Diary Of A Recovering Addict

The deceitful web of addiction affects millions of people. This is just one story. It is unique because it is my story, but it is not unusual...

Part I
The Road To Detox

June 29, 2006
I don't know if it is day or night. I don't care. I have crawled into my closet and am curled in a fetal position. I want to die. I can't get high anymore. The drugs have turned on me. Twelve years ago I kicked heroin. I did it by myself in a fleabag hotel in New York City. I didn't need any program because I was so powerful I could stop all by myself. Three years ago I was in a car accident. In the emergency room they gave me a shot of morphine. I was elated, relieved. I had been clean for years. I had been miserable for years. I pretended to be happy. I knew I should be, but something was wrong with me and as hard as I tried I couldn't pin it down. My discontent was slippery. My fears were powerful, but evasive. I was so pleased to be in the hospital with my old friend morphine. I left with a new friend Vicodin. I felt soothed and absolutely content. Four months later I was in a not-too-seedy motel kicking the pills. Damn things turned on me too. I quit all by my powerful self, but as the disease would have it, I longed for them and dreamed sweet dreams about them and eventually found myself curled up here on the closet floor. I've tried to stop. Something has changed. The drugs have won. I am powerless to stop and all I can do is look up. As absolutely reprobate as I am right here, right now, I have no where else to go. I tell God, who I believe has had more than enough of my loser ways, that I am sorry, so very sorry and that I need help. I need a miracle. I have no resources. My business is failing. My husband has divorced me. I am alone. Tomorrow I will see my doctor, my somewhat suspecting dealer. Tomorrow I will tell him that I am an addict.

June 30, 2006
It's done. I told the doctor that I'm having problems with the pills. I added that I needed some more. He's sending me to a pain specialist. He wrote me scripts for Vicodin and Oxycodone. A parting gift of sorts although, as he handed me the scripts, he insisted he was not doing me a favor. I can tell he's relieved to pass me on...
I tried to make myself feel better with the Oxy when I got home. It's not working, not at all. I hate this place. I can't get high and I can't get straight. This must be some special circle of hell reserved for addicts.

July 3, 2006
I saw the pain specialist today. Had to tell him that I'm addicted. I guess it's pretty obvious since only three days have passed and my two scripts are almost gone. I've been having a little party. Trying to get high, but barely managing to stay straight. My new doctor told me to stop taking the Oxy and Vicodin. I tried to give him what was left of my pills. He refused. Maybe that's illegal, or something. He gave me some steroid shots for the chronic pain I supposedly have. To be quite honest, I don't know where the pain leaves off and the addiction begins. Before I left he handed me a script for morphine. Yippee! This just gets better and better. He referred me to a counseling agency and insisted I check in with them immediately. Well, that's just lovely. Let's see just how many people I can confess my addiction to in this tiny town of mine. I obeyed. The counselor was quite impressed with my honesty. She talked to me like I was normal. I feel anything but normal. Apparently our hospital is opening up a detox at the end of the month. She wants me to go. That seems like forever from where I'm sitting. I agreed. It gets even weirder. She invited me to the Grand Opening! Can you imagine? Anyway, she wants me to go to AA or NA. I said, "No, way". I mean, come on now, do I want the whole town knowing I'm an addict?
I'm home now and very disappointed. There's something wrong with that morphine. It makes me sick. I guess I'll be going back down the hall to buy some "good" stuff from one of the old lady addicts in my building.

July 12, 2006
I have a 12-year-old son. He lives with me. He's not doing well, big surprise, isn't it? I've been thinking, "How's this going to work"? I mean me going into detox and all that. Who's going to take care of him? Not that I'm doing a great job, or anything. Lately, he's always checking on me. "Are you alright, mom"? "Do you need anything"? It's so sad, this little co-dependant that I've created. I have done some research. Luckily my computer is hooked up in my store, my cool Vintage Store, on the historic main street of my tiny town. I found a wilderness camp for troubled teens where he can go live in the woods for a year. A year away from me would, no doubt, be beneficial. I don't know how, but what little strength I have left, I am going to use on getting him set up somewhere safe. The way I'm using I just might up, and die before I get to detox.

July 14, 2006
Paranoia has set in. I am at my shop with the lights out and the doors locked. From this dark corner I can see my potential customers peering through the window. I can't face them. I am hysterical. I kept snorting pills all morning until my heart broke. How is this possible? Will I ever find relief, ever again? I called my ex-husband. There's no one else I can bear to see. He's on his way over to do yet another emotional intervention on his crazy, drug addicted ex-wife. He has a new girlfriend, someone special, someone not like me. I don't know why he still loves me, but he does.

Leo, that's my ex-husband, came by. He sat me out on the back steps, in the sunshine. I've become a bit of a vampire. He talked me down like only he can. His voice soothes my madness. My addiction is torturing him. I can see it in his eyes. I want to be the old me, the person I was before I turned on him, the person I was before I said all those ugly things. He used to look at me with love and adoration. Now he looks at me with fear and disgust. Hell, I can understand that, that's how I look at myself.

I'm home, in my bed, staring at the drawer where I keep my stash. Guess I'll give it another go.

July 20, 2006
I fear I am very close to death. Part of me wants to die, but more of me wants to live. I'm going to have to lose my shop to live. I am incapable of handling the pressure. I gave my landlord notice. He was none too happy. I have to be out by August 15th. I have been calling the detox every day to check in. Yes, they opened, and no, I did not make it to the Grand Opening party. I will find out very soon if my son gets to go to the wilderness camp. I can't go anywhere until he's situated. Soon I will have to meet with a camp counselor at the shop and then bring him up to our apartment for a home visit. It is almost impossible for me to interact normally with the public anymore. I had to call my Mommy and ask her to fill in at the shop for my "Going Out Of Business Sale". I look terrible, frightening. I am hiding out in my room snorting pain pills night and day. When my son knocks on the door I'm scrambling hiding all my stuff. In between trying to get high I am dreaming sweet dreams of checking into the hospital. That's progress I suppose.

August 3, 2006

It's D-Day. I have to get ready to open my own store like a big girl. The counselor is coming from camp to check us out. The apartment is clean, but, as usual, I am not. I am as ready as I will ever be for my grand performance. The performance where everyone concerned leaves believing that my son is the one with the problem and I am the loving, caring mother.

August 4, 2006
Miracles of miracles. My son checks into camp on the 13th . I called Detox to let them know. They are holding a bed for me. I check into the hospital on the 15th . They said they don't usually hold a bed that far in advance, but since I have been calling them every day, they are making an exception. This might just work out after all.

My stash is calling me and my mind is telling me it's time to celebrate.

August 9, 2006
The days are dragging by. I asked the pain specialist for some of those Fentanyl patches and some Vicodin. I told him that I am trying to wean myself down to a manageable addiction for detox. I guess, at this point, he's willing to give me what I want knowing the end is in sight. I found a little old lady who just loves the items in my shop. I'm trading everything in sight for those killer pain pills she has. I am out of control. I am miserable and my using keeps escalating. I look like a drug addict. I sound like a drug addict. I probably smell like one too.

August 13, 2006
Today, I drove one last time, totally wasted, with my son in the car. I know I did the right thing dropping him off at the camp. The counselor made it clear that once I walked away, there was no bringing him home until they said so. I have done it this time. I have given up my son, something I swore would never happen. He has been with me everyday of his life until today. I left his biological father when I was 3 months pregnant. My addiction has now cost me my son.

So, since my mind tells me that I love drugs, have a great time doing drugs and that I should keep on using drugs, let me pause and consider what I have lost as a result of the drugs%u2026

I lost my mind, my health, my beauty, my intelligence, my husband, my son, my step-daughters, my home, my business, my reputation and most of all I lost my usefulness to my God.

Part II
Detox

August 15, 2006
My bag has been thoroughly investigated and a lovely Venus razor confiscated. Seems my Tums are not welcome here either. My cigarettes are in a communal holding cell. Smoking is limited to four times daily in a glass box room. I am smoking with the other inmates. I am pleased to have my diary to hide behind. We are seven sorry and seriously pathetic losers choking on each other's second hand smoke. I expected to be bouncing off the walls in a padded room by now. I had my mind all geared up for three sleepless days and nights of vomiting, diarrhea, cold sweats and spasms. Suboxone to the rescue! This is the new, cutting-edge detox med for junkies. Before I left the house this morning I swallowed ten Vicodin extra-strength. I arrived at the hospital high as a kite. Next thing I know a Suboxone is melting under my tongue and my high is gone, just like that. Damn nurse stole my last joy ride. I feel oddly normal. The nurse says we're done smoking now.

August 16, 2006
I have been taking Xanax three times a day for the last four years. I took it like the doctor prescribed. When I refused to take the Phenobarbital in my med cup the nurse informed me that Xanax is a dangerous drug and withdrawal from it is serious. I'm not buying it. I feel fine. I came here to stop taking drugs, not start taking them. The Suboxone is freaking me out too. I swear I am getting high off of it and, to tell you the truth, I really like it. I am definitely pretending to need it so I can get more. I am hoarding nicotine gum and chewing it before they take my blood pressure and pulse. That's the test to determine if I get more. I am up to 4mg's about eight times a day. I am more than comfortable. The nurse assures me that I will not experience withdrawal symptoms from Suboxone.
They make us go to AA meetings. I insist that I am not an alcoholic and should not have to go. I go anyway. Most of my cohorts are alcoholics. A couple of them have been living on the streets. Real bowery bums. They clean up nicely though. I have a sneaking suspicion that I am looking at my new peer group and I am not impressed. I am an arrogant, stuck up princess.

August 17, 2006
I am doing everything the detox staff tells me to do. I am really scared to get out of here. What do I have to go back to? One of the guys, another addict who went through here the first week they opened, told me that within 24 hours of leaving detox his withdrawal hit him like a train. He had refused to continue taking Suboxone. He was sure he was cured. He got high and he's back in detox less than a month later. He's working with the psychiatrist here. He's going on something called Suboxone Replacement Therapy. He'll be taking it for years just like people take Methadone. I don't want this. I don't like this idea at all. I want to be free, totally free. I am dreaming sweet dreams of detoxing in a padded room and having it over within three days. This whole process has taken what I consider to be a seriously wrong turn. I have an appointment with the psychiatrist tomorrow morning.

August 18, 2006
I saw the psychiatrist. I was ready to just lay into her about tricking me into taking Methadone's incestuous sister Suboxone. She took me by surprise and I didn't have the chance. She took a miracle out of her back pocket and laid it on the table. Look, I have no real resources and my family is sick of my screw-ups. I know I should transfer from here to treatment, but that costs money. I managed to squirrel away $1,200 from my business, but that's hardly enough to pay for my apartment. So, imagine my surprise when the psychiatrist informed me that I had received a full scholarship to a premier treatment facility. I thought to myself, God IS REAL. The place where I am going is a palace. My former psychiatrist had wanted me to go to this place years ago to deal with a condition I have called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. That is another story and, yes, I have been diagnosed with mental illness, blah, blah, blah. Well, I couldn't go because it costs $22,500 for a six-week stay. So, when I say I had a revelation that God is real, it is because the miracle gift I had just been handed was fantastically beyond my reach or imagination. There is a tiny glitch. The Palace expected me to arrive fully detoxed. They do not believe in Replacement Therapy. Another miracle? They will, however, take me as I am and detox me over there. Get this, the psychiatrist told me that she has been working on this for over a month. She said people rarely call detox everyday before they arrive and she believes in me. She believes that I can get clean and stay clean. Wow!

Part III
Treatment

August 19, 2006

I have arrived at the Palace. I get to stay in a room across the hall from the nurses' station for a few days. It is Saturday and I am already slipping into a serious problem. The hospital gave me my early morning 4 mg dose of Suboxone. It's 1:00 pm and I am going into withdrawal. I told the nurse that I need my next dose. She told me that I have to wait until 6:00 pm. I told her that I take 2 pills every four hours. She informed me that the fax from the hospital says that I've been given 12 mg per day and that the Palace Doctor has written orders to decrease it to 9 mg immediately. I try to explain, "No, I take 12 pills a day"! She thinks I'm lying. I am getting sicker by the minute. I am desperately trying to get someone to understand. I am damp with cold sweats, curling into myself on my Palace bed. My new roommate is looking at me with concern and horror. Ghostly forms are moving in and out of the room. Distant voices send waves of comforting words I cannot comprehend. I am screaming.