Crystal Clean (29 page)

I knew the end was near. I could feel it hovering like an enormous vulture blocking out the sun. I felt it, but couldn’t envision it. The picture was fuzzy. I think I saw the end as moving in with my parents, because I still didn’t intend to quit using meth. The move only meant figuring out logistics. As far as my legal issue, I kept telling myself that I could pass the UA’s if I set my mind to it and followed the instructions on the bottle from GNC. I was smarter than they were. I’d fake my way through probation just as
I’d essentially faked my way through rehab. Just as I’d faked my way through the last five years of my life.
Fuck you all. If I want to quit, I’ll quit, but nobody’s going to make me
.

Finally, I hired movers to come pack everything and move it to a storage unit, but not all of it fit. Every day I told my parents I was packing the last of my things and cleaning the house, and every day I sat there getting high, selling drugs and gambling. On February 4, my parents had enough. I was trespassing. The house sold days ago and I was supposed to be out by the end of January, but I was still there, unable to move or even think clearly. They came moved the rest of my things to their garage. I was so far gone I couldn’t even make simple decisions, like which things to put in which box. Mom did the cleaning, and on Sunday night, I left the keys in the mailbox for the new owner, and officially moved in with my parents.

In the meantime, I failed two UA’s at the meth clinic. I didn’t even try to detox. I kept hoping the intake woman wouldn’t test me. Nothing mattered except selling and smoking meth, but I still didn’t see it as my problem. I saw it as my salvation. I lost Allan, I lost the house, I lost my downtown office, I’d been without Andy for months and I was being forced to move in with my parents. All I wanted was to smoke meth. I loved my drug and everyone was conspiring to tear us apart. I couldn’t see anything in front of me but the clouds of smoke I was constantly blowing.

Chapter 32

The third time I failed a UA, the director of the meth clinic sat me down.

“Kim, I’m sorry but I can’t accept you into the program.”

“What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. I thought she was telling me there’s no room at the inn right
now
but as soon as there is...

“I can’t allow you to be here at the clinic. I’m sorry.”

I stared at her stupidly. I’d just come from seeing Mario, and I had half a pound of meth in the trunk of my car. I was also extremely high. “Why not?” I asked her.

“It’s obvious you can’t stay clean. You don’t have any sober time, and I can’t allow you to put the others who come here at risk. You need more help then we can provide for you.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“First thing you need to do is call Julie and let her know of our decision.”

“What will she do?” I panicked. Things were moving too fast and none of this fit into my plans for the rest of the day. I had to meet Shadoe, Mike and Josh. I had dope to drop off and money to collect. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I just kept thinking this was really going to mess up my schedule.

She looked at me and I could see the sadness and pity in her eyes. “It’s likely she’ll put you in jail until you can get into another rehab program. That or she’ll pull your probation and impose your prison sentence.”

And that was when it finally hit me like every cliché ever written. That was my bottom. An intensive outpatient treatment program for meth addicts refused to accept me because I was so fucked up that I was too much of a risk to the other clients. How bad off was I that a clinic designed to treat meth addiction won’t accept me because I’m too far gone? I was facing prison and I couldn’t stop. I could lose my son. I
couldn’t
stop on my own. I really was a meth addict.

I’m terrified. I know I won’t quit using on my own and I’m scared to death. My sentence was seven years’ probation or a minimum of three years in prison. I can’t imagine being locked up for that long. I can’t imagine being away from Andy that long. I can’t get my mind around what’s happening. I know, though, that I
can’t go to jail in my condition.

“Can I go to detox?” I ask her. I’m not even crying. I’m just numb from shock and the realization of what I’ve done to myself. “Can I check myself into Port of Hope?”

“That’s up to Julie, but I think it’s a good idea regardless of what happens afterward. Do you want me to call her?” I nod.

She calls Julie and tells her what’s going on. I can’t get into the meth clinic, I’ve failed another UA and I’ve asked to go to Port of Hope, a detox clinic. They talk for a couple of minutes, and then Julie wants to talk to me. She’s furious, but gives me permission with the caveat that I see her immediately when I get out.

We call Port of Hope and there’s a bed available, but I have to be there in two hours or they won’t take me. The director of the clinic wishes me luck and stresses the importance of getting to detox on time. This is my last chance, she says, so don’t blow it.

I call Mike, tell him what’s going on, and ask him to help me. I’ve got half a pound of meth I need to get rid of and all my paraphernalia. My things are with him in a locked box at the hotel where he’s staying. On my way there, I call Josh and Shadoe and arrange to meet them at different places between the hotel and my parents’ house. I can’t even think about how I’m going to tell my parents. I have to deal with all this before I pack a bag to take to detox. Andy’s birthday is tomorrow, February 13, and I’m going to miss it. I’ve always had so much fun planning his birthday and making his cake. This year I haven’t even bought him a present. How the hell have I ended up here? How could I have risked everything for this drug?

“Mike, I’m dropping two ounces on you, okay?” I’m at the hotel, frantically smoking meth and I’ve got all my things laid out on the floor. I’ll meet Shadoe in half an hour in the parking lot of a grocery store. He’s got the money for the two ounces I’m giving him, and I’ll give the other four ounces to Josh. “Can you move it, or is it too much for you?”

“I can take it. I don’t have any money, though,” Mike says.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it. When you get it, call Josh and leave it with him. He’ll get it to me.” For all Josh’s faults, I trust him completely. He’s the one who will take everything else. I’ve got two scales, pipes, my bubbler and over six hundred zip lock baggies in various sizes for packaging meth. I gather everything and put it in a small duffle bag.

I’m panicky and my hands are shaking as I continue to
smoke. I know that whatever happens, this is it. I’m giving everything away and I’m done. Not because I want to quit, but because I’m at the end of the line and I have no choice if I want to keep my son and stay out of prison. I don’t know what’s going to happen after detox, but I don’t want to think about that right now. I just have to get rid of everything, collect as much money as I can and get to Port of Hope on time.

I’m shaking so bad and I start to cry a little, tears rolling down my cheeks. Mike hasn’t said much. He’s just making sure my pipe is loaded while I get everything together. When I’m done, I take three huge hits
-
maybe the biggest I’ve ever taken. I fill the room with white smoke and my head is swimming. I feel like I’m going to pass out. I put my head down for a few seconds as the feeling fades.

“Fuck, Mike,” I say, looking up at him. “I don’t want to be a fucking addict.”

“None of us do.”

I look at him in awe. This is the first time in all these years that anyone I’ve been associated with has ever said anything like this. His words pierce my heart and as I look into those amazing blue eyes, I see a deep sadness. I’ve always just taken it for granted that some people were more gone than
others
and some couldn’t handle their high but none of us have ever mentioned the word addiction. Even when I got back from rehab, Mario and the boys treated it as if I were on a mini vacation just taking a break from everything. People always assumed I would start rolling again when I got out, and they were right. Planned or not, that’s exactly what happened. Hearing Mike sum up, in four little words, all the hidden pain and sorrow that’s within us is sobering.

“I won’t be back, Mike,” I tell him. “I have to be done. I can’t risk everything anymore.”

“I know,” he says. “You take care of yourself. I love you,” he says awkwardly.

I hug him as I hand him the pipe. “I love you, too. Thank you for everything. Thanks for being there for me.” I stand and look at him. “You take care of yourself too, okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll try.”

“Be safe.” I walk out the door, leaving him for the last time.

After I see Shadoe, I meet Josh at the gas station just a few
blocks from my parents’ house. “I’m done, Josh,” I tell him.

“No! No. Where am I going to go? I don’t have anyone to help me out.”

“I talked to Mitt. You can go through him.”

“Aw, shit,” he says. “Mitt will tax me big time.”

“Josh, I don’t have time for this right now! Quit fucking whining. I didn’t even have to do that for you, but I did, so show some gratitude, for Christ’s sake.”

“Sorry,” he says handing me an envelope. “There’s three grand in there. I still owe you six. What do you want me to do?”

“Just hang on to it. Mike’s going to drop money for me with you, okay?” I look him in the eyes. “
I’m trusting
you, Josh, so pay attention. I’m changing my phone number when I get out, but I’ll call you and you better have my money.”

“I will, Kim. I swear.”

“I know, but listen.
All you know is that I went to detox, okay?
You don’t give anyone my number when you get it, or I swear to
God
I’ll have someone drive you out to the desert, and you don’t want to go there, do you?”

“Don’t worry. You know you can trust me.”

“That’s what I’m counting on. Everything is in there,” I nod toward the bag. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

At my parents’ house, I’m running around getting my things together.

“Kimberly, what are you doing?” Dad asks me.

“I have to go to detox! I have to be at Port of Hope in twenty minutes.” I’m talking so fast that I’m tripping over my own words.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I failed another UA,” I yell at him, “and I have to go to detox. What don’t you understand?” I have never spoken to my parents like this and even with all
that’s
going on, I feel a little scared to be doing so.

Mom comes to my room where I’m jamming things into a bag.
“Kimbo, slow down.
Tell us what happened.”

“I don’t have time to slow down, Mom!
I have to be there right now
,
don’t you get it
? Jesus!” I’m frantic and confused. I don’t know what to pack so I just throw a nightgown, clean shirt and some toiletries in the bag. My head is buzzing and I feel like I’m going insane. This is too much. Everything is too much and I feel
like I’m splitting apart. I feel like a Picasso painting. “I just have to go, okay?”

“Kim, you can’t drive in the condition you’re in,” my dad says. “Let me drive you.”

“No! I can
fucking
do this myself!”

“Kim,” mom says. “Let your father drive you there. There’s no reason for you to have your car there. How long will you be gone?”

“Until I’m detoxed!
Shit!” I’m angry and I don’t know why. It’s not because I’m going to Port of Hope. I don’t know why I’m so mad, but I feel like the world is ending. I just want to get the hell out of here. I need to make the deadline. I need this last chance.
“Fine.
Dad can drive me.”

We don’t talk on the way except when I give him directions. In the parking lot outside
the clinic
, I’m calmer. “Thanks, Dad,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“Just call when you’re ready to come home. I’ll come get you. I love you, Kimbo.” He looks defeated and worn out and I know it’s because of me.

“Tell Andy I love him and I’m sorry I can’t be there on his birthday, okay?” I start crying. “Hug and kiss him for me and tell him I’m sorry. I love you, Daddy.” I walk up the stairs to the office to check myself in and watch him from the window as he drives away.
I spend five days at the Port of Hope, sleeping and detoxing, just as I did when I first went to rehab.

It’s February 12, 2007, and it’s the last day I use meth. It’s the last day I used any drug. February 13 is my sober date. It’s also my son’s birthday.

Chapter 33

Meth primarily affects dopamine, the chemical in the brain that allows us to feel pleasure. The release of dopamine reinforces naturally rewarding experiences such as sex or enjoying a good meal. A shortage of dopamine results in lack of motivation and drive, severe fatigue and depression.

For example, during sex, dopamine is released into the synapse. The feelings of pleasure occur when the dopamine finds and attaches to its receptors. Any excess in the synapse when all the receptors are full is either recycled for later use or destroyed by special molecules in the brain. With long-term over-stimulation, the brain permanently destroys the dopamine receptors.

The meth molecule is almost identical in shape to that of dopamine. When meth is ingested, it stimulates the brain into releasing massive amounts of dopamine into the synapses while the meth molecule attaches itself to the dopamine receptors. That’s what causes the high. Between the dopamine and the meth molecules, the synapse becomes over-populated. Meth, then, is recycled and dopamine, destroyed. Quite simply, long-term, heavy meth use not only permanently depletes dopamine, but also destroys its receptors.

The result is self-induced mental illness resulting from physical changes to the brain. The damage can be repaired, but it takes time. The brain will eventually create new pathways, using other existing receptors, but the production of dopamine is a long process. The brain wasn’t designed to produce large amounts of the chemical. Studies show that it takes eighteen months before recovering meth addicts regain eighty percent of their normal dopamine levels. This is why the relapse rate is so high with meth addicts. It takes a long, long time before we begin to feel anywhere near normal again.

Dopamine also controls the flow of information from other areas of the brain, especially memory, attention and problem-solving tasks.

When I woke up after detoxing at the Port of Hope, I didn’t remember much of my stay other than the nurse taking my vital signs. The first time I got up to use the bathroom was the third day. On the fifth day, I dressed and went to the cafeteria to eat. The
condition for my release was that I eat a meal and attend an A.A. meeting, so I did both.

Eating was difficult, not only because I had no appetite but also because my motor skills were so impaired. I was weak and shaky from five days of inertia, and performing the simple task of dining was like a comedy of errors without the comedy. I was so weak I had to hold a glass with two hands to avoid spilling. Cutting the sandwich in half was so exhausting I didn’t bother. As before, when I detoxed at the Walker Center, my eyes were bleary, as if a thin film covered them. I was a mess, but I was sober, and I was going home.

When I read memoirs about addiction, I’m interested in the
how’s
of people’s recovery. How did you get sober? How did you stay sober? How is your life in sobriety?

How did I finally get sober? I started by admitting to myself that my life had become unmanageable, that I’m an addict and I needed help.

I chose to go the Port of Hope. Not because I wanted to get clean, but because I was at a dead-end. At first, my recovery was all about avoiding prison. I was sober a year before I
wanted
to be sober.

The first thing I did when I got home was ask my mother to drive me to GNC to buy meth test strips. I gave them to her and told her to test me whenever she wanted. I used one immediately when I got back and tested positive for meth. Meth leaves the system within 48 to 72 hours. My body was so poisoned, I didn’t test clean for six days.

Julie gave me one last chance. I saw her twice a week for the first month and a half, and then once a week for the following five months. She UA’d me every time I saw her.

The other thing I did the day I get out of detox was change my phone number. The clerk at the store transferred all my settings, including my phone book, and with my dad watching, I deleted all the numbers that had anything to do with my old life. I also had my car painted and changed the license plates. My parents’ last name is different from Andy’s and mine because of my brief marriage, so I knew that no one would be able to track me down. I broke all ties to my past life. Playgrounds and playmates.

With time, my body healed, but my cognitive functioning
took longer. I couldn’t retain information long enough to copy a sentence from one piece of paper to another and I’d forget things that happened just minutes before. It was difficult to concentrate and it took weeks before I was able to focus enough to read a book.

I went to relapse prevention group every Wednesday with seven or eight other Walker Center alums. I began to understand that my addiction is only a symptom of much larger issues, namely lack of self-esteem and a lack of self-worth. It wasn’t that I didn’t like myself
-
I hated myself. I spent a year and a half in those once-a-week sessions before I began to accept the fact that I might actually be worthy of kicking it on this spinning rock.

I had weekly one-on-one therapy sessions with the facilitator of our group, Sarah, and in her new-agey way, she helped me come to terms with my past and start to forgive myself. Babies are born perfect, she’d tell me, and with everything they need. All babies deserve love just for
being
. Why did I think I was any different? That was the hardest concept for me to grasp. I’ve never felt I deserved anything, let alone love. I agreed that other people did, but I thought so little of myself, how could anyone else love me? In time, though, Sarah led me from the darkness that filled me, into the light of possibility. “The things you are most embarrassed or ashamed about within yourself, Kim, are the things that make you so special,” she told me one day in a therapy session. I thought about that for a long time. Slowly, with help, I began to understand what she meant.

The other addicts and alcoholics in my relapse prevention group nourished me as I’d never been before. Even when I was at my most difficult
-
refusing to engage with people, bursting into tears, putting up my wall in attempt to shut everyone out
-
they gave me unconditional love. They called me on my bullshit and they pointed out the good in me and, slowly, I began to believe them. They didn’t lift me up only to drop me on my face, laughing about how stupid I was. They didn’t want anything from me. They didn’t have ulterior motives for the kindness they gave. They helped me begin to recognize the beauty that’s within me.

One night, in front of the group and without provocation, one of the men told me I was beautiful. He was happily married. He didn’t want sex, he didn’t want something from me and he wasn’t lying to me just so he could say, “Gotcha’! Ah ha ha ha ha...I can’t believe you’re so dumb that you fell for that. Hey, guys, she fell for it again!”

The night, for the first time in my life, I accepted the compliment rather than negating it. I felt like the little girl in
Little Miss Sunshine
, when her grandpa tells her he thinks she’s the most beautiful girl in the world, “and it’s not because of your brains or personality,” he said. I choked on my tears when I heard those words.

Jill, my boss, is probably the most confident woman I’ve ever met. She’s the smartest, prettiest, most fascinating person in the room. Just ask her. One day I said to her, “I’d give anything to have a tenth of the confidence you have, Jill. Where does that come from?”

“When I was growing up,” she said, “my parents always told me I was the smartest, prettiest, most wonderful little girl in the world, so I believed them.”

When she told me that, my heart clenched in my chest and crept into my throat. I believe it’s possible to mourn the loss of something you’ve never had. It wasn’t that my parents told me otherwise, it’s that they told me nothing. And in the absence of anything, I assumed the worst.

Every day since he was born, I’ve told Andy how handsome he is. I tell him he’s the smartest, funniest, strongest little boy (and now man,) in the world. I tell him I love him multiple times a day, and I shower him with hugs and kisses. I’m conscious of what I’m doing, but it wasn’t a decision I made. I can’t imagine withholding that from him. It comes so naturally, it would be alien for me not to. Andy’s a lot like Jill. He has no doubts about himself, no insecurities, no self-loathing. He’s the smartest, handsomest, most fascinating guy in the room. Just ask him.

The group reminded me of my best qualities. Hearing everyone’s story and encouraging each other through recovery made me feel not so alone. People in the group relapsed and came back. They went to jail and came back. We called each other when we were having a hard time or when the cravings got particularly bad. We helped each other heal. We loved each other.

They helped me understand what Sarah meant about my best qualities being those of which I’m most embarrassed by. I’ve always been ashamed of my lack of control over my emotions. I’ve always suppressed my intelligence, worried that people would think I was pompous or arrogant. I cry and laugh more easily and more often than anyone know. I constantly worry about what other people think of me and I base my self-worth on the acceptance of
others. If someone likes me, it means I’m okay. If someone doesn’t, it’s because I’m disgusting, stupid or just a plain old geek. It doesn’t even matter whether or not I like them.

I just want to be like everyone else. I look at people walking around at the mall or sitting in restaurants and they all seem so at ease with themselves. It’s as if everyone else has figured out the secret to life, and I’ll never be privy to it. I’ve always compared the way I feel on the inside to how other people seem on the outside, creating unrealistic expectations.

Julie ordered me to take Cognitive Self Change, a two-part, long term series of classes designed to help a person change present thinking patterns that can lead to anti-social behavior. The focus is on taking responsibility for one’s behavior. It doesn’t matter what’s happened to me as much as how I’ve chosen to act and react to the world. There are three parts to any behavior:  the antecedent, or what happened immediately prior to the behavior; the behavior itself; and the consequence, or outcome. The goal in CSC is to examine past behavior in order to anticipate and plan for future behavior. For example, if I spend time with people I know who are still using meth, and someone pulls out a pipe and hands it to me, I have the choice to smoke or not smoke the drug, but the first mistake I’ve made is putting myself in the situation to begin with.

It doesn’t matter how I was potty trained, how my parents punished me when I was a little girl, or whether or not I have an Oedipus complex. What matters is that I am responsible for my behavior and I need to be conscious and purposeful about the life I want to live.

In essence, I got sober by giving up my perceived control, and doing what people told me to do. I kept doing the next right thing.

How do I stay sober? I respect my addiction.

I make it a conscious decision every day. With four years of sobriety, am I cured? Not by a long shot. I can honestly say that I don’t know what I would do if I were in a situation where someone passed me a loaded pipe. I’d like to think I could just say no, but I’m not sure.

I respect my addiction by not becoming complacent. I don’t associate with people who use, I don’t allow myself to be in a situation where there’s any chance of drugs being present, and I don’t forget how difficult it was for me to get clean. The day I say,
“I’m no longer an addict. I’ll never touch meth again,” is the day I’m in trouble. So I don’t think that way. I’m honest with myself: I don’t know what I’d do, so I do everything I can to keep from having to make that decision. That doesn’t mean my sobriety is weak, far from it. It means I’m strong enough to take care of myself. Finally.

What’s my life like now? Better, of course. What would you expect me to say? It’s true, though. I finally have a semblance of peace. But quitting meth was by far the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.

I nearly destroyed my brain, and since I had a chemical imbalance to begin with (depression/bi-polar) the results were catastrophic.

Sarah referred me to a psych nurse who worked with me to find the right combination of mood stabilizers and anti-depressants. It took months to get the cocktail right, and there were times I was suicidal. Four years later, I still see her regularly and sometimes my meds need to be adjusted. It’s an ongoing process and I’ll need medication for the rest of my life.

I still have using dreams. I had them nearly every night for the first year. In them, I’d be in the middle of using or on a binge, when I realized I’d blown it. All the progress I’d made, all the hard work, gone. I would be terrified and wake up sweaty, shaking and crying, sometimes for a couple of hours afterward. I was still with my parents then, and they were my saviors. As heart wrenching as it was for them, they listened to me. They listened as I described my dreams. They let me talk until the images and feelings of failure faded away.

They listened without comment when I had cravings, which were continual for months. I still have cravings for meth and using dreams sometimes. I don’t know that they’ll ever go away, and maybe that’s a good thing. They’re reminders of what’s waiting for me if I were ever to go back to using. They help me to remember and respect my addiction.