When My Fortune Cookies Were Empty, Continued.

So, I've told you about when I went to rehab, and how I landed at a half way house. Are you ready to hear more?

Well, hold onto your horses. Here comes the ride of a lifetime.

I woke up one day, safe and sound in Rehab, and was advised that I was being discharged that day because my insurance company didn't want to pay any further. They suggested I stay, but I would have to pay out of pocket, as this was a private facility, not a state run type at the county hospital. Back then, the cost of rehab was over 12,00.00 a day and I was a junkie. I couldn't come up with that kind of money. Not for the amount of time they wanted me to stay there. So the decision was made that I would be dismissed into a halfway house, still taking detox medications. One of the rules at the house was to go to a 12 step meeting every day. No matter what. So the day my friend from rehab and I arrived at the house, we were ushered directly to an AA meeting. It was an upstairs meeting and I was still doped up on the detox medication (Phenobarbital) to try to keep me from having withdrawal seizures as well as my other meds for normal control of everything from anxiety to depression and seizures. I went to that house loaded. Leaving that AA meeting that night I was an hour late for my evening dose and already getting pretty loopy and shaky. I missed a step and WHAM! Down I went. It was just the last two or three steps that I tumbled down…and oddly enough, I really didn't feel a thing. I scraped my knees and elbows up but all in all, I was simply disoriented. I was a 23 year old, drug addict, loser.

The first few days at the house it was just my rehab buddy, me and another girl who had been living in the house for several months already. Those days were great. Then more girls started moving in. And more. And more. Soon I found myself living with five other recovering addicts/alcoholic women of varying ages and varying backgrounds. We had the future soccer mom, the artsy photographer, the country girl trying to come out of the closet, me the GAY AND PROUD DYKE and REBEL ( I know, funny how we change as we age, huh?) We had the Yuppie and the ex prostitute. Think Facts of Life, on crack.

Needless to say, many a personality conflict occurred in that house. Needless to say, there were many a tear shed in that house. Needless to say, there were very close bonds formed in that house too.

I was a twisted, messed up kid when I left that house. I was mean, resentful, and scornful to the owner/manager. I blamed her for my mistakes. I would see her five years later when I entered rehab for my second time, she worked at the facility, and I would avoid conversation with her, opting to glare and condemn her with my piercing stares instead. It took a long time for me to realize that she helped me more than almost anyone in my path at that time.

We had good times and rough times in that halfway house. I both loved it and hated it and I still do. But I can look back at my time there, and both honestly and gratefully say that it helped form who I am today, and that is nothing to be regretful about by any means.

When you are in a period like that in your life, everything is new. Emotions are raw and buried forgotten stuff is festering up to the surface. It's really not the best time to try to engage in meaningful relationships. Not romantic ones, for sure. So like the good student I was, I fell in love right away.

I couldn't help it. I'd met the most wonderful woman. She was independent, exotic, in recovery, and best of all, she was a chef. She was unlike anything I had ever seen or known at that time.

It was complicated, as those situations always are. So when I inevitably relapsed and subsequently got myself evicted from the halfway house, I first moved in with the soccer mom, who had also recently left the halfway house, but I found her there in a less than sober scene, and since I truly was trying to get myself right, I didn't stay long at all.

I moved out of there and into my girlfriend's apartment. We had only been dating a couple of months, and I was moving in because we simply couldn't think of another option (yeah, right!). I did promise to look for my own apartment, though, and I held true to my promise. I really wanted to live in my own space. I'd decided not to go back to where I had been before entering rehab…they (they being those in the recovery world) say you can never go back to old playgrounds, and I surely did not need to.

I stayed with that girlfriend, the chef, for a few months while I saved up some money and eventually found an apartment just down the street from her. It was walking distance, even. Not that you'd want to walk it in that neighborhood, but theoretically, it was possible.

It didn't take long for me to find myself moving further and further away from the desire to keep on the positive path I had started and leaning more and more toward my old ways.

Funny how that happens, like a tiny little weed, growing in your garden. You notice it creeping up and you think "One of these days, I'm gonna need to do something about that." Then all of a sudden, it's the very next day and that scrawny weed has taken root and engulfed the flower bed.

That's how addiction takes over, and over, and over…

I think the key is catching it early, just like that weed. Don't say "I'll deal with it tomorrow." Tomorrow's too late. Grab it by the root as soon as you see that sucker poke its nasty little head out of the ground.

But that's just my thought…

Anyways, back to the chef. She was the first love of my life. Not in that whole and completely passionate way, but in that newly found "what's this all about?" kind of way. She was quite a bit older than I was and that was a huge hindrance in our ability to effectively communicate with each other. That relationship ended and I moved on to the next, and the next which landed me in the spot of moving to California and I've already told you that story.

Later, when I'm up to it, and if you want it, I'll give you the story of going to rehab for my last time.

Take a Walk With Me

I know I’ve told you that I’ve been there, but did I ever tell you how I landed in rehab?
It’s a funny story. Really. Well, OK, maybe not funny , ha-ha, more like funny, hmmmmm. Wanna hear about it? Yeah, I thought you would. We always like to hear about other people’s screw ups, don’t we? It helps us to feel better about ourselves. I don’t mind sharing my screw ups with the interwebs…maybe, just maybe it will help someone else. If not, eh, at least someone might get a laugh out of it.
The first time I found myself in rehab is a bit of a blurr. Go figure. I had been trying to get myself off of Xanax, hydrocodone and cocaine for quite some time. My best efforts were futile, as they usually are in those situations. Somehow or another, I ended up with a liter of vodka tucked into my purse, sitting on the sofa at my therapist’s office, taking swigs and popping pills…
I guess at some point, you just stop trying to hide what you’re doing. That was the point I had reached. At this stage in my life, I had been taking the benzodiazepines (xanax) for over ten years, every single day for about 7. The hydrocodone (Lortab) was coming in second at around 5 years, and I had been snorting cocaine on and off for only about three. Usually, when I tell people I went to rehab for xanax, lortab and cocaine, they immediately think that cocaine was the worst to get off of. Let me be the first to tell you it was by and far, the easiest. Maybe that was because I had been on it the least amount of time. Maybe it was because cocaine is not physically addictive like the others. All I know is that my body reacted to the lack of benzodiazepines in a way that I could not have ever in a million years anticipated. Combine that with the physical withdrawal from the Lortab, and I was one miserable Cookie for quite a while.
At that time, I was in my early twenties, my seizures had just begun to be diagnosed by my physician, but I simply attributed it to my “partying.” Now, keep in mind, I was having seizures that I assumed were from “partying” too much, but I did nothing at all to slow down my intake of the substances that I fully believed were the cause of those very seizures. Instead, I decided to increase the amount of xanax I was using, because I knew that it was an anticonvulsant. Just call me Dr. Fortune Cookies!
Little did I know that by doing so, I was prolonging my detox time, prolonging my withdrawal, and increasing my dependence on the higher dose to maintain seizure free living.
I remember very little of the actual day I arrived at rehab. I remember that my therapist called someone to come get me. I remember waking up, or rather coming to, and realizing that I was in a moving vehicle and reaching for the steering wheel in a panic…I thought I was driving. When my hands hit the dash board, I looked around, saw I was in the passenger seat, saw who was driving, and nodded off again.
I remember walking up the sidewalk and laughing because it seemed to be so winding and curvy…I’d had some enlightened thought about the road to the straight and narrow not being so straight…
I remember throwing up in a trashcan in someone’s office. I wish I knew who’s so I could apologize to them, although I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one to have done that in there. And I’m pretty sure my vomit is the least of their worries as far as the unintentional release of bodily fluids goes. I remember having a photo taken very shortly after that for my in house ID, which I still have somewhere… (and NO, I will not be sharing that one with you) and I remember climbing into a bed.
The next thing that memory grants me is the recollection of the pain in my muscles, the pain in my gut, a desperate need for air and the nagging, ominous feeling that I was never, ever going to make it out of this place alive. Impending, certain death was accompanied by the familiar coolness of the porcelain of my rehab bathroom toilet against my face. I remember the shrill voice of the obnoxious nurse who told me to get up off the floor and get back to bed. And how she seemed to glare at me when she said something about the mess I’d made…She may have been as sweet as pie, but at that moment, with how I felt, and what was going on, she was Satan, reincarnate.
A few days later, when I was out of my bed and ready to socialize, I made my way to group room.
Right away I befriended the only other lesbian in there and we became tight, from day one. She was a few days ahead of me into her detox and we had a lot in common from childhood experiences to drugs of choice.
We even went to the same half way house. Did I ever tell you that I lived in a halfway house? I did. It was called YANA, which stood for You Are Never Alone. Believe me, at YANA, you were NEVER alone. NEVER. I got the boot from YANA, but my time there helped pave the way. I have to give props where props are due.
One of these days, I’ll have to tell you about living at that halfway house with six other female, recovering addicts. And about going back to rehab for second and third times. Ah but those are stories for another day.

Taking Care of Me

I've been through withdrawals. Trust me, I know what it's like for every cell of your body to ache for that chemical that you've been pumping into it for years on end, day after day, hour after hour.
I know the hunger of addiction.
I know the loneliness, the desperation, the hopelesness, and worst of all, the apathy.
It sucks you in, leaves room for no one and nothing else. Not even love, family, art...

I suppose that's why I get so frightened sometimes when I think about how I used to be...where I used to be...why I used to be there.
I never want to live that way again. I never want to be that person again and I sometimes wish I never had been her in the first place.

On the other hand, without those experiences, how could I be who I am today? How could I hold the empathy and passion for life that I now know? Could anyone who hasn't seen what I've seen possibly know what I know?
I've yet so much to learn in this life, and I hope that I remain open to learning each lesson as it comes.
It's been seven years now since I went to rehab for the third time in my life.
Yet for the past week, I've had almost every symptom of withdrawal I ever had in the first month of being clean, all those years ago.
I know it's completely psycho-somatic at this stage...but it's bothersome.
Such deep thoughts for a sun-shiny Sunday morning, I know...
See...this is what happens to me when it's been too long since I've had an outlet. I've not had the opportunity to paint or really write since I lost my job. I've kept myself busy cleaning house and baking cookies and doing school papers. Distractions.
Yesterday, I found myself in a bit of a funk. In talking it over with Wifester, I announced, " I think I'm just depressed..."
Eventually, I confessed " I just need to paint. I haven't painted in so long." To which she responded, " What's stopping you? Go paint! You'll feel so much better..."
Why haven't I painted? For one thing, I've blocked off access to my little painting area with piles of boxes of stuff to be yard saled, stuff to be taken to Goodwill, and other things that still need to be sorted through. Secondly, I seem to do that to myself when I feel not worthy doing what I enjoy the most. I take it away from myself.
I decided that it was worth my sanity to clear a pathway to my easel, and make use of it.
I started on this, I'm a bit undecided where this will end up going, but I like the way it has started...and I feel sooooo much better.
Funny how that works.