Drugs, Drugs, and Drugs (first two pages of Chapter 7)

I first smoked weed (the wrong way) when I was fourteen. But then a few months after that I did it the right way.

Even the first time I must have gotten at least a little high, because I remember banging on the wax drums at the candle shop and giggling at everything.

Getting stoned wasn’t really that great of a thing to me. I went through a brief phase when I was around fifteen or sixteen when I smoked a lot, but I never really liked it. I got paranoid, sure, but more paranoid that I wet myself than anything else. I don’t know why but I continuously had this feeling of peeing myself. I never did, but it always felt like I did. That’s not fun, let me tell you. I had to run to the bathroom every few minutes just to make sure nothing had leaked out.

But I did get the munchies and the giggles, so I guess that was worth it. No, no it wasn’t. Being high really wasn’t much fun. Kids, take note.

Then one night I realized I must be allergic to it or something.

I never took more than a few hits, because that was all I needed. But one night I smoked more than that and got really sick. I turned white as a ghost and started throwing up and got the chills. I was supposed to go out that night, undoubtedly to party, but I was instead stuck in bed for the rest of the night while my friend watched over me. It sucked.

After that night I’d like to say that I never smoked again, but that would be a lie. I still went through phases and more would come during which I would smoke every day. But all I did was eat and giggle and feel like I peed myself, and I didn’t see much fun in that so the phases never lasted long.

I sold weed for a while, though, and that was much more fun.

The first time I did coke I was sixteen. I don’t remember my first time or how I felt, which is weird for an addict because we’re supposed to always be chasing our first high, but I simply don’t. I remember other times, and how it made me feel on top of the world. This chapter is probably going to be rife with clichés because that’s what drugs do to you. And that’s how they feel – like clichés. Everything is wonderful until somebody get smashed in the head with a large rock.

I don’t know the whole story. I wasn’t there. But supposedly my friend Duble had stolen a lot of cocaine from our dealer-friend, who turned straight dealer on  us when that happened. Duble, another friend and I were walking down an alley in Ocean City on our way to WaWa one day when Kyle, the dealer, ran up behind Duble and starting smashing his head in with a giant rock. I stood there shocked. It’s not like there was anything I could do anyway, but I still feel bad for not doing it.

Don’t steal drugs, kids. It gets you, at least, a trip to the emergency room. And probably stitches, if you stick around long enough for them to tell you what’s actually wrong with the gash on your head, which Duble didn’t do.

My coke days were glorious, though. I had energy and did stuff and loved everyone. Coming down was a bitch and a half, however, and I fell into an incredibly deep depression every time I ran out.

I started cutting myself to numb the pain of being drugless. Which became a whole other addiction in itself.

Cutting yourself becomes a high. How deep can you go, how many times can you do it, every time seeking that first time feeling of release.


Real Addict vs. Imaginary Addict?

[Throwback Thursday — Originally published March 2014]

I’ve had several people tell me I’m “not really an addict” in the past few weeks. Some were strangers, others were old friends, a few were barely acquaintances, and one was a very close family member. And their reasoning? Because NA did not work for me; because I don’t work the traditional 12 steps and have pursued my recovery along a different route.

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“Just Stop” Isn’t As Easy, Or Safe, As It Sounds

The Adventures of Methadone Man and Buprenorphine Babe

Photo Credit: methadoneman.org

[Throwback Thursday — Originally published November 2013]

This post is directed toward every single person who has ever told me to “just stop taking” my medication. Whether you’ve been where I have, have gone through what I am, or have no idea, you have never been me. So please, stop telling me something when you cannot speak for me, feel what I feel, or know what I know.

I am on Suboxone. In short, Suboxone is a medication to help people get off heroin or other opiates. It is a combination of an opiod medication, and another medication that reverses the effects of opiates. So it helps people get, and stay, off drugs. However, many people view it as a drug itself, and that’s where the line begins to fade.

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father daughter dance

Photo credit: Defining Wonderland

[Throwback Thursday — originally published November 2013]

You’re the proud
kind, the epiphany type.
The unconditional love,
with stipulations. The
conspiracy theory believers,
the simple yet complicated
minds we strive to mesmerize,

                         until we

And you belittle
our uncontrollable
love, with your “down
at the courthouse in your
wedding gowns, fucking

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Tempestuous Living

This is an average day in my life — the life of an addict, a mother, a writer, someone with bipolar and anxiety. It’s boring, and it’s missing pieces, and not every day is the same, but it is what it is.

3:30am I wake up. I need a cigarette. I feel around the bed, Holden’s there. Can’t smoke. I squint to see the boys cuddling and smile to myself. I go back to sleep.

7:30am I wake up. I roll over. I try to go back to sleep but I know it won’t come. I check my phone and my computer and I forget to put my glasses on until the tenth time of wondering why everything’s all fuzzy.

7:35am I need a cigarette. I look around the bed again. Holden’s gone. He must have woken up and gone back to his room at some point in the last four hours. I light up. I take a few drags and hear his door. He’s up. He comes into my room and I beg him to let me finish my cigarette, but he doesn’t. I need to turn on his show. We yell at each other for a few minutes, but I don’t want to wake Jack. I get up.

7:37am I go into the living room and turn on the TV. I go into the kitchen and throw some frozen french toast in the microwave, playing on my phone as I wait for it to be done. I get juice ready. I bring everything into the living room and make sure Holden’s all set up.

7:40am I finish the bit of my cigarette that hasn’t burned away. I check my Reader for attention-grabbing headlines and my favorite bloggers’ names. I scroll through a few posts and save a few more to read later. I light another cigarette. I waste away precious time scrolling through my Reader and playing online games and staring at the computer screen, hoping it will give me something to do. Eminem (formerly known as M&M) messages me a Good Morning and things look up a bit.

8:30am I find Holden’s clothes and get his food ready and put everything in the car and make sure the only thing I have to do is put his clothes on and go. I chase him around the house for what feels like an hour and throw my hands up in defeat at least three times and throw his clothes down on the floor at least four before I nearly chokehold him into his pants and shirt. He’s bawling and I’m screaming and my dad’s giving us googly eyes and Jack’s in the bedroom on the computer or sleeping. I make sure, one last time, that everything is ready.

9:00am We’re already running late and Holden has taken off his pants. We go through the routine mentioned above, again, only with a little more gusto. He doesn’t want to go to school.

9:15am After successfully bribing Holden with treats or technology or toys or friends, I get his pants on, throw him over my shoulder, and put him in the car. He’s fine until I go to close the door when he sticks his little hand out and I catch myself before crushing it. I tell him I’ll get whatever he wants when I get him, but it doesn’t please him. Instead of slamming the door on his hand I slowly place it closed and bump my butt against it to finalize the deal. He screams.

9:30am We get to daycare and Holden walks in just fine but clutches my leg when I go to leave and it turns into a big thing with his teacher having to grab him away from me as I scurry out the door. I am free. I head home, big things are planned for the day.

9:40am I stop at WaWa and get my coffee and breakfast and keep my head down but take in all the people. There are too many of them; they are too close to me. I put my head down further — maybe I will radiate off a forcefield and they will stop getting so damn close. They don’t. I pay and hurry to my car.

9:45am I am home. Sweet, sweet home. I bounce onto the bed and light a cigarette and grab my computer and tell myself I have hours to do my chores so a little writing won’t hurt. That’s my mistake. I thought about the chores. I shouldn’t have thought about them, I should have just done them. They won’t get done for hours. I try to write but nothing comes. I put on a TV show and rock and sway and think maybe just this once some heroin would calm me down. It takes a few hours to get that thought out of my head, to subdue the rocking.

Noon How did it get so late? What have I even done? I look at my computer and seventeen posts are waiting for me to read them and my new post area is blank. What happened? Why am I still rocking? I obviously must get up — something has to be done. I go into the kitchen and then into the living room and back into the kitchen. I think about all that needs to be done and retreat back into my room. Maybe I’ll take a nap. I look over at my meds and decide I need to calm down, maybe I’ll just take my nighttime med now. Maybe. Yeah, right. I do it. There’s no maybe. I tell myself I’ll skip tonight’s dose to make up for it but I know I won’t. I’ll just run out sooner.

2pm I force myself up and about and do whatever chore is on my chore chart for the day. Maybe it’s dishes, or vacuuming, or mopping, or laundry. I half-ass it, but at least it’s done. I get myself a cute owl sticker and place it over today on the calendar. I feel successful. I’ll try to write again.

4pm I’m squirming around in bed and wishing heroin wasn’t so damn addictive. I’m paralyzed from moving but I can’t stop. I’m not even making sense to myself. I start talking to people online and I get awfully nervous for no apparent reason and it takes so much out of me I have to take a break. I rock and I sway.

5pm It’s time to get Holden from school. I force myself up and out and through town to get him. When I arrive, he doesn’t want to leave. I let him play for a few more minutes, obviously overstaying my welcome because his teachers just want to leave. I drag him out the door after they’ve bribed him with a balloon. We make our way home.

5:30 I keep myself busy doing I-don’t-know-what. Holden and I fight about something, Jack and I fight about more. I can’t sit down or I’ll rock.

7:00pm I get food and drink and DVD in hand and get my son all set up for bed and listen to his demands and run around doing everything he asks and change him and put his blanket on him and tell him I love him and Goodnight.

7:20pm I try to get to bed but Jack has to fix it because it’s messed up again and then he needs something and our space is so small I can’t get around him and I finally do and I light a cigarette and down my meds. I try to watch TV and I rock. And I stand on my head and I rock. And I watch some TV and I play a computer game and I rock.

8:25pm I sit at my computer. My legs are crossed. I uncross them. I stare at the screen. I re-cross them. I click on a post saved from this morning and I try to read and I skim and I make myself go back over the skimmed parts and I try really hard to devour every word. Eventually I give up and scroll to the bottom and click like. I open a new post and force myself to read every. single. word. and it still doesn’t sink in so I comment on the one paragraph that took. And I feel horrible because this has nothing to do with the writers’ abilities and everything to do with my fucking brain and its rebellion. I repeat the process of skimming posts and reading posts and crossing my legs and uncrossing my legs and chainsmoking.

8:32pm Sometimes I try to write. Like now, right now I’m writing and it feels good and everything is okay for a minute, but usually I get something like this:

My brain isn’t working and it’s driving me fucking mad.

My son’s hair looks cute.


I just want to feel the keyboard under my fingers so it seems like I’m doing something remarkable.

On good nights, I will continue to write and write and everything will remain wonderful and I’ll go to bed around 10:30pm. On bad nights, I’ll give up and watch TV until I pass out around 9:00pm.

*  *  *  *  *

I want to thank walkingcontradiction for this idea, and actually giving me inspiration to write something for once.

*  *  *  *  *

What about you? What’s a day in your life?