A Playdate with The Beast

You know those people who you hear about, who died in the street with a needle in their arms?  And the women who whore themselves out, just for a fix?  The ones who go bat-shit crazy and rob a flower store and dumb shit like that?  They’re easy to point out.  Look at the person on your left, and now on your right.  I’ll bet my firstborn that one of them is an addict or dealing with a friend or family member who is.  It’s more than an epidemic, it’s a cliché.  They don’t wear signs and they aren’t as easily pointed out with a needle or a bent spoon.  They walk right by you, sometimes happy, sometimes sad.  But I know how to point them out.  Because behind their eyes, there’s nothing but a cold, dark tundra of what little soul they have left.

Think of your grocery store.  Picture a well-dressed, professional looking woman in a black and grey dress, black tights and heels.  Make-up and hair flawless.  She is smelling cantaloupe and smiling at her toddler, who wants to smell the cantaloupe as well.  She continues onto the vegetables and picks out mushrooms and carrots for dinner that night.  She keeps moving on, every now and then looking down and her son, doing something to make him laugh.  She is a flawless image of a working mom.

She is high off her ass on heroin.

Now you can judge me many different ways.

1.)    How could you put your son in danger like that

2.)    Aren’t you a little old to be experimenting with drugs?

3.)    You should wear boots with tights, not heels.

The game plan was never to get addicted to heroin.  Whoever says that? Johnny, what would you like to be when you grow up? ‘I want to be a heroin junkie and get so strung out on dope that I break into someone’s house, eat their dog food, and steal all their spoons! ’ Oh Johnny that’s wonderful..

I don’t know how I got here.  Well, I know…. But it still amazes me that I allowed myself to get here.  I’m not going to sit here and say I’ve been an angel my entire life and suddenly turned; that’s complete bullshit.  I’ve had a wild streak my entire life.  But I’ve really painted an appearance of “All together”.  Husband, kid, fenced yard.  Roast in the oven every Sunday, bagged lunches for Eric every night, sandwich cut in two.  All along, a beast lay dormant inside of me, waiting for me.  He was waiting for me for years, and he picked my most vulnerable moment to surface himself.  He turned me.  He saw me at the edge, and when I trusted him enough to reach out my hand to him, he pushed me.

I hear the phrase “I beat my addiction” and I want to laugh.  You never “beat” an addiction.  Don’t believe the hype.  Addiction isn’t a game you can win, it’s not a phase you go through and look back on one day and think what a dumb ass you were.  Addiction is always there, the linebacker two steps behind you waiting to tackle you to the ground.  Sobriety is a gift on borrowed time, it’s not a trophy.  Sometimes I’ll get through three quarters of my day and feel something missing.  Everything is in its place, yet something is off and I can’t quite put my finger on it.  It’s an emptiness that only the mourning feel.  The friend or lover who’s always been there and suddenly vanishes.  The day is normal, the work is done, and I am screaming on the inside for what I miss.  It’s him, my friend, my beast.  He’s the ex-boyfriend who calls you when you’re at your loneliest moment, yet won’t surface in your times of need.  He’s a coward, and you can’t get enough.  He’s the abusive husband you make up excuses for.  Addiction is a selfless, loveless, unfair prick, and you can never beat him.  You can step quietly around him and hope today won’t be the day he decides to lash out at you, but you never, truly beat him.

I don’t remember my first drink.  I do, however, remember my last.  It was Bud Light Platinum.  December 31^st 2013.  I drank a lot more than that that night, but that was the last sip of alcohol I had.  I wish it had been something more exotic.  A beautiful gin martini, a sunset margarita, something fancy in a coconut.  Have you ever sat on a beach in Waikiki and sipped a tequila sunrise?  Let me tell you, I have, and if you ever quit drinking, that should be your last drink.

Addiction is a habit.  It’s repetitive.  Wine was my evening date.  We would meet shortly after I was done work.  We’d cook dinner together, we’d laugh at the latest celebrity news playing on the TV as we cleaned the kitchen, and we’d play with Shane and show Eric affection.  Sometimes my date would stay late into the evening.  We’d sit on the couch long after Eric was asleep and troll the internet or cry together at old home videos.  Do I miss my date now?  Every waking moment.  Baking isn’t the same without my goblet of red.  Diet coke doesn’t fill my mind with calm and ecstasy.  I’m learning though. 

My day consists of getting though the waking hours.  I literally live till the next minute.  Then breathe.  Then be calm.  Be collective.  Be.

Natural happiness doesn’t come easily to addicts.  The warmth I felt with opiates was my happiness. They turned me into a better boss, a better mother, a better wife.  I won’t lie, when I wasn’t drunk, I was probably high.  And to say I saw nothing wrong with this is an understatement.  To me, it was a way of life.  And if I didn’t have anything to get high with, it became a second job to find something.  Pride is not something addicts embrace.  Mind racing, keys in hand, where do I need to go? 

And if I went days without anything coursing through my veins, I went dark.  Really dark.  My mind took me to places nobody should ever go.  I lay one night crying silent tears, my legs shaking uncontrollably.  I have never been so cold and hot at the same time.  Withdrawal is a personal hell.  Pray to God, pray to Ala, or McDonalds, whomever you believe controls your fate….it doesn’t go away.  Forget about sleep.  Couch to basement floor, back to bed, even snuck into Shane’s bed.  My cold sweat seeping through anything I touched.  And my mind, racing to Why am I here?  When sleep finally found me for a short and delusional time, I thought of how I would end it.  And I dreamt. 

Shane, now 27, is in a black tuxedo with a yellow rose pinned to his lapel.  Eric enters the room and sizes up his grown son, pride swelling in his chest.  “Your mom would have been so proud of you on your big day.” Shane’s eyes glassy and the beautiful blue I fell in love with the moment he was placed on my chest.  “Yeah…I’m sure she would have”. 

I don’t have the luxury of suicide.  Because I will dance with my son at his wedding. 

Going to rehab was the best experience of my life.  At first I walked in, my head high, I don’t belong with these people.  And there were all kinds.  People from the streets, girls who had whored themselves out, men who were there because jail was not an option, criminals, and housewives.  I learned quickly how faceless addiction is.  We all had the beast inside of us, and He had driven us to the edge of needing help.

I sat in a room with 25 strangers, night by sober night, listening, learning, and wanting to live again.  The people I lived with in those 3 weeks became my lifeline.  We all had a different story, some people had been through rehab before and knew the game.  Some wanted to get sober, others not so much.  A woman whom I had become friendly with gave me her number and told me when I got out I could call her for free Suboxone…I quickly threw it away and avoided her for the rest of my stint.  I would call Eric every night and choke on tears that the first time in 3 years, I wasn’t there to kiss Shane goodnight or hold him after his bath, a slippery goofball.  I’d confide in friends that I missed his smell….and then was told they hadn’t seen their kids in a year.  Some are still battling custody after all this time.  I am one of the very lucky ones.  Tonight, and every night, I will go and kiss Shane.  I will hold him after his bath until he’s dry and ready for warm PJ’s.  I will complain about his tantrums in the mall, and groan about picking up his toys night after night.  But I will have him.  Yes, I am one of the lucky ones.

I’m not going to say the past year hasn’t had bumps in the road.  I’m not going to say this is easy or even that it gets easier.  But I wake up, and I live another sober day.  I try to find a natural high in things.  A hug from my child, a monthly dinner with my sisters, a visit with my Grandmom.  The trick to sobriety is to never abstain from the highs you can get without drugs or alcohol.  Go back to simplicity of childhood, your favorite Christmas memory, or the tree you carved your initials into.  Kids seem to be the happiest people in the world, and that’s only because everything is new and beautiful.  They aren’t damaged or cynical.  Every day I try to bring out 9 year old Erin, who wanted to be a writer when she grew up, whose favorite drink was chocolate milk, and “high” was where she wanted to be pushed on the swings.  I go back to the start.  I live another day, and then I wake up again.

The Beast is no longer a match for me.  My shield is Love and my sword is Hope.  And even if I trip during the final battle, I will come out swinging. 

Sober since 1/1/2014