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.