Another bittersweet lesson in my first year of recovery was going through the experience of everything that happened with my Grandmothers. My Grandma Bette (Maternal) had been suffering with Alzheimer's/dementia for quite some time. We watched helplessly over the years as she deteriorated. She was no longer capable of taking care of herself and her husband (not my grandfather) was a part of the problem and not the solution.
In 2009 my mom and uncle began being more proactive in getting help for them both. Social Services was going to send someone out each week to help them shop and clean. Meals on Wheels would be taking meals a few times a week. That didn't seem to work. Phil (my grandmas husband) was too proud to accept help and often times would turn the social worker away.
Eventually my mom would take guardianship of my grandmother. So we spent a lot of time traveling to Minnesota to take care of all of these affairs. The first time we went up I brought my hair stuff to give my Grandma Mary (Paternal) a perm and style. I think my mom purposely kept me away from my Grandma Bette's house because it was in such a state.
So I went to spend quality time with Gramda Mary and when my mom arrived at her house, she sat downat the dining room table and broke down in tears. She had never seen Grandma Bette, or her house in such a slump. She had lost at least 40 pounds, due to her forgetting to eat. The house was unkept, which wasn't like her at all. Bette always kept a beautiful home. She was dirty and hair was unkept, which wasn't her either. She always had hair done and makeup on.
Grandma Mary and I felt bad too. I'd never seen my mom that upset over the situation so I knew it was bad. The time was drawing near to find an opportunity to get her into a nursing home. Phil would put up a fuss, but he couldn't help her. She needed professional help.
The opportunity came a few weeks later. Grandma Bette was taken to the hospital because she was unresponsive. They believed she had a stroke. She was also severely dehydrated. So my mom and uncle made arrangements to go into a nursing home in Duluth. That way she'd be close to my uncle and his family. My aunts mom volunteered at the facility and had good things to say.
So my mom and I trekked up to Minnesota again. When we got to the hospital my grandma was in good spirits and a little disoriented. My mom dealt with Phil, the next day we picked up my grandmother after making sure we had everything she needed. The hospital had a bag of her belongings and the clothes were so soiled my mom and I threw them out. Her shoes also smelled terrible, so we decided to get her new ones when we got her to the nursing home.
So we got in the car and began our journey to Duluth. She didn't ask where we were going and did t seem to care. She was pretty happy. When we arrived we were greeted by staff and given the tour, shown to her room. It's actually a very nice place. Her room faced an atrium with fountains and fake plants.
We were surprised by her reaction to it all, she was happy and didn't ask where she was, why she was there, or if she could go home. My mom and I were upset. When we left we were in tears, but relived to know she would be looked after.
Over the next few months we visited regularly and she was taken care of. She put on weight, her hair looked good every time we saw her, she participated in all of the activities. I was happy she was cared for, but it's still a painful thing to watch. Someone you love is taken from their home. But it was my pain, not hers.
A few months later Phil was finally placed by his stepson into a facility a few miles a play from my grandma. She never asked about him, which considering her mindset wasn't odd. I think she lived in a time when her and my grandpa Tony were still married.
The time came to go and clean out her house. My mom, uncle, and myself did the most of it. I could understand why my mom wanted to keep me out of it. I was shocked and heartbroken to see her home in such disarray. We spent a little time there when we arrived. We went out to eat with my uncle to formulate a game plan for the following day.
My uncle and I spent the whole first day on the garage, screen house, and shed. My mom thought my dad was nuts for getting a 30 yard dumpster, but we packed that thing. After about 9 hours of busting our behinds we were all sitting outside on the steps chatting. My dad called, my grandma Mary had been ill and in the hospital. My mom and I had planned on seeing her that evening.
They thought her diverticulitis was acting up, but she was diagnosed with mesothelioma, and would be going to a nursing home on hospice. My mom hung up and told me, and I broke down. It was like what next?
So we finished the weekend of cleaning and went to go see my grandma Mary. She was totally with it, just not feeling super hot. We couldn't stay too long, so we were hoping to have some private time with her, but my cousin and his wife came stomping in. Mind you they lived nearby, we don't. So if you ask me that was beyond rude.
Here's the thing with my grandmothers. Grandma Mary knew I was an addict, and she supported me and was one of my biggest fans. Her mom was an alcoholic, so she had a soft spot for me. She always wrote to me while I was in treatment and I still have her letters in a scrapbook I made for her. My grandma Bette did not know. There was no point telling her, breaking her heart only to have her forget about it ten minutes later. Her only brother drank and smoked himself to death though. There's lots of addiction in my family.
Anyways, my mom and I returned home and the following weekend I drove my dad up to say goodbye to his mom. We brought her candy, Chapstick, and some other things. I drew her a shamrock that was sort of a family tree. It hangs in my shop now. We had the opportunity to see other relatives and spend some quality time with her.
On Sunday we went to say goodbye. I told my grandmother that I loved her with all of my heart and it was an honor and a blessing to have her in my life and as my grandmother. She told me she loved me too and gave me a big hug and kiss. My dad said his final goodbyes, and on our way out we bumped into the priest who was going to give her the last rites. He invited us all to join him and her, but grandma preferred the privacy, which was ok. I would've thoroughly lost it for sure.
When we returned home we told my brothers Bill and Joe time was short, so if they were going to go to move their asses. So they went the following weekend. On 9/06/09 she died. Four hours after my brothers returned. She must have been waiting to see them.
A piece of my life was gone and never would be recovered. She died just short of my 1 year anniversary. I buried her with my 9 month coin. We all took turns being pallbearers, there was 12 of us. She was a loved lady, very kind, and so much fun. I miss her all of the time. Every year I visit her grave and plant a key tag for her. She would be so tickled. And there's no doubt in my mind she's keeping an eye on me.
We continued to visit grandma Bette regularly, and she was always in a pleasant mood. We brought her candy and Coca Cola which she loved. Last year she had a stroke and became unresponsive. They were only giving her comfort measures and didn't expect her to last too long. Especially with no food or water.
I was working in Minoqua at the tattoo shop where I learned. My boss was already giving me a hard time about taking off the weekend for the Journey's marathon, and the. Decided to be an ass about me going with my mom to say my goodbyes to my grandma. I told him this was the last time I was going to see her alive and I was going whether he liked it or not. So my parents and I travelled up to Duluth. We stopped at the nursing home when we got into town and sat with her a while. We went to eat with my aunt, uncle, and cousins. Went back for a little bit before retiring for the night.
The next day we went back to sit with her. She never opened her eyes, and would move a little bit when we would grab her hand and talk to her. Dave was coming to pick me up and bring me back for the marathon, so when he arrived they all cleared out of her room. I held her hand and told her I was sorry that she had to live out her days the way she did. I told her she was an awesome grandmother, that I loved her dearly, and it was ok for her to go home. She squeezed my hand, so I knew she understood what I was saying to her. She died on 05/18/11
I went home and did the marathon and returned the following week to Minnesota to bury her next to my grandfather.
The bitter to all of this was the painful part of saying goodbye to the last of my grandparents and seeing how badly my grandma Bette had deteriorated. The sweet part was being clean for all of it. I worked through my grief and pain without something to kill it. I was also able and willing to be there for my parents. They were always there for me, so I needed to be there for them for once. People would ask me how I got "stuck" cleaning out the house. I was just being there for my family as they were for me when I could not be there for myself. I was happy to participate. I also was able to say goodbye to my grandmothers and express my love for them before they passed. I didn't run or hide from myself or my feelings. I turned around and faced them. I spoke at meetings about how I felt and openly cried as well.
Without my support system of NA, family and loving friends, I would not have made it through. I cried even while typing this and that's ok. I'm comfortable with my emotions.
RIP Mary Alice and Grandma Bette <3 you lots!
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
For Those That Went Before Us......
I've decided to share my first year of recovery in segments. Because with each part there was a lesson, or something good that came from each part, as well as each part having a story behind it.
So I was a few weeks clean, going to 6-8 meetings a week, and staying VERY close to my support system. I went to meetings, and went home, with the occasional outing with a recovering friend that was all I did.
Let me back up just a minute here. During the summer there was a good handful of us in recovery that hung out together. Out of that group 2 of us are clean as of this date. There was 6-8 of to start with.
One of the people in that group was named Trent. A beautiful soul, and a boy after my own heart. He was into punk music and clothes and funky hair. There never an attraction, but we were buds. Trent and my friend Doug lived together. Our little group would often go to meetings and then go back to their place to watch movies, or play Wii.
Trent ended up moving out and into a place with a girlfriend who used. He went back out using. We were all crushed, especially Doug. One day I was at Doug's and Trent called. I picked up the phone and talked with him for a good hour. He said he knew what he had to do, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to do it anymore. (Talking about recovery.) He also said I was the only person he felt hadn't judged him. I know that's not true, I just tend to have a softer approach. When I hung up the phone I knew that was going to be the last time I spoke with Trent.
And it was. early November I woke up to more text messages and voicemails than I had in a while. Trent was dead, he took his own life. His dad and a few of his siblings had committed suicide around the same age. So I'm not going to lie about my feelings. I was very angry with him in a way. He fullfilled a destiny that didn't need to be, but I was also heartbroken. I lost a friend, and another addict died.
I had the stomach flu so bad when his funeral came around, but I went. I knew I would kick myself for the rest of my life if I didn't go and be with my friends, and say goodbye the proper way. He was a beatiful soul, and I'm happy that he no longer has to fight the battle. I'm sure he's at peace. Love you Trent!
So that was my first experience with death fresh into recovery. I've been around death my whole life, but never did I ever face it clean.
A few months past and a lifelong friend of mine, someone I manipulted, took advantage of, and hurt numerous times througout my using, his mother's cancer came back. She was a dear sweet lady and I was close to her as well. I stole lots of medication from her over the years, and if she knew about it (which I'm pretty sure she did) she never treated me any different. She was always the same kind lady no matter what.
I had a plan for saying goodbye. I wanted my dad to go with me and be attatched to my hip, so I couldn't have the opportunity to take any morphine if I wanted to. I also debated making an ammends to her about the things I did.
She wound up in the hospital which eliminated the need for a babysitter. My friend was going with me to see his mom. I decided not to make an ammends to her in the traditional way. That would've been very selfish of me to lay everything on her while she was on her death bed. I knew that she would've forgiven me for my wrong-doings anyways. So while I was there with her I prayed silently, for her forgiveness and for my higher powers forgiveness. And I know that both were there.
Here's the nasty part of addiction, and how fucked up the addict inside is. I was sitting at her funeral and knowing that everyone was going to the reception at a restaurant outside of town, and I started going back into old behavior and thought about sneaking over there and seeing if there were any meds left in the house.(Just to clarify this lady was not an addict.)
Luckily some deep breaths and prayer cured that. I also told on myself at the next meeting I was at.
Skip a few months ahead, on my 6 month anniversary my friend Victor died of an overdose. He was a staple at all of our events. He was always there playing volleyball at the Washburn campout. It was quite shocking to me. He was always around ever since I'd first been around recovery. He was someone I saw as having it "together".
He worked hard at keeping the meetings in the Asland area going, and worked at Red Cliff treatment facility. He was ouspoken and fun to be around. He was a source of inspiraion for the lives around him that he touched.
A short time later I was reading my Basic Text and turned to page 74, chapter 7 Recovery and Relapse. This it what it reads at the very top: "If you have a hard time, read this chapter 2x a day and it will help. Love, Victor Reyes" It gave me chills and brought me back to the fact that this disease can take anyone at anytime if we are not diligent.
It came out a short time after Victor's death he had a heart issue, and all it took was one time. Too bad he didn't listen to his own advice.
Addiction is a deadly debilitating disease that affects millions every day. In 2009 we kicked off the year with 12 drug related deaths in about a 6 week timeframe. For this small area that an enormous amount. So please feel free to add someones name in the comments if you know someone who has died from addiction. And may they all rest in peace.
So I was a few weeks clean, going to 6-8 meetings a week, and staying VERY close to my support system. I went to meetings, and went home, with the occasional outing with a recovering friend that was all I did.
Let me back up just a minute here. During the summer there was a good handful of us in recovery that hung out together. Out of that group 2 of us are clean as of this date. There was 6-8 of to start with.
One of the people in that group was named Trent. A beautiful soul, and a boy after my own heart. He was into punk music and clothes and funky hair. There never an attraction, but we were buds. Trent and my friend Doug lived together. Our little group would often go to meetings and then go back to their place to watch movies, or play Wii.
Trent ended up moving out and into a place with a girlfriend who used. He went back out using. We were all crushed, especially Doug. One day I was at Doug's and Trent called. I picked up the phone and talked with him for a good hour. He said he knew what he had to do, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to do it anymore. (Talking about recovery.) He also said I was the only person he felt hadn't judged him. I know that's not true, I just tend to have a softer approach. When I hung up the phone I knew that was going to be the last time I spoke with Trent.
And it was. early November I woke up to more text messages and voicemails than I had in a while. Trent was dead, he took his own life. His dad and a few of his siblings had committed suicide around the same age. So I'm not going to lie about my feelings. I was very angry with him in a way. He fullfilled a destiny that didn't need to be, but I was also heartbroken. I lost a friend, and another addict died.
I had the stomach flu so bad when his funeral came around, but I went. I knew I would kick myself for the rest of my life if I didn't go and be with my friends, and say goodbye the proper way. He was a beatiful soul, and I'm happy that he no longer has to fight the battle. I'm sure he's at peace. Love you Trent!
So that was my first experience with death fresh into recovery. I've been around death my whole life, but never did I ever face it clean.
A few months past and a lifelong friend of mine, someone I manipulted, took advantage of, and hurt numerous times througout my using, his mother's cancer came back. She was a dear sweet lady and I was close to her as well. I stole lots of medication from her over the years, and if she knew about it (which I'm pretty sure she did) she never treated me any different. She was always the same kind lady no matter what.
I had a plan for saying goodbye. I wanted my dad to go with me and be attatched to my hip, so I couldn't have the opportunity to take any morphine if I wanted to. I also debated making an ammends to her about the things I did.
She wound up in the hospital which eliminated the need for a babysitter. My friend was going with me to see his mom. I decided not to make an ammends to her in the traditional way. That would've been very selfish of me to lay everything on her while she was on her death bed. I knew that she would've forgiven me for my wrong-doings anyways. So while I was there with her I prayed silently, for her forgiveness and for my higher powers forgiveness. And I know that both were there.
Here's the nasty part of addiction, and how fucked up the addict inside is. I was sitting at her funeral and knowing that everyone was going to the reception at a restaurant outside of town, and I started going back into old behavior and thought about sneaking over there and seeing if there were any meds left in the house.(Just to clarify this lady was not an addict.)
Luckily some deep breaths and prayer cured that. I also told on myself at the next meeting I was at.
Skip a few months ahead, on my 6 month anniversary my friend Victor died of an overdose. He was a staple at all of our events. He was always there playing volleyball at the Washburn campout. It was quite shocking to me. He was always around ever since I'd first been around recovery. He was someone I saw as having it "together".
He worked hard at keeping the meetings in the Asland area going, and worked at Red Cliff treatment facility. He was ouspoken and fun to be around. He was a source of inspiraion for the lives around him that he touched.
A short time later I was reading my Basic Text and turned to page 74, chapter 7 Recovery and Relapse. This it what it reads at the very top: "If you have a hard time, read this chapter 2x a day and it will help. Love, Victor Reyes" It gave me chills and brought me back to the fact that this disease can take anyone at anytime if we are not diligent.
It came out a short time after Victor's death he had a heart issue, and all it took was one time. Too bad he didn't listen to his own advice.
Addiction is a deadly debilitating disease that affects millions every day. In 2009 we kicked off the year with 12 drug related deaths in about a 6 week timeframe. For this small area that an enormous amount. So please feel free to add someones name in the comments if you know someone who has died from addiction. And may they all rest in peace.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Finally!
So my 2 weeks in treatment this time around was more beneficial than both times before put together. I was really starting to deal with my emotional pain, and beginning to honestly feel better. I had work calling me and bugging me in treatment about if I stole meds. So I finally admitted to them that I did. They referred me to the state and I lost my CNA license. No big loss, that job always got me into trouble.
I also had a theft charge I needed to deal with in the coming months. There was also the matter of my boyfriend who was currently in jail. He was coming to treatment after I got out. I wasn't even sure if I wanted to be with him anymore. He was a bit of a control freak.
I got out of treatment, and began going to meetings again. I made an attempt to work on things with my boyfriend, but he wasn't willing to budge on certain things. The deal breaker was him losing his temper flying down the streets of Rhinelander almost killing us, then calling me every name in the book, and punching my car window.
I began hanging out with a few people I was in treatment with, and ended up isolating and dwelling on the breakup, the loss of my license, and my court case. I started to become overwhelmed. I was watching Intervention one day and got the brilliant idea to use compressed air as a drug. This I thought would be a stealth way to get high, but it made me an idiot.
I blacked out, almost like I was drunk. I did that for a few days before my parents knew something was up. And one night I decided to have "a" drink. Yeah, well, I ended up going balls to the wall and getting completely tanked.
I woke up and thought I'd actually gotten away with it. Then my parents descended upon me and whisked me to St. Mary's for detox. Then my dad said I had to stay in Koinonia after that, and I wasn't welcome home unless I was clean.
They admitted me to the hospital overnight because they couldn't get my heart rate under control. So I had the IV and the whole bit. It was the only year since I was introduced to recovery that I would be missing the Halloween dance. My parents also spoke to my sponsor, and she had nothing but kindness for me.
I had a nurse come in and talk to me about how I was too young to throw my life away. She did so in a very non-judgemental way. I sat and thought about my journey through this hell, and I finally had my moment of complete surrender. I knew, and still know that if I use one more time it equals death for me.
There was no more mind games with myself. This was it, I had to fight for my life with all of my might, and do whatever it takes to stay clean. The next day I went to Koinonia, and sat in detox overnight. My counselor came in and spoke with me the next day. She also offered nothing but her support.
It was right in front of me this whole time. The support system was there, i just needed to dive in. I tried convincing my parents to pick me up, but they insisted I stayed another night. Can't say I blamed them after everything I put them through.
So my clean date is 10/31/08. Halloween, my favorite holiday and my other birthday. I went to 6-8 meetings a week. I stayed very close to my support system, and began calling my sponsor at least three times a week. I was still a wreck, but it was a step in the right direction FINALLY!
Although I had no clue that my first year clean was going to be like a battlefield, and anything that could go wrong did..........
I also had a theft charge I needed to deal with in the coming months. There was also the matter of my boyfriend who was currently in jail. He was coming to treatment after I got out. I wasn't even sure if I wanted to be with him anymore. He was a bit of a control freak.
I got out of treatment, and began going to meetings again. I made an attempt to work on things with my boyfriend, but he wasn't willing to budge on certain things. The deal breaker was him losing his temper flying down the streets of Rhinelander almost killing us, then calling me every name in the book, and punching my car window.
I began hanging out with a few people I was in treatment with, and ended up isolating and dwelling on the breakup, the loss of my license, and my court case. I started to become overwhelmed. I was watching Intervention one day and got the brilliant idea to use compressed air as a drug. This I thought would be a stealth way to get high, but it made me an idiot.
I blacked out, almost like I was drunk. I did that for a few days before my parents knew something was up. And one night I decided to have "a" drink. Yeah, well, I ended up going balls to the wall and getting completely tanked.
I woke up and thought I'd actually gotten away with it. Then my parents descended upon me and whisked me to St. Mary's for detox. Then my dad said I had to stay in Koinonia after that, and I wasn't welcome home unless I was clean.
They admitted me to the hospital overnight because they couldn't get my heart rate under control. So I had the IV and the whole bit. It was the only year since I was introduced to recovery that I would be missing the Halloween dance. My parents also spoke to my sponsor, and she had nothing but kindness for me.
I had a nurse come in and talk to me about how I was too young to throw my life away. She did so in a very non-judgemental way. I sat and thought about my journey through this hell, and I finally had my moment of complete surrender. I knew, and still know that if I use one more time it equals death for me.
There was no more mind games with myself. This was it, I had to fight for my life with all of my might, and do whatever it takes to stay clean. The next day I went to Koinonia, and sat in detox overnight. My counselor came in and spoke with me the next day. She also offered nothing but her support.
It was right in front of me this whole time. The support system was there, i just needed to dive in. I tried convincing my parents to pick me up, but they insisted I stayed another night. Can't say I blamed them after everything I put them through.
So my clean date is 10/31/08. Halloween, my favorite holiday and my other birthday. I went to 6-8 meetings a week. I stayed very close to my support system, and began calling my sponsor at least three times a week. I was still a wreck, but it was a step in the right direction FINALLY!
Although I had no clue that my first year clean was going to be like a battlefield, and anything that could go wrong did..........
Sunday, December 18, 2011
I'm Such A Broken Record
When Joe dropped me off it was the same look of hurt, fear, and disappointment, followed by one of the rare hugs I got. I walked in scared, I also had my cell phone hidden on me and what I called my kit. My kit was a case with a spoon, needle and cotton. See one of my using buddies owed me and I figured if the withdraws got too intense I would find a way. Us addicts always find a way.
So, right away I came up with the excuse that I needed to meet with my lawyer and the DA for a court case I had pending. So the retired priest that worked at Koinonia gave me a ride to the courthouse, and I spent the better part of the day getting and using. I actually did use at the treatment facility once that evening. Not even because I really wanted to, but because I was so scared of the withdraws.
I became paranoid that staff would find my kit, so I got rid of it, away from the facility. I felt extremely guilty for putting the other clients at risk. So the weekend came and so did the withdraws. I couldn't sit, stand, lay, eat, or drink anything. I was sick, my muscles and bones hurt, and I was in a constant panic attack. Saturday I was feeling so bad that I decided to take one of the bikes for a ride. I took my ATM card and a pair of expensive earrings to pawn. I needed something to ease this misery!
I rode about a mile down the road and came to a four-way stop. While at that stop a voice inside said, "Just go back." And I did. I wasn't sleeping, eating, or drinking anything, but I kept telling myself it would get easier with each passing minute, if I could just hang on one more minute it would get better. It didn't seem like it was, and I hated myself for creating this.
The following day I actually managed to sleep a little and house staff left me alone. It was Sunday. I was still feeling horrible, so I told staff I got stung by a bee, and they took me to the ER. I am really allergic, but I didn't get stung, I was simply hoping they would put something in my body to ease this crap. They pumped me full of epinephrine and Benadryl. The epinephrine made my heart feel like it was going to explode, and the benadryl didn't even touch me after all of my using. Goody. I'm not dumb by any stretch of the imagination, but sometimes my actions said otherwise.
After that I went back to Koinonia, and while sitting outside having a smoke I looked up and saw a cloud that appeared to be an outstretched hand, as if it were inviting me to hold it. And I decided to. At that moment I felt an overwhelming sense of peace. Whether it was my mind playing tricks on me, or what, but it really a cool moment.
At that point I settled down and became serious about my treatment. My counselor was awesome. She had me dealing with issues I never had. I had to write a letter to my mom about my use, and clidhood abuse and read it to her face to face. I had never been so scared in all of my life, but when all was said and done it was a great experience. I finally felt like I was really getting something out of treatment. There were still many challenges ahead......
So, right away I came up with the excuse that I needed to meet with my lawyer and the DA for a court case I had pending. So the retired priest that worked at Koinonia gave me a ride to the courthouse, and I spent the better part of the day getting and using. I actually did use at the treatment facility once that evening. Not even because I really wanted to, but because I was so scared of the withdraws.
I became paranoid that staff would find my kit, so I got rid of it, away from the facility. I felt extremely guilty for putting the other clients at risk. So the weekend came and so did the withdraws. I couldn't sit, stand, lay, eat, or drink anything. I was sick, my muscles and bones hurt, and I was in a constant panic attack. Saturday I was feeling so bad that I decided to take one of the bikes for a ride. I took my ATM card and a pair of expensive earrings to pawn. I needed something to ease this misery!
I rode about a mile down the road and came to a four-way stop. While at that stop a voice inside said, "Just go back." And I did. I wasn't sleeping, eating, or drinking anything, but I kept telling myself it would get easier with each passing minute, if I could just hang on one more minute it would get better. It didn't seem like it was, and I hated myself for creating this.
The following day I actually managed to sleep a little and house staff left me alone. It was Sunday. I was still feeling horrible, so I told staff I got stung by a bee, and they took me to the ER. I am really allergic, but I didn't get stung, I was simply hoping they would put something in my body to ease this crap. They pumped me full of epinephrine and Benadryl. The epinephrine made my heart feel like it was going to explode, and the benadryl didn't even touch me after all of my using. Goody. I'm not dumb by any stretch of the imagination, but sometimes my actions said otherwise.
After that I went back to Koinonia, and while sitting outside having a smoke I looked up and saw a cloud that appeared to be an outstretched hand, as if it were inviting me to hold it. And I decided to. At that moment I felt an overwhelming sense of peace. Whether it was my mind playing tricks on me, or what, but it really a cool moment.
At that point I settled down and became serious about my treatment. My counselor was awesome. She had me dealing with issues I never had. I had to write a letter to my mom about my use, and clidhood abuse and read it to her face to face. I had never been so scared in all of my life, but when all was said and done it was a great experience. I finally felt like I was really getting something out of treatment. There were still many challenges ahead......
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Can't Get Much Worse
So the occasional using didn't last long. No matter how hard I was trying to "control" it, it was beginning to consume me again. I had no idea what my addiction had in mind for me. It wasn't long before I was buying morphine again. My boyfriends neighbor and the people that hung out in that crowd were into needles. Something I always said I would never touch.
The pills I was buying were strange. They were capsules you could pull apart with all of the little beads inside. They were tough to crush up and snort. I did that for a little while. One night my boyfriend and I went over to buy some morphine, and I just said "fuck it" and asked for a needle. With a look of shock they handed me a clean needle and I shot up for the first time.
I was so high, I blacked out for a while. I was hoping to drive home, but I could barely move. My boyfriend gave me some coffee to wake me up a little, but I proceded to drop my iPod in it. (It survived.)
You hear needle users talk about how they fall in love with the needle. I always thought they were nuts. But they're not. The whole process becomes a drug in itself. Getting the spoon ready, drawing the drugs up into the needle, finding a vein, watching it register , and the high hits as soon as the plunger goes down.
It wasn't long before I was back to my lying, thieving, cheating ways. I ripped off anyone I could to get more of my fix. My use was out of control yet again. I was shooting up at least ten times a day. I used at work. I finally managed to land a full time job as a nurses assistant on NOC shift, so it was a little easier to get away with for a little while anyways.
I used when I came home. I started squeezing the gel out of fentanyl patches and using that. If you know anything about fentanyl it's 10 times more potent than morphine, and I would use three days worth at once. Sometimes I was slapping myself to breath, I would hit my head on the sink nodding out. I always had the hiccups. Opiates depress the respiratory system.
I would come home when my parents were getting up, go into the tub and shoot up once more before bed. I would always have a needle loaded and ready to go for when I woke up in the morning. If I couldn't find a vein in my arm, I used one in my kneecap.
If I ever had marks from my using I always said I had a violent patient, or the cat scratched me. I was getting close to the breaking point. Work suspected me of using and stealing narcotics, but couldn't prove anything. My disease always had a strangle hold on me, but this time it was breathing down the back of my neck. It was only a matter of time before I dropped dead.
I was sick of lying to everyone, I certainly wasnt fooling myself. I was so broken, and empty. Traci was gone, but I knew she was in there somewhere. I was sitting on my parents front porch having a cigarette. My phone was in my hand. My higher power had to be watching over me, because I called a friend of mine who worked with Koinonia. He answered and I poured my heart out to him. He asked if I was ok, and if I could survive a few more days. He said he would call the next day with my bed date for respite.
He called on a Monday and said I would go in Wednesday. I typed up a letter for work and said I needed to take a leave of absence for personal reasons. I told my parents I thought I was losing my mind and decided to go in to be safe. I figured I would drop the bomb on them later on. I kept using right up until the morning I went in. And it was lime deja vu, my brother Joe picked me up to take me and almost a year to the day later I was back in treatment again.....
The pills I was buying were strange. They were capsules you could pull apart with all of the little beads inside. They were tough to crush up and snort. I did that for a little while. One night my boyfriend and I went over to buy some morphine, and I just said "fuck it" and asked for a needle. With a look of shock they handed me a clean needle and I shot up for the first time.
I was so high, I blacked out for a while. I was hoping to drive home, but I could barely move. My boyfriend gave me some coffee to wake me up a little, but I proceded to drop my iPod in it. (It survived.)
You hear needle users talk about how they fall in love with the needle. I always thought they were nuts. But they're not. The whole process becomes a drug in itself. Getting the spoon ready, drawing the drugs up into the needle, finding a vein, watching it register , and the high hits as soon as the plunger goes down.
It wasn't long before I was back to my lying, thieving, cheating ways. I ripped off anyone I could to get more of my fix. My use was out of control yet again. I was shooting up at least ten times a day. I used at work. I finally managed to land a full time job as a nurses assistant on NOC shift, so it was a little easier to get away with for a little while anyways.
I used when I came home. I started squeezing the gel out of fentanyl patches and using that. If you know anything about fentanyl it's 10 times more potent than morphine, and I would use three days worth at once. Sometimes I was slapping myself to breath, I would hit my head on the sink nodding out. I always had the hiccups. Opiates depress the respiratory system.
I would come home when my parents were getting up, go into the tub and shoot up once more before bed. I would always have a needle loaded and ready to go for when I woke up in the morning. If I couldn't find a vein in my arm, I used one in my kneecap.
If I ever had marks from my using I always said I had a violent patient, or the cat scratched me. I was getting close to the breaking point. Work suspected me of using and stealing narcotics, but couldn't prove anything. My disease always had a strangle hold on me, but this time it was breathing down the back of my neck. It was only a matter of time before I dropped dead.
I was sick of lying to everyone, I certainly wasnt fooling myself. I was so broken, and empty. Traci was gone, but I knew she was in there somewhere. I was sitting on my parents front porch having a cigarette. My phone was in my hand. My higher power had to be watching over me, because I called a friend of mine who worked with Koinonia. He answered and I poured my heart out to him. He asked if I was ok, and if I could survive a few more days. He said he would call the next day with my bed date for respite.
He called on a Monday and said I would go in Wednesday. I typed up a letter for work and said I needed to take a leave of absence for personal reasons. I told my parents I thought I was losing my mind and decided to go in to be safe. I figured I would drop the bomb on them later on. I kept using right up until the morning I went in. And it was lime deja vu, my brother Joe picked me up to take me and almost a year to the day later I was back in treatment again.....
Friday, September 16, 2011
Treatment Round 2 (Part 2)
So I managed to meet a guy in treatment which breaks the cardinal rule of staying out of relationships for the first year. It's much easier not to focus on ones self when you have someone else around.
Now I can look back at what the real truth was when I left treatment for the second time. I still had a couple of secrets left that I didn't want to talk about. I figured if I ignored them long enough then they would just disappear. I also wasn't ready to fully surrender to my disease yet. There was still a tiny part of me that thought I was so unique I could maybe learn to use successfully.
The guy I met in treatment I knew had a crush on me, but we didn't begin dating until I was out of treatment and he was actually still in. He seemed really nice, but fresh out of treatment everyone is vulnerable.
We actually did go to meetings together quite frequently. Every once in while he'd be tired from work and suggest we just stay home and be lazy. Not a good move in early recovery either. You start thinking you're doing ok, and maybe you could skip more.
My dad pressured me into getting a job as a CNA. I reluctantly began searching for work as an aid, but deep down I had the sinking feeling it would be my demise. I did get a job through an agency filling in for people that were sick, or on vacation. At first I moved around so much I didn't have a chance to get into much trouble.
Then I took care aof a man with Lou Gehrig's disease in his home. He was at the end stages, and it was difficult to sit and essentially watch someone die. His wife was planning to take care of him a little while longer, and then possibly put him in a hospice house.
My parents were going to Minnesota, so I figured I'd get wasted and no one would be the wiser. (A pattern I often followed.) So I stole some of my patients Xanax, and went home that day to get high and have a few cocktails. I remember my boyfriend coming over after I had crushed and snorted some of the Xanax, and I remember having at least one drink.
The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital not knowing what the he'll was going on. I pulled out the IV and catheter, got dressed located my phone, called my boyfriend and said pick me up. Mind you I was still wasted. The hospital called the police in order for them to get me to stay, but they had no authority.
So the boyfriend took me home. I came to sometime later that afternoon with my parents standing over me asking me if I wanted to talk. Ridden with shame I declined. I still wasn't getting it. I ended up in the hospital because I passed out on the couch, vomited up blood and had a seizure. My boyfriend didn't know what to do since he had been drinking and called an ambulance.
I managed to keep my shit straight for a little while. My boyfriends neighbor or was on all sorts of narcotics, and wasn't shy about it. I managed to ignore it for so long before I stopped by and got a handful of Vicodin.
I started off occasionally using. I would have some Vicodin on the weekends, and manage to leave it alone while I worked. I thought I had things under control, but I'm an addict, and I was far from in control.......
Now I can look back at what the real truth was when I left treatment for the second time. I still had a couple of secrets left that I didn't want to talk about. I figured if I ignored them long enough then they would just disappear. I also wasn't ready to fully surrender to my disease yet. There was still a tiny part of me that thought I was so unique I could maybe learn to use successfully.
The guy I met in treatment I knew had a crush on me, but we didn't begin dating until I was out of treatment and he was actually still in. He seemed really nice, but fresh out of treatment everyone is vulnerable.
We actually did go to meetings together quite frequently. Every once in while he'd be tired from work and suggest we just stay home and be lazy. Not a good move in early recovery either. You start thinking you're doing ok, and maybe you could skip more.
My dad pressured me into getting a job as a CNA. I reluctantly began searching for work as an aid, but deep down I had the sinking feeling it would be my demise. I did get a job through an agency filling in for people that were sick, or on vacation. At first I moved around so much I didn't have a chance to get into much trouble.
Then I took care aof a man with Lou Gehrig's disease in his home. He was at the end stages, and it was difficult to sit and essentially watch someone die. His wife was planning to take care of him a little while longer, and then possibly put him in a hospice house.
My parents were going to Minnesota, so I figured I'd get wasted and no one would be the wiser. (A pattern I often followed.) So I stole some of my patients Xanax, and went home that day to get high and have a few cocktails. I remember my boyfriend coming over after I had crushed and snorted some of the Xanax, and I remember having at least one drink.
The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital not knowing what the he'll was going on. I pulled out the IV and catheter, got dressed located my phone, called my boyfriend and said pick me up. Mind you I was still wasted. The hospital called the police in order for them to get me to stay, but they had no authority.
So the boyfriend took me home. I came to sometime later that afternoon with my parents standing over me asking me if I wanted to talk. Ridden with shame I declined. I still wasn't getting it. I ended up in the hospital because I passed out on the couch, vomited up blood and had a seizure. My boyfriend didn't know what to do since he had been drinking and called an ambulance.
I managed to keep my shit straight for a little while. My boyfriends neighbor or was on all sorts of narcotics, and wasn't shy about it. I managed to ignore it for so long before I stopped by and got a handful of Vicodin.
I started off occasionally using. I would have some Vicodin on the weekends, and manage to leave it alone while I worked. I thought I had things under control, but I'm an addict, and I was far from in control.......
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Treatment Round 2!
Koinonia was a lot different from the first facility I was in. For one I actually made the decision to go in myself, for two it was coed, and for three we were allowed caffiene and sugar.
It was difficult getting used to the routine. We were up everyday at 6:30 and had classes all day long. My room mate was awesome, we got along great! We were like two little kids at a slumber party, giggling into the night.
But treatment was far from fun and games at times. My counselor hated me from the start I was sure. And I found it difficult to open up. We had a very odd female group while I was in treatment. One of the girls monopolized most of the group time. Looking back I should've been more assertive, but live and learn.
I did work rather hard on some issues, but there were some I was just not going to let go of. I thought if I ignored them long enough they would just go away. Unfortunately life doesn't work that way, and secrets keep us sick. But being the stubborn addict that I am, I thought that somehow my situation was unique and I could get away with it.
We did do a lot of screwing around in treatment. At the time I thought I was taking everything so seriously, but I most certainly was not. We flirted with the guys, and in one case two individuals snuck off behind the shed one evening to get their groove on. Luckily I was gone when that all came out.
One guy was in there, I knew his sister from high school, so we developed a bond. We sat through family night every Thursday with our dads. My mom was not a good one for participating in my recovery. She was still under the impression that it was a phase. My dad did well though and my friends dad sort of adopted me. Good men, both of them. My dad and his friend diligently participated in the family program, and Alanon. My dad became less angry with me, and had a better understanding that I have a disease, not a moral defect. We actually began to communicate in a more healthy manor.
Then the day came for my room mate to go home, and I was sad. We had developed such a close bond. All I could do was hope she stayed clean. To this date I don't think she is. They put me with a new room mate right away. I was a little ticked off, but she proved to be a wonderful person as well. I just had it in my head at the start that no one could replace the first girl.
There was always sone drama with the females if course. There were two that hated each others guts, and fought like cats and dogs. For the most part we actually got along besides those two. I forget what the circumstances were entirely, but the situation came to a head one day and the one female got sent back to the jail.
I did get to travel a little bit while I was in treatment. I was lucky enough to go to Unity Jam, and Washburn. Two ca,pouts that were a blast. There was so much more to treatment than what I have written about already. I will continue this story, but looking back right now, I'm really not exactly sure what I got out of this treatment........
It was difficult getting used to the routine. We were up everyday at 6:30 and had classes all day long. My room mate was awesome, we got along great! We were like two little kids at a slumber party, giggling into the night.
But treatment was far from fun and games at times. My counselor hated me from the start I was sure. And I found it difficult to open up. We had a very odd female group while I was in treatment. One of the girls monopolized most of the group time. Looking back I should've been more assertive, but live and learn.
I did work rather hard on some issues, but there were some I was just not going to let go of. I thought if I ignored them long enough they would just go away. Unfortunately life doesn't work that way, and secrets keep us sick. But being the stubborn addict that I am, I thought that somehow my situation was unique and I could get away with it.
We did do a lot of screwing around in treatment. At the time I thought I was taking everything so seriously, but I most certainly was not. We flirted with the guys, and in one case two individuals snuck off behind the shed one evening to get their groove on. Luckily I was gone when that all came out.
One guy was in there, I knew his sister from high school, so we developed a bond. We sat through family night every Thursday with our dads. My mom was not a good one for participating in my recovery. She was still under the impression that it was a phase. My dad did well though and my friends dad sort of adopted me. Good men, both of them. My dad and his friend diligently participated in the family program, and Alanon. My dad became less angry with me, and had a better understanding that I have a disease, not a moral defect. We actually began to communicate in a more healthy manor.
Then the day came for my room mate to go home, and I was sad. We had developed such a close bond. All I could do was hope she stayed clean. To this date I don't think she is. They put me with a new room mate right away. I was a little ticked off, but she proved to be a wonderful person as well. I just had it in my head at the start that no one could replace the first girl.
There was always sone drama with the females if course. There were two that hated each others guts, and fought like cats and dogs. For the most part we actually got along besides those two. I forget what the circumstances were entirely, but the situation came to a head one day and the one female got sent back to the jail.
I did get to travel a little bit while I was in treatment. I was lucky enough to go to Unity Jam, and Washburn. Two ca,pouts that were a blast. There was so much more to treatment than what I have written about already. I will continue this story, but looking back right now, I'm really not exactly sure what I got out of this treatment........
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