Stay Gold, Ponyboy

I’m lying in my bed at with a billion different thoughts running through my mind. First, why the hell do I have to listen to my housemate’s stupid TV blaring “Family Guy” at 2AM? Why is she so thoughtless? Why can’t she do her chores on time? Why can’t she buy the correct carbon monoxide detectors after I printed out the right ones and then, when she forgot to take the printouts with her, texted her the models? How can they still not be the plug-in ones and why did she spend a billion dollars too much? And how the hell am I going to get out of work on time tomorrow as we’re packing up to move and I have to get to treatment by 5:45PM to UA or it’s a probation violation? What about the plumber coming for the stinking, leaking toilet downstairs and whether the landlord is coming, too, which means are the stupid carbon monoxide detectors up and visible? And what about those 200+ pages of “Ulysses” I need to finish by 2PM Saturday? Huh, when?

I can tell you a few things that aren’t running through my mind: can I make it until the pharmacy opens to pick up another forged prescription? Will I get arrested this time? Will my parents bail me out? Will I go to prison? Will my family speak to me ever again? Will I have another seizure in front of my mom or my 14-year-old niece from drug withdrawal? Will my husband divorce me? (Ha! Can only do it once!)

Nope, nope, nope. Buckets full of nope crashing into a sea of nope. That’s what is not going through my head. My life is SRSLY golden. I am excruciatingly lucky to live in a house in the Alberta Arts District, one of the most fun neighborhoods in Portland. It’s a great house filled with strong, beautiful women all struggling, successfully, with the same disease I do: addiction. Every day I get to look at myself with wise eyes and decide if I’m making the right choices in all things, not just regarding whether to use. Whether I’m being honest with myself and others, whether I’m being responsible, whether I’m being a perfectionist, whether I’m a good, trustworthy employee, whether I can hold dear to the once 14-year-old who is now a 17-year-old and make living amends for the terror I must have put her (and my mommy) through. Whether I’m capable of being an open, loving, honest partner to the man I love. All those things are choices and require thought and vigilance, constant vigilance.

Today is one year clean for me. I can’t believe I just got to experience a loud, barky Thanksgiving with all my favorite Garcias (sans one) when I am not sure whether I was even invited last year. I know last Fall, my brother couldn’t bear to be in the same room with me, could not look at me without disgust. Now, he picks me up nearly every Saturday to go to our “Ulysses” Book Club where I get to marvel at how smart I actually am and gain confidence that I can trust my brain a little more each day. That while it does lie to me about my ability to use drugs, I can tame those thoughts and keep them at bay with consistent attention to doing the right things, for the right reasons.



I get to have a wonderful, supportive relationship with my second cousin and revel in the joy her family brings me. Her delightful kids have never seen me using and awful. They just think of me as goofy Wendy who takes them to OMSI and teaches them to say, "See you tamale!"

I get to experience an intimate, loving relationship with someone I respect and adore and also want to kick sometimes. But that’s okay. ‘Cuz I get to laugh with him more than ever. There is no one I trust more. I get to be a strong, powerful woman. I get to be a goofball. I get to be an employee that people trust and can count on. I get to be the co-worker that makes things a little easier by being positive and trying to lift people up. By always trying to be better, accepting constructive criticism and being willing to do things differently. By not being an asshole. Though I can still be an asshole. Now I can apologize and actually mean it.

I understand I’ll never completely have this under control. One of my housemates described her addiction perfectly: “It’s like a pet. I know it will be with me forever and I’ll always have to take care of it. But now I feed it differently.” Like with honesty, acceptance, willingness, love, ownership, thoughtfulness and constant vigilance.

Insanely Golden

Insanely Golden

Kids! Dudes! Ladies and Germs! I have been so bad about writing this blog. You know why? Because I’ve been living my life! Sober, happy, golden. La vida es muy bueno. Biggest problem today? My earbuds hurt my ears. #firstworldproblems

So, let’s catch up. My last post I wrote from my tiny, little basement room in an Oxford House* in Portland. The night I moved in, I cried. I cried because my room was so shabby and small. And it made me realize that my drug abuse had led me to smaller and smaller spaces, both physically and emotionally. I went from living in a three-story house with the man I love and had loved for years to a small, yet still beautiful apartment to the basement of kinda run-down house in NE Portland. And guess what? I love this house!

When I moved in, I was anxious I wouldn’t fit in or be accepted. I didn’t know the other women. I didn’t know the boyfriend of one of the women. I hadn’t lived with strangers since dorm life. (And, well, jail.) And, at first, I stayed in my room a lot, listening to others talk, live life and laugh. I wanted them to be quiet and let me be miserable, Goddamn it. But one sunny day, a housemate asked what I was doing which was walking to a thrift store. (‘Cuz I’ve been spray painting shit gold for years.) She invited herself and her two kids along and we had a great time. The next weekend I helped the kids build a fort. She invited me to eat with them. And it’s been a ball ever since.

I got out of myself and my own discomfort. I made friends. I dealt with weird behavior from a housemate that we had to evict. We had another housemate whom we’re convinced was using from the beginning but she moved after only month. We had someone relapse out which means immediate eviction. I watched a much-loved housemate face a crisis, deal with it and move out with all four of her kids. Beautiful. I changed rooms to an upstairs room with the biggest window across the wall where every morning I get to feel the breeze and hear the chickens next door. (Because, after all, this is Portland.) My room is the prettiest room in the house and I am unwilling to give it up.

I get to spend time with people I love. My oldest brother is still a bit distant but I can only do what I can do. I have developed a truly wonderful friendship with my second cousin whom I didn’t get to know until recently. I adore her and her family. I see my niece and her two moms and get invited to stuff and laugh! Imagine that. Yesterday, I had lunch with my mom, cousin and her two kids and two nieces and my nephew. And I’ll remember it forever.

And then there’s Hattie. My housemate, who makes me laugh all day long. We cut roses together. We, literally, tell each other all the time how awesome we are. Because we’re doing this life thing without chemicals. Trying, every day, to live it with honesty and integrity. To learn and grow and not react emotionally. I got to crawl in bed with her yesterday morning and watch (the worst!) bad TV in a gorgeous antique bed with the most beautiful, high thread-count sheets that were clean and crisp and pink and flowery. We honestly laid there marveling at how much our lives have changed.

The beauty of living in this house is the responsibility I feel to my house, to my housemates and friends, to Hattie’s children, to my family, to myself. I know I’ve been happy in my life but it feels like this is the happiest ever. Not to say it’s all peaches and cream; I was ready to stab someone when the temperatures hit 90° and stayed there. (I’ve got a very narrow comfort zone.)And Hattie actually left before my arrival the other day as she knew I would be hangry when I got home. (But she left me a cup of tea and a protein shake!) I messed up and missed a drug test at my treatment center. If that’s the worst thing that happens to me, I can deal. Because it’s still better than where I’ve been.

 

And, for all the people who care and support me, the most beautiful song in the world:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZRuYQ9KRJms

*Further info on Oxford House:

http://www.oxfordhouse.org/userfiles/file/

Bottom Bitch

Jail makes you mean. You get really tired of people asking for your food as soon as you sit down to eat. People will borrow your shampoo and then give it to everyone else. They will take advantage of you every chance they get, except your friends. And I did make friends in jail. Some really good women who were there usually because of addiction. At first, you pay attention to every new woman who comes in. After awhile, so many people come and go you could care less whom is there. You have your peeps, they have your back and everyone else is gravy. I was an anomaly in jail: a middle-class, educated, Caucasian woman. Nearly every other woman there was a woman of color. And I certainly didn’t run into any women of means. But I suppose that’s another issue. I would like to tell you about some of the women who saved my sanity if not my life while in jail.

When I first was placed in jail, I was so emotionally distraught, I could not believe people could even smile or laugh while there. It took about two weeks and the spirit of a young woman named Kyla to make me laugh for the first time. She was my cellmate for only four days but she made the stay seem possible. Kyla was physically beautiful: dark red hair, fair skin, lovely smile. Very clever and funny. She had been arrested because her and her partner had gotten into a physical altercation with a young woman but had various other offenses. She was a heroin addict so was going through withdrawal but handled even that with grace and acceptance. We talked nearly the entire time we were locked in our cell together which is a lot of hours. She told me about how her partner was physically abusive and how they robbed tricks to make money for drugs. Her deepest sadness was her son, living with her mother, as she couldn’t take care of him. She so obviously loved him and was so proud of him when she overheard him ask for “two pieces of pepper”’. We laughed about the fact that we were so bored in our cell, we would simply try to pee to break up the monotony. We were in hysterics one night while talking about another woman there who had a prosthetic foot. The guards had refused to give her the foot. When Kyla asked her about it, the woman had said she didn’t understand why she couldn’t have it as she hadn’t “used it as a weapon since 1997”. The worst part was she was okayed to have a pair of street shoes while in jail. And they let her have both shoes and no foot.

I was transferred to RJC and left Kyla at the downtown jail. About three days later, Kyla was transferred to RJC along with two other women. Kyla introduced me to Maria, whom I was not sure about at first. She became my greatest friend, protector and all-around goofball. Kyla and Maria were connected in a terrible way. Kyla’s abusive partner had also beaten and raped Maria one night when Kyla was away. Maria was a heroin addict as well but was on methadone. Unfortunately, she was arrested on a Friday which meant she probably wouldn’t get her methadone until Monday. Maria had once jumped off the second tier of the downtown jail and broke her back as she was going through heroin withdrawals so badly. She was a force in itself.

 

Kyla was transferred out the following day but Maria and I ended up eating together and talking. She was tiny and goofy and clever. She would dance and laugh and make jokes about people. There was an annoying woman who constantly asked for food as well as pointed out how soon she would be leaving. I told her if she said it one more time, I would stab her. Maria said, “You’ve just made the nicest person in here mad.” and I knew I liked her. (Maria would also be the one to later say, when someone woke me up, “You’re really nice, until you’re not.”) Maria kept me sane and kept me calm. She also kept me laughing which is so helpful. She referred to me as her “Bottom Bitch” which I thought was an insult. Actually, it means you’re tops of all the bitches. Go figure.

Jennifer was another of my favorites. When she first arrived at RJC, she kept to herself. She would go outside to the courtyard and walk around and around in an endless loop. She didn’t speak to anyone. She was very pretty with a beautiful smile and a certain innocence to her. She had a tattoo on each earlobe that I later found out she had done herself. Maria began speaking to her and she soon joined our little group of misfit toys. She was a crack addict and had struggled for years with that demon. Her children lived with her mother as well. I believe she had a Bachelor’s Degree from WWU. 

Jennifer introduced us to Nykia, who was only at RJC for a week or so. Jennifer and Nykia had been at RJC together previously and had been in a relationship. Nykia knew what was up. She was funny, smart as a whip with street smarts to match. She knew the guards and took liberties with them I could not imagine. But, man, did I laugh while she was there. She also could talk to anyone as well as spot whoever came into the jail “holding” drugs. I don’t know how she did it, but she always knew. She had us laughing at one of the tables one evening and we got sent out to the courtyard for being too loud. (Truly, one of the only times I got into trouble and if that’s the worst thing I did in jail, so be it.) She stood at the window, looking at the guard, signaling. “Five minutes, Botay?” for the entire thirty minutes. We were hysterical, all of us.

There were a couple of times I lost my temper and each time my girls had my back. They may have teased me about it later but they were right there. The first time was when I kind of lost it on a woman I considered to be a bit of a sexual predator. I simply got tired of watching her take advantage of other women and brag about it. We were all in the courtyard; walking, talking, laughing, flirting. I don’t know what set me off but before I could stop myself, I was in the woman’s face, yelling at her. The girls told me later they all looked at each other, incredulous I was the one yelling. But then they were right there behind me. While I was never in any real danger, it honestly feels good to know you have back-up. They teased me incessantly afterwards about how they felt badly they had made me so mean and “street”. The only other time I lost my temper was when someone cut in front of us for the microwave. Yeah, we had a microwave, vending machines and, seriously, a (bad) cappuccino machine in jail.

Of anyone, Maria always had my back. She worked in the laundry and brought me back new items of clothing as well as the much-desired soft, V-neck uniform tops. She shared everything she had with me and me with her. If one of us ran out of conditioner, the other hustled some up. We pooled our commissary and made nachos and “dope fiend” cookies which are a combo of cookies, candy bar and the marshmallow from cream pies, all melted together in the microwave. I can still see her dancing in the courtyard. We pinky swore we wouldn’t use drugs again once we were out. We both failed that promise.

I heard recently from Maria, after much searching. I am very happy to be in touch with her and hope one day she can find some peace in this world. She’s a good soul, an old soul, a damaged soul. And while my day wasn’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination, I hope one day she can have a day like I had today: sober, happy to be sober, walking around in a city in high heels feeling just a little bit sassy and a little bit more like my authentic self. Bottom bitch indeed.

You're Covered in Ruins

How much pain can one person feel? And I don’t write this for your pity as I fully realize I’ve put myself in this position. But when one literally cannot see through their own tears, there has to be a stopping point, yes? Of course, perhaps, I shouldn’t be listening to sad music on repeat.

It’s been such a great, safe time with my parents. I had worked overtime on trying to stay in Portland, mainly to not inconvenience my parents too much as I have to back and forth to Portland but for some selfish ones as well. I was scared to ride home from Portland to The Dalles alone with my dad without the buffer of my mom, mainly because I was afraid of his anger. Turns out we’ve actually had a lot of fun and laughter along with open conversation. But one cruel offhand remark from my dad has put me in a tailspin of excruciating pain. And that doesn’t even come close to describing it. (And that was just the first comment; there have been many more, some crueler still.)

The trouble with early sobriety is you’re sober. So you have to feel things without the masking effects of drugs or alcohol. And then you have to deal with all the wreckage you’ve made of your life. That can include any number of things: legal, personal, familial, financial. You seriously want to either hide for the next six months or grab something to alter your mind. But you can’t. Because each time you use is worse, the lowers lower than imaginable. The AA Big Book describes it as “incomprehensible demoralization” and that is accurate.

So what did I do? I cried for about forty minutes, filled the trash can with tissue. Then I did a couple of things differently. First, I called someone I had just met the night before from a Twelve-Step program and asked her to meet to talk with me. (Uncomfortable!) I told my mom I needed to go out. When she asked why I was so upset, I told her it didn’t matter, mainly so she wouldn’t feel badly. (Okay, so I’m codependent as well.) But then a light bulb went off in my brain-damaged little head. It really doesn’t matter why I’m upset or why I’m feeling something unpleasant. What matters is how I handle it and what I do with it. This world is going to upset me and make me feel unpleasant, perhaps every day for awhile. Deal with it like a normal, healthy person does. This means without the masking effects of drugs. Wow, insight.

This doesn’t mean it’s easy. My contentious history with my dad goes back many, many years. At this point, I can’t see it changing. All I can do is adjust how I react to him and to others in this world. Maybe I used to know this but somehow forgot it over the years. For now, it’s foremost in my mind.

Again, comments encouraged. They mean so much to me. I have received awesome support. I would also encourage everyone to watch “Anonymous People” which inspired me to share these difficult things with all those I love. I am working on the post to try and describe some of the women I met while going through this process but it’s so hard to capture their humor and raw humanness. They saved my life, emotionally, many, many times. I want the description to truly suit them and their unique character. Thank you all for reading these emotionally exposing posts.

Early Sobriety

What is early sobriety like? It’s rainbows and unicorns and soft kittens and sweet pug puppies that love you for days. It’s being scared and anxious all the time. It’s fingernails on a chalkboard for what feels like hours at a time. It’s the choice between sliding down a hundred foot razor blade and fighting Russell Crow as the “Gladiator” It’s emotions so deep and painful that, even though you begin to feel a little better physically, you just want to use again to get away from yourself. But you can never get away from yourself. And your brain, that won’t stop thinking of what it could be like, telling you, in your own voice, it won’t be so bad this time. (Or you won’t get arrested.) Your brain that lies to you and is always there, ready with another reason to use just one more time. And that’s just the first hour or so. And there are many hours, in many days. And, sometimes, it’s many seconds, in many minutes in those hours. That anyone can remain sober in those first, painful months is a miracle.

I’ve had a couple of bad days so this may come off negative. I got scammed by a total lying stranger. (Not badly but it made me feel like the entire human race sucks.)  My best friend has (very treatable) cancer. I read the news which depresses me. And I listen to people share things in meetings that are sometimes so heartbreaking I want to cry. I passed a guy a note today as he looked so sad. They say addicts feel too much which might be true. I feel empathy for everyone’s story. But when we’re in our addiction, we are selfish, thoughtless, irresponsible human beings.

One of the harder parts is life goes on for everyone else. My brothers who, aren’t speaking to me, are doing so much. I want to ask, “How was the wedding?” “How did my nephews do in X-Country and Football?” “How are the dogs? “Have you moved into the new house yet?” “Will you ever send me a funny text again?” I don’t know if I’ll ever find out those things from them.

Sometimes I feel sorry for myself. Why did this happen to me? I rarely did drugs before becoming an addict at age thirty. I didn’t even smoke pot! I wasn’t a goody good but I wasn’t horrible either. What did I ever do that badly for this to happen to me? (Okay, there was the 80’s where I wore bad clothes and too much make up.)

So I spend my time hanging with sober women, going to meetings, sometimes going to court and praying in between. My sober girls mean so much to me. It says in AA’s Big Book “we are not a glum lot”. So fricking true. Often, I’m the one being laughed out as I am so gullible and I don’t know this area at all. (I am resistant to learning the suburbs as I’m a city girl.) I just get in the car and they take me wherever they want and regularly lie about it. (But it’s always fun.) And sometimes, at my lowest, I think of using or, more pleasantly, a knight on a white steed (black works, too) taking me away from this life I’ve made for myself. But then I cowboy up and realize I must make my own life. One where I can depend on myself, think things through, be honest and be happy. But I still wish for unicorns and pug puppies.

Addiction sucks. But if you’re touched by it, I urge compassion and understanding. Intervene. Demand treatment. But do something. Our lives depend on it.

Actually, Red Is the New Black

King County (Seattle area) has two jails for their inmate population; the main facility in downtown Seattle (KCCF) and the Regional Justice Center (RJC) in Kent. Having been a prescription drug addict on and off for a number of years, I had been housed in the downtown facility for a night or perhaps two, a couple of times. However, in March 2014, I had failed out of drug court for relapsing and was faced with a total of 180 days. I had already spent about 30 days in KCCF awaiting the hearing when I was given this sentence. (In King County. if you have no major infractions, you only do 2/3 of the sentence which includes “Good Time”) With time served, I was looking at three months total. I was terrified.

I had to go directly to jail from the courtroom. After I was strip-searched and booked, I was led through a maze of cement blocks. I was handed a plastic cup and told to grab a bed roll and a mat. If you’ve been to jail before, you know to grab the blue mat as it has a built-in headrest; there are no pillows in jail. The bed roll consists of a blanket, two flat sheets, a towel not much bigger than a hand towel, a small bar of soap (marked “luxury bar”), comb, short-handled toothbrush and toothpaste. (And the blankets are exactly like the ones on “Orange is the New Black”.) Once you get to your cell, you are instructed to make your bed. Your bed must be made properly whenever you’re not in it. If you’ve never been to jail, making your bed is difficult. The polyester sheets slip off the vinyl mat. If you’re cellmate is not puffing herself up, she’ll tell you to tie together the two corners at each end to help hold the sheet in place.

I had spent about a week in KCCF when I spoke to someone who had been housed at RJC. She raved about how different it was from downtown. She made it sound like Disneyland and, walking in, I absolutely felt the same way. While KCCF is dark and dirty, RJC is bright and clean. You have a cell to yourself, which is a blessing. (I had two very scary roommates at KCCF.) In the “day room” there is a two-story atrium which lets the sun in with a courtyard directly off the unit. There are two separate areas in the day room; the carpeted “quiet side” where one can watch TV quietly. And a tiled area with another TV and tables and chairs where you can talk freely, play cards or games and generally hang out. There are also vending machines with soda, food items and actually decent coffee along with a microwave.

The days in jail are spent on a strict schedule that is essentially two hours out of your cell (rack out) and two hours in your cell (rack in). If you’re out you’re out; you cannot go back and forth into your cell. (Though the guards will let you in pretty freely.) You can also been “racked in” for various offenses such as not making your bed or arguing with another inmate. While I was terrified for my safety downtown, I never thought twice about it at RJC.

Lights come on at 6:30 and breakfast is at 6:45. Breakfast includes cold cereal or oatmeal, milk, two pieces of bread with margarine and an envelope of “milk substitute” which is basically Kool-Aid. After you eat, you go back to your cell until 8. You are racked in at 10:30 where a bag lunch is served at 11. It consists of a piece of fruit, bologna or salami sandwich, crackers and cookies. And “milk substitute”. Dinner is served at 4:30PM in the day room. After dinner, you are racked in until 6 or 7PM depending on whether the guards have “training”. In my 90 days at RJC, I got up for breakfast exactly twice. I am not a morning person and decided it was simply too irritating to have people asking if they could have my food. I couldn’t stomach the bologna and not once ate lunch except some Wednesdays when we had PB&J. Rack in is at 8:30PM with lights out at 10PM.

One of the benefits at RJC are the worker programs. For 50 cents per day, you can work as a Trustee, in the Laundry or as a Baker. There are six Trustees for the unit and they do most of the cleaning, organizing, helping the guards, etc. They also can stay out of their cells nearly all the time. There are multiple laundry workers who go to work at 3PM, return at 8:30 and can stay out of their cells until 10pm or so. The best job, and the one I did, was baker, of which there are only three. We went to work at 9PM, finished up around 1AM, came back to the unit, showered and then we could stay up for an hour or so. We were also the only people allowed to turn off the lights in our cells until noon or so. Super bonus.

If your only exposure to living with a bunch of women is in a college dorm, you’re in for a big surprise. There are some really funny things you learn but it takes awhile... For one, just like in “Orange is the New Black”, maxi pads are used for all kinds of cleaning. You can also pull out the narrow string that holds a tampon string in place and use it for dental floss or for threading your eyebrows. You definitely want a friend to work in the Laundry so they can bring you back brand new skivvies and bras. And the most coveted of jail uniforms are the soft, old-style, cotton ones that have a V-neck instead of the stiff crew necks. Since you’re in a uniform basically all the time, these comfort factors are important. I had new skivvies, white socks, soft pants and two V-necks by the time I left. (Thank you Maria Apodaca!) Yes, I was a Princess even in jail.

There are also some really silly things that go on in jail. Bakers and Trustees don’t get their cells searched very often but I got caught with too many books, extra clothing and once a sugar packet that I swear wasn’t mine. Lots of women get in trouble for keeping food in their rooms which I never did. (Why save something that’s bad anyway?) The “training” the guards did some evenings consisted of going into a dorm and randomly choosing six rooms to search. (“Toss” is a more accurate term.)

Commissary is probably the most important process that exists in jail. Once a week, you place an order for food, hygiene items and, most importantly at RJC, coffee. People would get so excited for commissary delivery. Plus, there is a huge commerce opportunity with commissary. One woman sold items for double the price towards the end of the week when everyone had run out. Some people could never catch up and get ahead with commissary.

There were some funny times in jail that I will get into next time. Please feel free to comment and ask questions. The time spent there really was fascinating in a bizarre way.

The Beginning of the End

I wish I could explain addiction to people who don’t understand it. It’s not a simple matter of willpower or just saying no. It is a disease that causes damage to your brain. Your brain actually needs to heal once you’ve stopped using. And I’ve seen many people heal but I’m not yet one of them.

I first began abusing prescription drugs perhaps fifteen or twenty years ago. I had never done many drugs at all. I was prescribed Vicodin for stubborn migraine headaches and used it responsibly for months. . It had never occurred to me to take meds when I didn’t have a headache until my friend suggested it. That friend and his partner were both sick with AIDS and the partner happened to be a pharmacist. They had access to all kinds of drugs and the pharmacist would refill my prescription any time I ran out. That’s when it started. I also worked for doctors and knew how to call in prescriptions which I did once my friends started to get worried. That led to legal trouble, successfully completing Drug Court and doing really well for a while.

When I went to a new doctor, I informed her I had been addicted to Vicodin, which she put in my chart. The next time I used pain meds was for a cracked rib and I did just fine. Then, I was in a car accident. It wasn’t horrible but I my leg was pretty bunged up. Again, I did fine, taking the meds responsibly. But then my leg failed to heal and developed an infection that wouldn’t respond to antibiotics. My lower right leg swelled so much and so quickly, the skin was peeling off. I went on several different antibiotics, went to a surgeon, who, surprisingly, wanted to do surgery and finally a dermatologist. At the worst, my husband had to perform debridement which meant cleaning it out by packing cloth tape into the wound and pulling it back out to remove the infected cells. This was really painful. I would wake up an hour beforehand and take a Vicodin just to prepare for the debridement. It took a couple months to finally heal and during that time, my doctor was prescribing Vicodin for the pain. She had forgotten by then I was an addict and the chart note was way in the back. Of course, I didn’t remind her as I was too deeply into it. By the end of a couple of months, I was back to calling in prescriptions and, again, legal trouble.

This pattern went on for years. Get clean, something would happen and I would use again. This disease has cost me jobs, my self-respect, my reputation, my lovely husband, (who has eight years of sobriety), the love of my family and so much more. I’ve embarrassed my family horribly. Do non-addicts really think we addicts choose this way of life? That, if we had a choice, this is what it would be? (And I’m not trying to avoid personal responsibility; there’s just so much more to it than that.)

The last year has been the lowest point of my life. I’ve spent five months in jail. You would think that would stop me. I started thinking my life was over, I was going to prison. So I got a serious case of the “fuck its” and used again. This cost me two of my beloved brothers and my father, none of whom are speaking to me.

And it happened so quickly. I saw it all happening and couldn’t stop it. Once the idea of using is in my mind, it is an obsession that will not stop. There are ways to stop it but my brain, which is damaged, doesn’t always have the strength or wisdom to do it. I’ve tried to explain it like this: I cannot trust my inner voice, the voice I hear all day, everyday. It tells me things like, “just one more time won’t hurt” or “no one will ever know”. And I believe those things because it’s me telling me those things. It’s mystifying once I gain some clarity. Why would I ever believe those things?

In these postings, I hope to share with others what it is like to be an addict, how I think and how everything has unfolded for me. I hope to be as honest and open as possible. I hope the reader will gain perspective and insight on what drives a person like me. I welcome all comments and questions. I hope if you have a friend or loved one who has this disease, something I write may help your understanding of addiction.