That was it.
I quit crying and realized I felt better - emotionally exhausted but hopeful.
I called Jill the next day to tell her I was going away for a month. I didn’t know what I should tell her. Dad suggested I tell her I was checking into Intermountain Hospital to save myself the humiliation of letting her know I was going to rehab, but I wanted to finally admit everything to her - what really happened during the arrest, that I thought maybe I had a drug problem and I was going to rehab. I didn’t want to do it, but I felt bad about keeping everything from her. I was tired of hiding and tired of secrets. I just wanted to be honest.
“Jill,” I said. My voice was shaking. I was scared of what she would think of me. “I need to take the next month off. I’m going away for a little while.”
“Kim,” she says in a sharp voice that reminds me of my mother. “Do not tell me what I think you’re going to.” I knew she thought I was about to tell her I’d been lying about my arrest. What else would give her cause to react the way she did? But she’s not stupid. There’s no way she could really think I was innocent. She knew the police found drugs in my bag, not just supposedly on the floor of my car. Her denial infuriated me even though I’d encouraged her ignorance. Just as with my parents, though, people believe what they want to. No one wanted to believe that I was meth addict, and they sure as hell didn’t want to believe I was dealing meth. I don’t blame them. It’s a tough situation to be in on either side. I don’t know that I wouldn’t have acted any differently, but it suddenly felt like a very bad time to come clean with Jill.
“No, no,” I said quickly. “I’m checking myself into Intermountain Hospital. I’ve just been under so much stress lately with my court date coming up and Allan and everything.”
She sounded relieved. “Oh, Kim. I think that’s great! It will give you some time to relax. Hey! You’ll be just like Mariah Carey. Just taking a thirty day break to re-energize.”
Yep. Just like Mariah.
I felt awful letting her believe it, but I didn’t feel as though I had a choice. I didn’t want her to hate me and I knew from the beginning of the call what her reaction to the truth would have been.
By that time in my life, I assumed that anyone who knew the truth about me would hate me. It made perfect sense, considering I knew the whole truth, and I hated myself.
Chapter 22
The car is idling out front with the passenger-side door open. Andy and my parents are waiting to take me to the Walker Center and I can’t stop getting high. I’ve been up all night frantically getting rid of the last pound of meth. My plan is to get rid of everything - scale, paraphernalia, dope - so when I come home there will be no temptation. I’ve fronted most of it out, but collected enough to pay off Mario, so I know there will be money for me when I get home.
I’m not smoking the last of my meth, I’m breathing it. I’ve loaded the bowl with the biggest of the three rocks I’ve saved for myself. It’s almost full and I have to be careful not to let the liquid spill. There’s at least a teener in it and I’m smoking - breathing it in as fast as I can. The only breaths I take are filled with my last high. I want to finish the bowl and my last two rocks before I leave so the house will be clean for my return from rehab.
It’s seven-thirty and Allan isn’t up yet, or at least I haven’t seen him.
My dungeon-room is a mess - papers and books across the floor and desk, clothes strewn all over the unmade bed that I haven’t laid in for days. It reeks of cigarettes and that indescribable biting chemical smell that only comes from burning pure meth, even though my window is open. My suitcase is already in the car, which is still idling with the door open. I don’t know if they know I’m in here having my last hurrah. If they do, they won’t say anything. They’ll tell themselves I’m just late - as usual. I’ve been late for family dinners, holidays, parent-teacher conferences, licensing exams, classes, finals, interviews, jobs, dates, awards ceremonies (where I was the recipient), airplanes, time changes, you name it. I was late for my grandmother’s funeral where I was to read the eulogy I had written. They couldn’t start without me.
I’m still inhaling the smoke with mad desperation like gasping for last breaths on my deathbed. I’m trying to get high enough to go to rehab, but I can never get high enough. I feel like I’m going to pass out because I’m hyperventilating the smoke. Dad’s impatiently honking and I know I have to leave, but the bowl’s not empty yet and there are two rocks left. It doesn’t occur to me to get rid of them. The thought honestly never enters my mind. I stash them in the nightstand thinking I’ll just sell them when I get home. I still haven’t seen Allan, but I hear him in the shower. He knows what time I’m leaving and he hasn’t come say goodbye. I walk out the front door, slamming it as hard as I can (a ridiculously childish, “fuck you,”) and climb in the back seat next to Andy.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say. “I just had to clean up a few things.”
“You nervous?” asks mom.
“Yeah, but I’m okay.” Sure I am. I’m always okay. I’m so high it hurts to breathe and I’m still not high enough for this trip.
“I’m proud of you, Kimbo. You’re doing the right thing.”
This is what makes them proud of me - going to rehab. Never mind everything it took to get me to this point. Never mind anything else I’ve ever done in my life. This is what makes them proud. At first, I’m touched. They’re proud of me. Then, irritation sets in, and I’m thinking, “Fuck you. You’ve never been proud of me for anything else, why start now?”
I’m so happy to see Andy. He’s been staying with my parents for the past three days so I could prepare myself for rehab. It was their idea, but I was grateful. I didn’t want him to feel the energy of desperation in the house.
“Hey, bug!”
“Oh, essa Mom. Yes!” and he wiggles next to me in the backseat.
“I love you so much, I’ll sing you a song, that says: I love you, I love you, and I guess I’ll always love you . . .
“Essa mom, inna hospital?”
“Yep. But just for a while. I’ll be home pretty soon and Mamma will be all better, okay?”
“Oh. Inna stay gamma pappas?”
“Yeah. Is that okay?”
“Awight. Enna Allan, enna bus?”
“Allan will stay home and Grandma will bring you here every morning for the bus.”
“Allan stay gamma, pappa’s too.”
“Allan’s staying at home, Andy,” my mom says. “You can see him in the morning when we go to the bus.” My parents have no idea what Allan and my relationship is like. They’re happy I have a man, and they’re impressed with how good he is with Andy. They also know that he’s close with his own family because of the split holidays we’ve done since we’ve moved in together, and Andy’s birthday parties where Allan’s whole family comes.
I lean over, put my head in his lap and Andy softly pats my head as I drift off to sleep after smoking enough meth to kill a horse.
Southern Idaho is desolate. Nothing but sagebrush for miles. The hour and a half to Gooding is one long, drawn out stretch of freeway. It’s November so the landscape is dead and brown, although it doesn’t matter what time of year it is. Other than when it’s snowing, it always looks the same. I’ve driven
this road hundreds of times running drugs from Boise to Twin Falls, Jerome, Kimberly and Jackpot. As we pass Mountain Home, about forty-five minutes out of Boise, I try to pinpoint the spot where I totaled my car.
Riding in the car with my family on my way to rehab, I see the area where the accident happened and a shiver runs down my spine as I think about how I could have died that night - not just from the crash, but alone in the black, cold nowhere searching for that fucking pipe. Something about that scares the shit out of me, but I’m high enough to shake the thought from my head.
During the drive, I’m drifting in and out of sleep until the turnoff at Bliss onto the rural highway leading to the Walker Center. I’m getting nervous. Whe
n I get nervous, I play with my hands, twisting my interlaced fingers grossly. I’m in the backseat wringing my hands and bouncing my knees up and down and I know I must look exactly like what I am: a twacked out meth-head.
Thirty miles to go. My heart starts racing, which kick starts the latent chemicals in my body, and I’m high all over again. I’m nervous and amped and it’s getting worse the closer we get.
“Almoss ‘ere?”
“Yeah, bug. We’re almost there.”
“Essa mom, essa hospital.”
“Yep.” I’m jumpy and agitated as we pull into the parking lot of the Walker Center. I don’t want to get out of the car.
“You ready?” my dad asks. The three of them are already out, waiting for me.
“No. Shit!” It takes me a minute before I work up the nerve to put my feet on the ground and stand.
Dad has my suitcase and I’m carrying my down-filled pillow and blanket, and my purse hangs from my elbow as we’re buzzed in the doors. Near the front desk is a little sitting area with a couch, a loveseat and coffee table scattered with pamphlets about the dangers of various drugs. It’s a pleasant place - kind of homey, and it makes me want to scream. I want to run. This is a mistake. What the hell have I done? What have I gotten myself into? My voice is trembling as I give the lady behind the desk my name. “Have a seat,” she says. “Someone will be right with you.”
I can’t sit down. I’m way too antsy. “I need a cigarette.”
She looks at my parents. “We’ll go with her,” Mom says. Outside, I’m having trouble breathing. I think I’m hyper-ventilating. My hands shake as I light my cigarette. Mom moves toward me to put an arm around my shoulder, but I jerk away. I think if someone touches me now, I’ll unravel.
I pace the sidewalk in front of the center rapidly up the long sidewalk and back, walking as fast as I can. I finish my cigarette and immediately light another. Dad’s standing by the front door keeping an eye on me while Mom is inside reading anti-drug pamphlets to Andy like they’re storybooks. I go back inside. I’m shaking all over and it’s still hard to breathe. For no reason at all, I’m suddenly pissed off at my dad and decide to ignore him.
I sit next to my mother and whisper, “Mom, I can’t do this. This is wrong. I can’t be here. I’ll be okay. I just want to leave, okay?”
“Kimbo, you’re doing the right thing.”
“Mom’s right,” my dad says. “You’re very brave to do this. We’re proud of you. You can do this, Kimbo. Just calm down and try to relax.”
My brain is screaming, “Fuck you! Fuck! Can’t you see I’m not alright? I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. I’m going mad right here in this stupid waiting room in front of my son. You can’t leave me here,” I’m thinking. “Jesus, I can’t do this! Please don’t leave me here, Mamma. I’ll be good. I’ll be a good girl, Daddy. Just don’t leave me here. I want to go home.”
Hot tears are burning my eyes, threatening to fall. Oh, God! What have I done? This was a mistake - a bad idea. I go to Andy and put my arms around him, soaking his shoulder with my tears.
Mom puts a hand on my shoulder. “Kimbo, you’re scaring him. Stop.”
You fucking bitch, leave me alone! I shake like a wet dog, trying to get her hand away, because I can’t say these things to her. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
The intake woman comes out and takes me to the back office to fill out my admission papers while a counselor takes my family to tour the facility. I’m answering questions and signing papers and my fear has turned to rage. I’m pissed off and giving mono-syllabic answers to the same fucking questions I’ve been asked by everyone. I won’t look this woman, Laura, in the eyes. Fuck her. She’s a fat bitch with ugly flowers on her smocked shirt. I hate the way I’m acting right now, but I can’t help it. I’m in fight or flight mode and flight is not an option.
I’m pissed off at my behavior. I’m acting like a spoiled brat who’s been brought here to be locked up against her will and forced into unwanted treatment. I know this isn’t the case. I know I have no reason to be acting the way I am, but I seem powerless to stop. I feel like I’m outside myself watching everything happen, and I’m looking at myself thinking, “What a bitch! Would someone please put her in time out?”
My intake complete, I’m back in the sitting area saying goodbye to my family. I’m still pissed off and give my parents the briefest of hugs as if this were all their fault - as if this whole rehab thing was their idea and I have no choice. The Walker Center is an unlocked facility. Admission is voluntary, meaning I can always leave but if I do, I can’t come back. It would mean leaving AMA – against medical advice.
I soften when I hug Andy and tell him to be a good boy. “Mom will be home soon, okay? I love you, honey.”
“Ayu you.”
I grab my suitcase and other things and follow the woman down the hall to my room. The building is long with the men’s side separated from the women’s by a section of counselors’ offices.
I have no idea what to expect. The website mentioned drug education, a rope course, counseling and mental health care all wrapped up in a twelve step program. I can’t imagine what this place can possible teach me about drugs that I don’t already know, and the only thing I know about the rope course is that there will be physical activities designed to help me overcome my deepest fears. Whatever. What I know is that I need help with my depression, since I feel that this is the core of my problem, and I’m looking forward to one-on-one therapy with a counselor.
“This is your room.”
There are two beds, a bathroom and long desk on each side of a big room divided in the middle by a half-wall. Two women are lying on their beds; one is sleeping, the other keeps pushing up her glasses while writing in a little notebook. A matronly woman is sitting at one of the desks taking notes from a book. County music is playing from a radio/alarm clock. I hate country music. The room is too bright. It hurts my eyes.
“Okay, Kimberly, this is your bed. Go ahead and open your suitcase for me.”
“Why?”
“So I can search it.” No one looks at us. It’s business as usual.
She goes through everything: every pocket, sock, nook and cranny. “You think I’d bring drugs to rehab?” It suddenly occurs to me that this isn’t a bad idea. I’ve smuggled drugs on every plane trip I’ve ever been on. Why not rehab?
“Some people do,” she says, still rummaging through my things. “We also have to check for mouthwash, perfume, aerosol sprays, that kind of thing. You would be amazed at what some people will do to get high.” No, I wouldn’t.
When she’s finished, she points to the closet and dresser next to my bed. “You can put your things away. If you don’t have hangers, ask the others. I’m glad you’re here.”
I start putting my things away when the woman with the little notebook notices my carton of cigarettes. “Hey, you smoke? You wanna go outside?” She walks me out to the smoking area and we both light up. “So, Kimberly, I’m glad you’re here. I’m Betsy. What’s your drug of choice?” She has dishwater blonde hair and glasses. She doesn’t look like an addict but more like someone who might work here.
“Uh, meth,” I tell her, “and my name’s Kim. I mean it is Kimberly, but I go by Kim. What about you?”
She blows smoke out of the side of her mouth. “I’m an alcoholic.”
Other women join us and one of them notices the emblem on my coat. “Are you a bail-bondsman?”
“Yeah. In Boise.”
“Whoa! What’s your drug of choice?” I decide that this is the rehab equivalent of saying hello.
“Meth.”
They look me up and down. “Shit. You don’t look like a tweaker. Have you detoxed?”
“No,” I say like this is the stupidest question I’ve heard.
“Oh, no. Do they know that?”
“I don’t think so. They never asked, or if they did, I don’t remember. It’s okay, though. I’ve been doing it so long it’s no big de
al. I can sleep on this stuff, eat...I’ve been doing it for years. I don’t need to detox.”
A couple of them roll their eyes. One woman is all jittery and twitching. She’s the epitome of a meth addict. “Oh man. You’re gonna crash big time. When did you last use?”
“Seven-thirty this morning, and I won’t crash. It’ll be nice to get a good night’s sleep, though.” They look at me like I’m insane. Of course I won’t crash. I’m used to sleeping only a few hours and then not again for a day or more. A whole eight hours, and I’ll be just like new. (What I’m not thinking of at the moment, though, is that my pipe won’t be there the second I wake up. The number of hours I sleep aren’t going to matter if I don’t start getting high the minute I’m awake.)
Back inside, someone walks past my room ringing a bell saying, “Lunch time! Ten minutes. Kimberly, your counselor, Dorothy wants to see you. Her office is the third one on the left in the counselor hall. You can eat when you’re done.”
Fine with me. I have no desire to eat.
“Come on in!” Dorothy is an older woman, maybe in her late fifties. She looks like a shorter, grayer version of Marion Cunningham. “Have a seat.” She thumbs through my intake papers. “Well, Kimberly, I’m Dorothy. I’m glad you’re here.” Jesus, what is this? Some kind of mantra?
We go through the rules and what she expects of me while I’m here: I have to attend all classes and participate fully in the recovery process. No one can do this for me; I have to want it. I listen and nod with a forced little smile on my face. I don’t want her to think I have a real drug problem like the other people here. I want her to understand that I’m different - I’m mostly here for my depression.
We go over my history of drug use and she gives me a packet of worksheets she wants me to finish as soon as possible. “This way, we can design your recovery plan. You and I will both know where you are now and how best to help you.”
Crystal Clean Page 20