Don’t pretend you know me. Sometimes I don’t even know myself. I certainly didn't back then and neither did he. It hurts that I let him take advantage of me. I'd say no but he'd expect a show. Why? Because I was chemically chained to a friend turned foe. Like when everything hurt —from my body to my skin, I caved and said, “Fine. Let’s begin.” I knew the password (you fucking coward). With one simple word, I could get blurred. But at what cost? I was pissed off, sick and lost. Can you relate? If so, let me advocate. You're not your abuse. You're more like the Greek GOD Zeus. You're the cleverness that survived. So don't forget that you're still alive. And even though I can't erase the fact that maybe we were raped, above all, you're the courage that escaped. Because in the end I fucking won. Here's how it was done.
Dear self, I've been holding onto a lot and I've got to get it out. I'm mad —mostly at myself. I'm mad because I lost over six years of my life. I'm mad that I didn't say no or ask for help sooner. And yeah, I'm mad that I'm mad. It's like the figurative bases were loaded in the game of life. I had one walk to win the game and one out to lose it all. The metaphorical pitcher releases the ball from his glove as gravity accelerates it straight into my bat. It’s like everything was set in place for me to succeed. I was supposed to succeed. Like all I had to do was hit the damn ball. But I couldn’t even do that. So I'd snort a line instead. Not anymore. Starting today, I'm going to try a little harder. I'm going to put in some effort to mend what's broken like all the people I fucked over. I'm going to start on the inside though. Because in order to heal, we must first forgive. And sometimes, the person we need to forgive most is ourselves. Here goes nothing.
I bet you know more people than you might think who have at least thought about committing suicide. I bet you wouldn't expect that I contemplated it myself. I actually tried to end my own life. So when I heard the awful news about Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade, it hit home because I've been there and from the looks of it, I'm not alone.
Telling me it's OK to rape a junkie is like saying, it's OK to rape a girl who dresses like a slut. That's what I was told. Why do we do that though? Why do we think it's OK to not listen to someone merely because they do drugs? Why do we call a girl a slut simply because she chooses to wear a crop top or a mini-skirt? For one, none of that is OK. I mean, I dress to express myself. I always have. Except, society is indirectly taking away our freedom of expression by limiting what we’re allowed to wear by blaming sexual violence on the victim. Did you know that chicks who dress modestly and don't do drugs still get sexually assaulted? No means no period, but you don't have to say "no" for it to be rape. You have to say yes. You have to give your consent regardless if you're a junkie or a slut. I was a junkie and a slut so my feelings didn't matter, right? Wrong.
They say it's not what you have, it's who you have. For the record, I agree. Except when you have nothing and you feel like nothing; it's not that simple. Who did I have? Me? Back then? I had my mom. So, I didn't actually have nothing. I guess it was more so feeling like nothing since we just packed the last 16 years of my life up in a bunch of boxes and called it a day. No. The day is not over. But it was. I mean, my mom and I weren't moving by choice. We were moving because we had too. I knew she wasn't going to let us be anything but OK, it's just I didn't feel OK. I was scared, pissed off and dark. So my mom says to look at it like a fresh start, which is exactly what I did or at least, what I was trying to do.
You know that saying, not all who wander are lost? Well, sometimes those wandering really are lost. In this case, me. I was. Not in the actual sense though, more like metaphorically speaking. Except, I literally lived in the woods. The Woods II to be exact, which happened to be the name of my new neighborhood. My mom and I just got some awful news —the only house I ever lived in was now in foreclosure. We were getting kicked out. And so, we found a two-bedroom apartment on the other side of town. It was still a decent place but it wasn’t home. I did my best. Even though most nights, I cried myself to sleep. I'm pretty sure, my mom did too. It's just, we didn't want to let go of country club drive and we definitely weren't ready to move on (literally and figuratively). Except, sometimes, you just don’t have a choice.
Day one. He wanted me to want him. He wanted me to need him. He knew exactly what I wanted and needed a.k.a. a shit ton of pills. So that's exactly what he did. He knew as long as he kept feeding me pills, I'd continue accepting his lies. Except as it turns out, I didn't want to get high anymore. I had too. I didn't want to do those things he made me do but I needed too. And if I was going to do those things I didn't want to do, I needed my pills —and more than a few. So what was it like being barricaded and sexually degraded? Why was I so GOD damn persuaded? Well, here's the rest of rock-bottom number three in hopes, you'll understand why I'm still a little crazy.
If I can be honest, at first it wasn't that bad. But that was the point. It was supposed to suck me in. It was supposed to appear as if the glitz and the glam were always going to be there. I mean, we started off at South Beach. But when it all ended, I was clearly in hell. I mean, for a while, I didn't leave at all. Bruce was the only person I saw. In short, I was on my way to a treatment center that never existed. Don't get it twisted, I didn't want to be enlisted. But back then, I had no other choice. Those damn drugs stole my voice. So if you're wondering what rock bottom number three looked like to me, here's how it all came to be.
I'm sure you know that drive alone can't beat addiction. For a while, I asked myself how do I want to want to stay sober? I knew I needed to but did I want too? Not really. Eventually, though, I did learn to want it bad enough. Looking back, I see it all so clearly —at least today I do. What they say about hindsight really is true. Except, it wasn't always like this. For a while, I let opioids control my entire life. They controlled me until I realized I didn't actually need them. It was a false freedom I mistakenly took for empowerment. I mean, I had this picture in my head of the great things I'd do. So yeah, I had a lot of drive but I had a lot of pressure too. Along the way though, I learned that it all comes down to how badly you want it. You can lead a horse to water but you can't make her drink it. Except, I'm asking you too. I want you to chug. I want you to get more out of life than simply white knuckling you're way to the end. I want you to enjoy this ride we call life —even if drive alone can't beat addiction. So this is where I tell you three ways you can learn to want this thing called recovery bad enough that it'll actually stick.
It's morning. You should be waking up refreshed, ready to start your day. But not me. Instead, I usually have to go downstairs, open the linen closet doors and grab a towel to dry myself off. Did I just work out? No. I woke up like this —literally. What I'm talking about here isn't pretty. It's the opposite, in fact. What I'm getting at is something called PTSD. Most mornings, I wake up drenched in my own sweat. Why? Because I have nightmares that are so severe, they cause physical bodily symptoms. So I close my eyes or in this case, hit play, and it all comes flooding back like I'm still there. Somewhere else inside, I know I'm safe. But when that shit manifests into those damn symptoms, I can't help but relive everything all over again.
I've been putting this one off. It's hard to go back there —even if it's just through writing. But by talking about it (because I haven't since it happened), I think it will help me move past it a little more. And deep down, I know it's about that time I get it out. If you remember from a previous post, I had just gotten myself out of a sticky situation a.k.a. rock-bottom number two. I was laying low, hiding out at a friend's house. Turns out, this "friend" wasn't a friend at all. But not yet. Back then, he technically just saved my life. It was a confusing time, I know. Because the lines were more than blurred. I’m doing my best though. Ready or not, here I go.
I had just arrived but if I can be honest, my head was somewhere else. I missed Brad. Day one —time to get "Boca-tized," a catch-phrase my dad invented. He and my sister, Michaela were adamant about me looking the part, now that I was an official resident of South Florida. For some reason, they were always trying to make me into something I wasn't a.k.a. turn me into her. It's like if I wasn't her version of pretty, then I was ugly and a failure. I think they thought if I looked and acted like her, I'd be just as happy as she was. Unfortunately, that's not how it works. I remember thinking, why did I assume this would be better than it was? I was a little mad at those two and myself for choosing them over Brad. And so, after a few hours at the salon that my sister made me go too, they said I was ready. Except, I felt anything but that.
We were supposed to wean ourselves off those damn pills. We figured a week in advance was enough time to actually enjoy ourselves down there without being sick. Unfortunately, that never happened. The addict in us kept saying that we'd do it tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll stop —just one more night. Well, tomorrow never came and the night never ended. We were leaving. Uh-oh. How would Becca and I pull off opioid withdrawal in another country, in front of her mother and father (little brother too) who so kindly decided to invite me (and pay for) an all-inclusive family vacation to Aruba? I don't know. The truth is, we wouldn't pull anything off at all. Here's what went down.
If I can be honest it hurts more than I thought it would. It’s not that I miss him. I mean, I completely forgot he even existed until yesterday. It's just that it feels way to close like it could have been me. Hell, it was me. I think it's the timing of it all that makes it sting so much more. The saddest part is, I don't even have a picture of him or us together. We were addicts after all, in and out of institutions trying to get clean. It looks like I won this round but I don't feel like a winner. Right now, the only things I feel are grief, anger, and sadness. All that's left are memories. I see images I also forgot about; scenes I shoved deep down. It hurts as they come back up. I see flashes. I feel his pain as I reminisce with my demons —demons that took his life, demonic creatures that are taking way too many. As the thoughts come flooding back, I try to channel the rage inside. What comes out, you ask? A eulogy, or at least my version of it; something I never thought I'd have to write but here I am and here it goes.
Waking up really is the hardest part. Except at this point, my mornings weren't filled with fear. Or, at least not the type I had been running from. During the height of my addiction, waking up meant I had to snort at least 60 milligrams before even thinking about getting out of bed. If I didn't, I'd be sick —opioid withdrawal sick, the kind of sick you'd do anything to avoid. But that's not me anymore. It had been almost three weeks since I got high. I really can't put into words just how special it feels to wake up and not need a pill to function. Yeah, I was about to be put on some mental health meds but that' different. And so, just as the tech promised, 7:00 a.m. rolls around and I'm politely woken up by the same friendly face —ready to start my day just as I will continue to do for the next 28 days.
I remember when we said goodbye. He was so mad at me. I was a little mad at me too —for letting things get so screwed up. I definitely led him on all summer just like he said. I was an official college graduate; diploma in hand, ready for the next chapter to begin. One path brought me down south —South Florida to be exact. My family relocated there from New Jersey a few years prior and they just so happened to hate my drug-dealing boyfriend (except back then, they didn't even know he sold). I say this because the other led me west with him, Brad. Which story was I going to tell? I didn't know yet. All I knew then was that I had to make a decision. So, here it goes.
I was more stuck than ever but I couldn't let anyone else know how bad off I really was. So I'd put on a mask and pretend I was enjoying the bed I made. Except, I wasn't happy, sane or functional. I was addicted, defensive, and in full savage mode. Things were different. No matter how bad it got in college, I always had Brad. We kept each other in check, but this time, I was all alone, with no one to look out for me but me. And you definitely didn't want this junkie on your side. I mean, I was the girl who robbed you and helped you look for it. I was the girl who used to have it all together. Except now, I had nothing but pill residue everywhere. So how did I afford to keep everything up? Three words: pawn shop madness.
Most of my friends had a dirty doctor in their pocket, but even with the blue prescription pad, it didn’t guarantee you a refill. So if I couldn’t sponsor a friend’s script or find a pharmacy to fill it, I’d have to do what I normally did and buy my pills off the street the old fashion way. Except, even when I talked a big game, I was usually still scared. My main goal was to not get beat (or arrested). I mean, an 87.5-pound white female, picking up $400 worth of opiates, driving a C280 murdered out Mercedes Benz in the hood, pretty much screams easy target. So if you're wondering how this pill-head got her pills, you should probably read this.
As if things couldn't get any worse —I was still a hostess at The Office, an $18 gourmet burger joint on Atlantic Ave. in Del Ray Beach, Florida. If you remember from a previous post, I relapsed and eventually found myself homeless after getting kicked out of the halfway house I called home. I also found another pill-popping boyfriend who tried his best to save me. Turns out though, I needed to save myself. When a friend turns foe, before I know it, I hit rock bottom for the second time. Except once you fall as far as I had, there's nowhere to go but up. Here's what went down.
Regardless of the politics, it was still hard. In short, I hated being home. It was a shocking reminder of how messed up my family life had become and I didn’t want to deal with that or feel any of these feelings. I mean, what teenager would anyway? I remember wishing I was anywhere, but here —be careful what you wish for. At the time, I was a freshman in high school. I lived in an affluent suburb of South Jersey and up until this point, everything was fairly "normal" —except, a few somethings were about to go really wrong. It would later be revealed that my once perfect existence was really all smoke and mirrors. But let's start at the beginning.