I'm standing at my bathroom sink. Yesterday. I just got out of the shower. As I brush my tangled wet hair, I stare. I stare at myself in the mirror hanging in front of me. Only, I'm not looking at me. I mean, yeah physically I am. But my eyes are somewhere else. I hear a song. It's playing in the background on my Alexa. My heart starts beating really fast. And I need to sit down. I'm not sad though. But I'm not happy either. It's a strange feeling and it starts to take over as the song continues to linger in the background. It's a song I've listened too many times —a song I haven't really heard since 2011. It's a song that seemed to always play every time I was with them. Jay and Matt. My two best friends at the time. We're strangers now. Maybe that's why it's so weird. Because I'm standing here —in the bathroom I stand in nearly every single day. But at this moment, it's like I'm transported back. And now, I'm reliving memories of a different me. Only it's not. Because I'm physically the same person. And that's the weirdest part. Because it seems like a lifetime ago and yesterday —all at the same time. Because what I see, is this carefree girl riding around with her two good friends. And it's killing me. Because it will never go back to the way it was. And even though I know that's a good thing, at this moment, it doesn't feel good. Why did it have to happen like that? Why did I let that shit consume me? Because no matter how hard I tried to pretend I was OK, I simply wasn't. And that's when I realized I wanted to die. Because that was the night (back then that is), I tried to end my own life. I think it was more so a cry for help than anything else but I did, in fact, slit my left fucking wrist. I remember grabbing this cold sharp blade I kept for protection. And as I'm sitting on my bed, isolated like always, I start diagonally digging the razor into my lower arm. Because red dye starts to drip from the open wound onto my floral bedsheets. Tears tangled in between. It was a bloody mess. A few minutes after that, I think I threw everything off the bed and decide to lay down. I wasn't going to sleep. Because that's the last thing I could do. But I recall just laying there absolutely numb. Because my eyes were crying. And my soul was crushed but I felt nothing. Maybe that's why I wanted to feel some fucking pain. Because the only thing I felt was misery. About an hour later, I eventually pass out. And when I wake up the following morning, I realize it didn't fucking work. What else is new? What now, Macey? Seriously —what now? Unfortunately, at that moment, I didn't know. I was out of my mind and simply out of options. This is what you need to know.
Opioid withdrawal is perhaps the hardest part of addiction recovery. It consumes you. Both physically and mentally. In fact, I'm not sure which one is worse. I do, however, know that you’re sick. Really sick and in pain. A lot of pain. Your joints ache. Hell, everything aches. All you want to do is sleep. So you lie down, but you can't get comfortable. Restless. So you get up, but you're too weak to do anything. So you get back in bed. And it's the same thing all over again. Here's what you need to know.
It all started because I had nowhere else to go. Well, technically I was still a resident at that Delray Beach halfway house I had been living at for the past few weeks. It's just, my tenant status was about to erupt. And my world was about to go up in smoke. As if it hadn't already. Because that's just it. It was all smoke and mirrors. You can only fake it 'till you make it for so long. And after failing a surprise drug test, instead of getting kicked out (which is normally how it goes down), the house manager said she saw something in me that she didn't see in anyone else. So she decided to put me on probation rather than kicking me to the curb. You'd think I would have been happy. I guess a part of me was. But for some reason, I was pissed. Truth is, I was in a full-blown relapse. Wanting —turned into doing and before I knew it, I was doing it every single day. It didn't help that my new boyfriend was a straight up junkie. Like between the two of us, we couldn't fucking stop. And then, the other night like a few days ago, when I couldn't fall asleep, instead of counting sheep, I spiraled. It felt like I was back there on that awful fucking night. Long story short, I found an article of this guy I used to know. And I say that with a mouth full of rage. Because this particular guy was just sentenced to 35 years in federal prison. What did he do? Well, he raped this 23-year-old girl. And he also raped me. It's not exactly what you're thinking. I'm sorry to say it's probably worse. So when I found out that he's been doing the same shit this entire time to even more vulnerable girls —well, it pissed me off even more. The worst part is, I've never really talked about this shit like ever. I don't even like to think about it. But seeing his photo and his victim's description of the attack, it made me even madder that I didn't speak up before. Because everything she said —like her description of the event, it gave me the fucking chills. Because it's quite literally what happened to me. Here's what you need to know.
I don't understand how something so bad, can feel so good? At least it used too. Because when shit was good, it was real good. But when it was, it was really bad. I’ll never forget the first time I met Aiden's mom. I don't think she will either. Actually, I know she won't. Like if I was nervous about not being memorable, I didn't have to be. I definitely nailed that one. And then some. Was that a good thing? That was yet to be determined. I remember knocking on Aiden's front door. I remember walking in and asking, does anyone need help? Maybe I'd bond with his family over dishware and table settings. Because it was your standard meet the parent's dinner. It started off with your typical clichéd pleasantries —a.k.a. a bunch of small talk; filled with vivid introductions —telling Aiden's mom how much I adore her son. I wanted them all to get a sense of who I was. More importantly, I wanted to imply that she did a wonderful job raising a wonderful kid. For the record, that wasn't totally true all of the time. But she didn't need to know that. Hey, I wanted to make a good impression. For the record, an impression was certainly made. Because Aiden's mom said, she was happy he found such a good girl like me. So yeah, thus far, the evening was going way better than I thought. It's just, I wasn't as graceful as I wanted to be. Because the night ultimately ends with me running away from the dining room table crying. It was more of a laughing cry. But yeah. There were definitely tears. Here's how it all went down.
He was supposed to come over while my mom was at work the following day. I was already breaking the rules. What the fuck, Macey. I don't know what I was thinking. The truth is, I probably wasn't. There was just something about him. Something about him that made me lose control. But I wasn't about to let him know that. I knew how to work it. So at the last minute, I pretend something came up. And I ditch him. Not in a mean way. I was playing hard to get. I guess I played too hard. Because this was around the time he thought I wasn't interested. And I shouldn't have been. But I was. I was also eight months clean, which doesn't really count —seeing that most of my sober time was spent in rehab. There's no temptation when you're behind bars. The true test comes when you transition back into reality. Would I pass? Or, would I fail? I choose the ladder. Because I had been home for less than two weeks and me wanting to get high had already turned into a full-blown relapse. So yeah, that's around the time I lost control. And that's why they say not to date anyone when you're in early recovery. On one hand, yes, it's entirely possible for a romantic relationship to succeed when you're newly sober. However, studies show that most intimate relationships that occur within the first year of sobriety tend to take a turn for the worse. From what I'm about to tell you, I think you'll see why. It's just, if you knew what I was really up too, you'd know I wasn't actually sober anymore. Because what I haven't mentioned is how Aiden and I met. Here's what you need to know.
I guess I thought I was just too far gone. What’s the point anyway? But there was. There always is. If you remember from a few posts back, I was faking it as a healthcare recruiter —my first official post-graduation job. Employee by day. Drug addict at night. Eventually, though, those two worlds collide. When I decide to pick up more drugs instead of going back to work, I end up getting fired. As if I didn't see this coming. Because I wasn’t as good as my boss originally thought I’d be. I knew why. But she didn’t. And that’s the point. “You have so much potential, Macey," she said. Potential I wasn't using; I was using pills instead. I was also using my lunch break to score those pills. Because I had to have something to snort if I wanted to get out of bed. But I didn’t work too well on them either. I remember falling asleep multiple times in the bathroom. "Where’s Macey?" That’s when shit got really bad. Bad enough to accept an offer I should have refused, which initiated a chain of events that really fucked my world. That's the easiest way to put it. From one proposition to another, I became the person I said I'd never be. Here's what happened to me.
I was physically, mentally, and emotionally deteriorating. I had never been this depressed before. I didn’t even look like me anymore. And I hated the person I had become. But I wasn’t willing to change or do anything about it. I'd only complain. And then I'd get high. You could count on me for that. It's just, I'd only get like this whenever I was running low. So I made sure that didn't happen very often. As a result, I dug myself into a pretty big black hole. Rock bottom as they call it. There was no way out. There was no light either. Well, I could think of one. And it came from the foiled reflection whenever I'd smoke another pill. What the fuck was I going to do? This time around, I had no clue. On top of everything, I was pretty much in denial. Because I wouldn't let myself go there. As you know, I'd get high instead. I was literally obsessed with those things. My pills. And it nearly killed me. Because eventually, I became willing to do just about anything to get and stay high. From one job to another, I schemed my way in and out; until there was nothing left. Until there was nothing left to do but sell my damn dignity. Essentially, that's what I had been doing the entire time. I mean, you don't go from 130 pounds to 87.5 because you're healthy. I wasn't healthy. I didn't look healthy. At first, I could hide it. It wasn't that noticeable. But after a year or so of the same shit different day, I remember my dad saying I looked like a freaking cancer patient. And still, I insisted I was fine. I just haven't been as hungry, I'd say, which was true. Except, I left out why. Because I'd replace my meals with pills —hunger was more of an afterthought. Somehow though, I managed to get by. Well, until I didn't. Here's what you need to know.
It was February 2012. And my roommate just evicted me. I had 24 hours to get the fuck out. What was I going to do? There was only one thing. I'd have to beg my sister to let me stay with her. At least until I figured out a more permanent solution. Because I couldn't live with her, in the state I was in, for too long. I could keep up appearances but only for a little while. I mean, she knew what I looked like at my best. And I was anything but that this time around. Like when I first moved to Boca, I stayed with her. But that was when I was functioning. You know —like a functioning addict. It's just now, I was a GOD damn mess. I didn't even recognize myself anymore. I wasn't the happy girl I used to be. I hadn't been in years. My skin, pale. Face, sunken. Eyes, blank. The mere thought of who I had become filled my insides with terror. But no one knew that. I made sure of it. Because whenever I'd get high, which was most of the time, I was on top of the world. I could do anything I wanted. I certainly didn't need anyone either. These drugs became my best friend (my only friend) and my worst enemy. It's confusing, I know. Because if I wasn't fucked up, I couldn't do anything at all. Or, at least that's how it felt. Because once that feeling faded (it always does), I'd feel more alone than ever, which is why I became willing to do just about anything to make sure that didn't happen. And that's how I found myself at rock bottom for the very first time.
It was nearly 3 a.m. and I couldn’t sleep. I’d toss and turn and remanence. Unwillingly. I had gotten pretty good at this whole insomniac thing. For once though, I didn’t want to be good. But I was trying. I was trying a lot of things. I was trying to forget, trying to forgive, and trying my best to move on. It’s just, sometimes, your best isn’t enough. I know I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. But like I said, I was trying. So yeah. I wish I could tell you after I escaped things went back to normal. I wish I could tell you I woke up every morning with a new found motivation to get things right. And I wish I could say that I wasn’t still reeling the loss of everything in between. Because that would be a lie. I mean, I was free. That was true. I was living with my dad and his roommate’s family in Naples, Florida. I was safe. I was sober. But it was far from over. This is how it goes.
For the longest time, I thought I was crazy. And yeah, I definitely am. It's just, back then, during my active addiction days, I kept doing the same thing over and over again, which as you know is the definition of insanity. I was expecting different results. I was lonely and sad and I was all of those things because that’s who I thought I was. I mean, I did some pretty bad things. And I kept doing those bad things as a way to escape from the bad things I kept doing. And because of those bad things, I found myself in some ugly situations I wouldn't otherwise have been in. Because I was addicted to pills. I know it sounds crazy but, it seemed that all the awful things I told myself about myself were, in fact, true. Today, I know that's not the case. But I didn't understand that for a long time. Even today as a recovering addict, I can't erase the bad shit I did. That was me. It always will be. It's like yeah, I'm a different me, but I still get triggered. And when I'm triggered, it feels like it's happening all over again. I feel unsafe. I feel sick. And everything hurts. I'm sweating and I have to sit down. I can't numb the pain away. I couldn't even do that back then. Which got me thinking —if it happens to me, chances are, it happens to you too. The thing is, if you're aware of certain things like why you do the things you do —well, that can help you overcome them too. And we're all different. Each person will experience different symptoms at different times. Making it of extreme importance to know all of them. Here are four.
I've been complaining of pain for a while. Honestly, though, it's hard to put into words exactly how I feel and I think that's the problem. Because I don't know where to begin. Because for the past few months, I didn't know what was wrong with me. I knew something wasn't right. I mean, it's not normal to feel sick all the time. But after visiting multiple doctors —all telling me I was fine, why wouldn't I believe them? They're the ones with a medical degree, right? It's just this thing is really hard to figure out. Did you know 10 years is the average length of time it takes to get a diagnosis? That 68 percent of women are initially misdiagnosed with another condition? Oh, and that 50 percent of women with endometriosis also experience infertility? I didn't. What I do know is that it's exhausting. It's hidden. Not seen. Not talked about. Embarrassing. But it's not —at least it shouldn't be. Except, it is according to society. Not anymore though and definitely not here.
I thought it was time to remember what it was like to feel alive. But it's not what you think. It's not even what I thought, at the time. Because this chick, couldn’t feel a single thing and I was anything but alive. Plus, my version isn't something you choose to remember. Sometimes though, you don't have a choice. Because no matter how you spin it, I was at it again. And even though, I had just spent the last 40 days institutionalized, I never stopped wanting to do drugs. I went directly from detox to rehab, which is what they want you to do —so you don't have time to figure out that one part, a rather large portion of your brain didn't actually want to be there. That's the thing about addiction, just as cardiovascular disease damages the heart and diabetes impairs the pancreas, addiction hijacks the brain. So what exactly happens when you let opioids control your entire life? Well, this is what you need to know.
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.
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'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.
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 feeling even better than before. Today wasn’t that bad. Well, emphasis on that. It seems as if the days go by slow but the weeks, fast AF. A few things had happened in the last 24 hours though. I didn't think I could handle the cards I was dealt at the time. Except, I was about to find out I certainly could. I'd also learn, firsthand, the definition of integrity —what you do when no one is looking. But let's back up a second.
It's been a month. I feel good. I feel better, not perfect but getting there. I'm on my way to sanity. Except, for some reason, I'm still feeling left out. What were my druggie buddies up too? I couldn't help but think back. It wasn't all bad though. As the days went by, I started opening up more. I gave myself over to the process. I followed all of the rules and did my best to be my best. Eventually, I started to heal. When that happened, I realized that healing doesn't mean the damage never existed. I mean, the damage had been done. But that's irrelevant. Healing actually means the damage I caused no longer had to control my life. And when I figured that out, well, shit just made sense. Here's what a day at the mission looked like for me.