Rach on Meth
One of the things I had hoped to be able to say at the end of all of this was that I left A.A.; did not end up in jail, dead or in an institution. Unfortunately, this is not the case. Although I have managed to avoid jail (barely), I have been institutionalized several times in the past few years. I'll admit it. I am a red hot mess. I'm lucky I am still alive, actually.
When I lived in Las Vegas, at the height of my partying days, I used a lot of cocaine. My dealer tried to get me to try meth/crystal/crank/dope/speed several times, but I refused because I considered it to be a "white-trash" drug. It crossed my path twice, through other people, yet I was too drunk to realize it's full effect.
The second time I did it, I was leaving Las Vegas for Cleveland. I couldn't score any coke, so I went to my neighbor who offered speed. I asked for $60 worth, which was a lot back then. All I remember about it was that I was able to pack my two bedroom apartment in, like, thirty seconds, even though I'd been drinking. Also, I ended up with more than I could ever do before I left, so I threw it away in the dumpster.
The next time I ran into meth was five or six years later, around the same time when I met Sherlock at an A.A. wedding. This was just after my A.A. sponsor had physically assaulted me and, a few weeks after I left the program for good. I was blissfully enjoying marijuana, instead of pills to manage my issues. I had no intention of ever doing anything else again.
Unfortunately, good intentions do not always work out.
The newlyweds asked me to house sit. I knew the husband from the Ocean Beach Club House. He and I got sober together during my final stint in the halls. He was an avid cult attendee who claimed six years of continuous sobriety, went to meetings every single day, sponsored people and, he collected yearly tokens for his "sobriety."
Imagine my shock, when I found meth and a pipe in their bedroom.
It happened quite innocently. Their house was a wreck, thanks to busy lives and kids who never cleaned up after themselves. I took it upon myself to clean the filthy place as a wedding present. When I got to their bedroom, I saw a wooden box on the dresser. It had a lock of hair in a baggie that was half hanging out, keeping it somewhat open. All I meant to do was to close it properly.
There it was. Meth. A pipe. Me. Alone. Completely sober.
Three hours passed while I argued with myself about what to do. I really did not want to do it, but I wondered what it would be like.
Curiosity won the battle. I spent God knows how many hours smoking the stuff for the first time by itself. The feeling it gave me was incredible. I couldn't believe it. Dope stopped the world as I knew it to be an overwhelming amount of auditory and visual stimulation. I could focus on one thing at a time for the first time in years! It felt like a gift.
When the couple returned from their holiday, I told them what happened. The, supposedly, "sober" husband got a big kick out of the fact that he turned me on to his drug of choice. He asked if I got laid while I was on it. I didn't. He introduced me to his dealer. Game on.
It did not take long for me to realize this drug could be the death of me. I left the bay area without any intention to ever, ever do that shit again.
I've had my runs with several substances in my life; however, there is something about this drug that makes me believe it came directly from Satan. It seems that once you open that door, it's everywhere. As long as I was willing to do it, there it was. I could not get away, until I was finally forced to.
Up until my mother tossed me into the streets, I only dabbled with the drug here and there because I had my substance abuse under control. My feelings where in check. I was doing something positive with my life. I planned to talk about it someday, but never expected things to end up the way they have.
I used meth in Vegas while I was trapped in that seedy motel where the pimps tried to turn me out. I honestly believe this drug gave me the courage I needed to fight them off. I justified the money I spent on speed with the fact that I only used funds provided by a man who stalked me on my blog.
I talk more about this in my book Viperize Me, which I am finally in the position to write! *holla!*
At that time, I became convinced that I would have committed suicide, if it weren't for the fact that I left Alcoholics Anonymous. Although I knew crystal was no good for me, I took solace in the fact that I did not feel powerless over it. I was making a choice to do something that gave me the strength I needed to tell those guys to fuck off.
Had I been in twelve step hell, I would have submit to powerlessness, felt horrible about myself and, most likely, followed the protocol set by THE CULT, which would have given me every reason to become a prostitute and to die in the streets.
Instead, I kept my head high. Stayed out of the mix, then got as far away from the situation as I could.
Asheville has a very strict police force. Moving here made me get clean for the simple fact that the culture is so incredibly different from out west. I never worried that I may get arrested as a small time user in Vegas or California. The cops out there seem to have bigger fish to fry. I cannot say for sure, but it feels to me that there are more cops than civillians in this town who have nothing better to do than to find reasons to bust people.
I respect that. I stopped engaging in any illegal activities immediately for the simple fact that I cannot handle police interactions at all, ever. Aside from chance opportunities to smoke pot with close friends who were generous to share what I was too scared to purchase myself and a few beers here and there, I stayed clean.
Then, Tolstoy died.
Sadly, I think my pug was the love of my life.
I've never felt a hurt so deep.
It was more than I could bear.
I had to numb it.
It started with the white powders that used to be available over the counter in various smoke shops around Asheville. I couldn't handle life without them.
The plans I based my relocation to California on fell through because I let the asshole I mention above convince me to move back to the bay area with a promise that I could stay on his boat until I found a place to live. By the time I arrived, he said it was too much to ask him to pick me up at the airport.
This is the same man who told me Sherlock was awesome, then apologized for his part in the utter destruction of my heart (and sex life) when we broke up. He spent years trying to convince me to sleep with him (13 stepper), then begged me to join his marriage, as a second wife, with hopes that I would bear a child for them.
Yet, my simple request for a ride to his house from the airport was too much to ask?
He didn't tell me that he had docked his boat due to his inability to pay the fee until after I arrived. I began my journey south when our plans fell through with a stop on the way that opened up the devil's door again.
I ran into a tweaker, then moved to San Diego to get away from it. From there, I went to stay at my old neighbors' who had struggled to get sober in the cult for years. She and her fiancee were drinking heavily when I got there. I was not.
She was an angry drunk. One night, for no particular reason, she kicked me out. I went to their neighbor's house across the street to ask to spend the night. Although we chatted a few times, I had no idea that she was a dealer until she opened her front door to reveal several people getting high in her living room. Game on. Again.
I moved close to the border to get away from it. The dealer followed me. I managed to stay away from all drugs for six weeks when my original roommate situation did not work out. My neighbor in the second place turned me on again.
Then, I got bed-bugs.
Then, I got them again.
Then, I could not stop using dope, even though I wanted to. I shrunk down to eighty nine pounds, began hallucinating and I finally reached out to my (supposed) support system in Asheville for help when my ankles began to swell. I also shared the secret I had decided to take to my grave with a few very close, personal friends.
A dealer in Denver helped me carry my things to my hotel room. I was robbed three times in less than a few weeks before I got on the bus to Asheville, minus a lot of money and my favorite jewelry.
Crank has flooded the streets of this quaint place since I moved away. With weak determination, I said no. NO. NO, until it was brought to me by a man who I thought I was in love with. I quickly found out he was just a junkie, con artist. Our relationship was short lived, but the door was opened again.
I skated the line in a place where I know better. It scared me. I began drinking like a sailor, instead, because it is the only legal, safe high here.
This horror made me realize the end of a lifestyle I once thought would last forever.
The party is truly over for me.
End of story.
Alcohol brought me down harder than any drug I've ever done. I gained twenty three pounds and came out of the fog with the D.T.'s for the first time ever. I ran out of Klonopin at the same time, which has been sheer hell, but I got through the worst part just fine.
The law of possession in North Carolina states that a person must have drugs on their person or, be able to conceal it in some way.
Neither applies to me because I was found by the police outside, in broad daylight, absolutely naked. A good lawyer could have made this go away, regardless of whatever happened. It is the unfortunate state of the United States Justice System that money talks.
Yes, I could appeal the judge's decision, but the risk involved because of my past behavior, coupled with my current mental state, is more than I can handle without proper representation and very little support.
One more thing to note here is that my public pretender failed to tell me that my charges would have been dismissed, had I pressed charges against the guy for using my debit card. I would have fought through my phobias to get this done, had I been informed.
Since February of 2011, I've developed a serious, debilitating panic disorder which continues to get worse, while I remain untreated.
This, on top of my intense police phobia, is more than I can deal with on my own. I have no choice but to accept what has happened, with immense gratitude for the fact that I broke out of my drinking habit and that I no longer need or want to use substances to cope with my pains. I'm done.
I've been off meth for close to six months.
The booze finally got old a few weeks ago.
There is a silver lining to all of this.
Make no mistake about the fact that I know I need help. I've been traumatized repeatedly all of my life, deeply in the last three years - my substance abuse did not help. I won't attempt to deny the truth of the matter any longer.
Although I have been unable to get all the help I need in Asheville, I do have a fantastic therapist whom I have been completely honest with about everything, including my substance abuse. He is on the same page as me when it comes to the cult.
With that aside, I've been able to examine myself from a different point of view.
He believes that I have been misdiagnosed with bi-polar disorder based on my brain's reaction to meth amphetamine and the adverse experiences I've had with medications used to treat that illness. I, literally, turn into the exorcist chick on bi-polar medication. It's scary.
My therapist is a brilliant P.h.d. who is the first medical professional I've ever trusted with the whole truth, nothing but the truth about every single detail of myself, which, according to him, provides a text-book example of a person with A.D.D. or A.D.H.D.
No wonder why stimulants where always so attractive to me! Now that I understand my problem, I no longer have to break the law in order to self medicate! Here is to H-O-P-E!!!
It is a tragedy that I got arrested; however, this is a turning point in my life. I am sorry if I disappointed ya, but I want you to know that I am, finally, without any doubt, going to be OKAY.
I have no idea what the mandatory substance abuse assessment will bring to my life. I'm gonna laugh my ass off if I am forced to go back to THE CULT! Won't that be a trip?
You know I'll write all about it! Ha ha.
No matter what, YOU CANNOT TRUST THEM STEPPERS!
Until Next Time,
My next post will be about some of the tools I'm using to truly recover from my supposed "recovery" in Alcoholics Anonymous.