger painting? I feel so pampered when the nurse asks me to come over to the nurse's station to have my blood pressure taken and my pupils checked in order to determine how well I am doing. The best is when the doctor comes to visit you personally first thing in the morning and devotes some time to you. I get excited when they increase your dose of benzos and methadone when you convince them that you are suffering more than you really are. Yes, drug withdrawal is a bitch but succeeding in convincing a doctor to overmedicate you for the first few days makes things so much better. What do you expect from an addict,anyway, presumably one who has crashed and and is forced to get off the rollercoaster or die--what's a few more days of floating on a cloud?
Detox always makes me feel like a kid in summer camp with everyone sharing and trying to outdo one another with their "war stories" and playing Scrabble until bedtime. I wish I could stay forever but inevitably the day comes when you are drinking your no-name peach juice and asking the nurses for something to "take away the nausea" and you are called into the doctor's office, told how great you've done and that it's time to go in a few days. Go where? It's such a scary world out there but you vow that things will turn out differently this time: you'll find a job you really like, you'll find the perfect boyfriend. Never again will you come across people who try to drag you down and if you do, you will never allow them to succeed. The short time between detox and going home is a time of hope, hope that this will be the last time that you'll ever have to start all over again.
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