Monday, May 01, 2006
Coming up on my 17- year clean and sober anniversary, I thought I would share a little piece I wrote about the subject:
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I am such an addict. Like so many others, my drug of choice is “more”. If I ever need to be reminded, all I have to do is go back to New Year’s Eve 1982. It was our Annual Mom’s-Gone-Away-to-Florida party. Most of the kids had stumbled off for the night but a few die-hards remained slouched around the kitchen table at 2 or 3 in the morning. There was a knock on the door and in walked Jonathan. He was an odd one. I mean, what kind of 30-year-old guy shows up to hang out with a bunch of high school seniors in the wee hours of the morning? Only one kind of guy and because he had access to really good drugs, I, for one, was glad to see him.
“I’ve got some new stuff.”
“ Yes!” I exclaimed with victorious glee. Whatever Nancy Reagan was telling us to just say was far, far away from my thoughts.
“But I don’t know if you can handle it.”
He reached teasingly into his inner coat pocket.
I was 16. Was there anything that I hadn’t been able to handle? Was there anything that I didn’t want to try, if given the chance?
“I can handle it.”
My friends shifted in their chairs. Beer. Tequila. The worm. That was a good time. This was different. Someone may have murmured, “ Hey-I don’t know about this.”
“It’s strong stuff.”
“How strong?”
“Curiously strong.”
I was more than a little intrigued.
“I want two.”
More shifting of chairs. My friends were nervous at the prospect of witnessing an overdose. They knew how wild and crazy I was.
Jonathan pulled the tin from his pocket. He opened the lid to reveal so many little white pills! He handed me just one and I popped it in my mouth immediately with no hesitation whatsoever. Before I could swallow it with the last of the champagne, I felt the heat in my nose. I instinctively spit it out.
“What the hell?!”
My tongue was on fire.
“It’s an Altoid. Haven’t you heard of them?”
Obviously, Portland, Maine was sheltered from the advertising world of fine mints.
Oh – yes – my friends all had a good laugh on me. And I got a glimpse of just what a dangerous drug demon I had become.
-------------
That piece stands alone, but I wanted to mention what an honor it has been to have my dear, long-time friend Joe stay with us this week. She is a recovering junkie and a self-proclaimed loony person who has managed to recently get off the heroine AND the methadone. Because the surgeon won't remove the golf-ball sized tumor from her !heart! before her liver functions are normalized, she has recently given up “drinking poison” as well.
It might be easy to write off someone like Joe if all you saw was "crazy junkie." Sure, she's lived on the streets and sold people's trash on the sidewalk. Sure, she has been convicted of crime and is, indeed, mentally unstable. Sure she has stolen and lied and seen people OD next to her and so what if she is HIV positive and has both Hep B and Hep C but hardly any teeth? She is probably the most brilliant person I know. She is funny and talented and nurturing and kind-hearted and fascinating. I think she is beautiful - even if the drugs have made her look many years older than she actually is.
She remembers EVERYTHING. Everything, except, sometimes, what she just said. Her short-term memory is kind of shot. But she can remember every lyric to every song she has ever heard. She can give me a conversation verbatim from 25 years ago with all the surrounding details to boot. She can put Emily Dickenson poems to the tune of the Yellow Rose of Texas and she knows feminist herstory like the back of her hand. Even the dirt.
She owns rats and volunteers at a bird rescue center, feeding fledgling eagles and sparrows. She has tattooed herself with both a sewing needle and her own tattoo gun (which, unfortunately, was confiscated during a police raid). She takes milkweed extract for her liver and she likes to garden. She sings ballads from the 17th century and has a way with animals. She draws funny creatures and tells me stories of her fundamentalist upbringing that make my hair stand on end even while I am laughing hysterically at the delivery.
Her battle with addiction and the diseases it has brought with it is both heart breaking and inspiring to watch. I am so glad that I never gave up on her. I am so glad that she never gave up on me. I am so glad that, at this point, we have each other in our lives.
In addition to being a good friend, she informs me about myself and has helped me to see the places where I have slid in my own sobriety. I don't even know if I can actually say that I am clean and sober for 16 years. I have joked about being a benedryl junkie in the chemo clinic. Benedryl is what they gave me when my skin was falling apart, hoping to keep allergic reactions from happening and to just knock me out of my misery. Mixed with the pain meds, I got pretty loopy - nodding off in classic smack addict fashion. I stay as clear away from any med as I possibly can now. It’s just safer that way – even if it means dealing with pain. I would rather be in pain than be dulled.
But as I watch Joe nod off (some of her meds still cause this loopy in-and-out-of-it state) I definitely remember being there. And what is the difference between something I cop on the corner to shoot in my arm and something my insurance paid for and was put in my central line? A prescription? A doctor? Is that enough?
Obviously I still wrestle with those drug demons. Any addict does.
How spectacular it is that I can wrestle them with a clear mind and an open heart. How amazing it is that I can wrestle alongside my friend Joe.
-------
I am such an addict. Like so many others, my drug of choice is “more”. If I ever need to be reminded, all I have to do is go back to New Year’s Eve 1982. It was our Annual Mom’s-Gone-Away-to-Florida party. Most of the kids had stumbled off for the night but a few die-hards remained slouched around the kitchen table at 2 or 3 in the morning. There was a knock on the door and in walked Jonathan. He was an odd one. I mean, what kind of 30-year-old guy shows up to hang out with a bunch of high school seniors in the wee hours of the morning? Only one kind of guy and because he had access to really good drugs, I, for one, was glad to see him.
“I’ve got some new stuff.”
“ Yes!” I exclaimed with victorious glee. Whatever Nancy Reagan was telling us to just say was far, far away from my thoughts.
“But I don’t know if you can handle it.”
He reached teasingly into his inner coat pocket.
I was 16. Was there anything that I hadn’t been able to handle? Was there anything that I didn’t want to try, if given the chance?
“I can handle it.”
My friends shifted in their chairs. Beer. Tequila. The worm. That was a good time. This was different. Someone may have murmured, “ Hey-I don’t know about this.”
“It’s strong stuff.”
“How strong?”
“Curiously strong.”
I was more than a little intrigued.
“I want two.”
More shifting of chairs. My friends were nervous at the prospect of witnessing an overdose. They knew how wild and crazy I was.
Jonathan pulled the tin from his pocket. He opened the lid to reveal so many little white pills! He handed me just one and I popped it in my mouth immediately with no hesitation whatsoever. Before I could swallow it with the last of the champagne, I felt the heat in my nose. I instinctively spit it out.
“What the hell?!”
My tongue was on fire.
“It’s an Altoid. Haven’t you heard of them?”
Obviously, Portland, Maine was sheltered from the advertising world of fine mints.
Oh – yes – my friends all had a good laugh on me. And I got a glimpse of just what a dangerous drug demon I had become.
-------------
That piece stands alone, but I wanted to mention what an honor it has been to have my dear, long-time friend Joe stay with us this week. She is a recovering junkie and a self-proclaimed loony person who has managed to recently get off the heroine AND the methadone. Because the surgeon won't remove the golf-ball sized tumor from her !heart! before her liver functions are normalized, she has recently given up “drinking poison” as well.
It might be easy to write off someone like Joe if all you saw was "crazy junkie." Sure, she's lived on the streets and sold people's trash on the sidewalk. Sure, she has been convicted of crime and is, indeed, mentally unstable. Sure she has stolen and lied and seen people OD next to her and so what if she is HIV positive and has both Hep B and Hep C but hardly any teeth? She is probably the most brilliant person I know. She is funny and talented and nurturing and kind-hearted and fascinating. I think she is beautiful - even if the drugs have made her look many years older than she actually is.
She remembers EVERYTHING. Everything, except, sometimes, what she just said. Her short-term memory is kind of shot. But she can remember every lyric to every song she has ever heard. She can give me a conversation verbatim from 25 years ago with all the surrounding details to boot. She can put Emily Dickenson poems to the tune of the Yellow Rose of Texas and she knows feminist herstory like the back of her hand. Even the dirt.
She owns rats and volunteers at a bird rescue center, feeding fledgling eagles and sparrows. She has tattooed herself with both a sewing needle and her own tattoo gun (which, unfortunately, was confiscated during a police raid). She takes milkweed extract for her liver and she likes to garden. She sings ballads from the 17th century and has a way with animals. She draws funny creatures and tells me stories of her fundamentalist upbringing that make my hair stand on end even while I am laughing hysterically at the delivery.
Her battle with addiction and the diseases it has brought with it is both heart breaking and inspiring to watch. I am so glad that I never gave up on her. I am so glad that she never gave up on me. I am so glad that, at this point, we have each other in our lives.
In addition to being a good friend, she informs me about myself and has helped me to see the places where I have slid in my own sobriety. I don't even know if I can actually say that I am clean and sober for 16 years. I have joked about being a benedryl junkie in the chemo clinic. Benedryl is what they gave me when my skin was falling apart, hoping to keep allergic reactions from happening and to just knock me out of my misery. Mixed with the pain meds, I got pretty loopy - nodding off in classic smack addict fashion. I stay as clear away from any med as I possibly can now. It’s just safer that way – even if it means dealing with pain. I would rather be in pain than be dulled.
But as I watch Joe nod off (some of her meds still cause this loopy in-and-out-of-it state) I definitely remember being there. And what is the difference between something I cop on the corner to shoot in my arm and something my insurance paid for and was put in my central line? A prescription? A doctor? Is that enough?
Obviously I still wrestle with those drug demons. Any addict does.
How spectacular it is that I can wrestle them with a clear mind and an open heart. How amazing it is that I can wrestle alongside my friend Joe.
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