I was processed out by eleven thirty Sunday morning. I drove home, got high and took a shower. Allan was away for another snowboarding weekend with friends, so I didn’t expect him back until night. I called Mike and arranged for him to meet me after I checked into a hotel. I didn’t want to be there when Allan got home. I didn’t want to sit in my room listening to him watch TV until he went to bed. I decided I’d work all night and go home after he left in the morning. It was too painful being at home.
I had to meet Julie on Monday. Back in her office, she asked me how my weekend was and I just sat in the chair, silently wishing she would die. I hated her and I blamed her for putting me in jail. I may have been the one who failed a UA, but she was the one responsible for me spending two days and nights locked up. That’s the way my mind was working - or not - at the time. Obviously, I was the one responsible for landing my ass in jail, but I didn’t see it that way at the time. The whole world was against me and I was a victim.
She ordered me, as part of my probation, to move in with my parents, effective immediately. My living situation was affecting my mental health and my recovery, she said, and if I didn’t move in with my parents, she would impose more jail time.
Families and friends so often want to fix things. It’s agonizing to watch someone you love fall, but until the addict/alcoholic hits bottom, there’s nothing to do but wait. You wait and hope that the person you love is still alive when that happens. That’s the reason it’s so important not to rescue an addict from legal trouble. Don’t bail them out. Don’t pay for attorneys, because getting involved with the legal system is very often the only thing that separates an addict from that fatal fall.
I hated the system. And it saved my life. As I said before, an addict’s emotional maturity stops at the age they were when they started using. I was a child: willful, stubborn and egocentric. Julie, my P.O. was, in a way, a surrogate parent. She force-fed me my broccoli and though I still loathe the vile weed, I’m alive because of it.
She made an appointment for me to go to the meth clinic for more intensive outpatient treatment, because my relapse prevention group and therapy sessions with Sarah obviously weren’t enough to keep me sober. The plan was for me to begin attending classes three nights a week at the clinic, starting with my intake the next day. She also signed me up for Cognitive Self Change. CSC is a program offered through the Department of Corrections designed to help people change their thinking errors. I immediately renamed the class “How to Quit Thinking Like a Criminal.” I left her office pissed off at the world. I hated everything and everyone, but mostly I hated myself.
Leaving Julie’s office, I got a phone call from the guy who came to see the house. He made an offer and I immediately accepted. After closing costs, the profit would be just over three thousand dollars, but I didn’t care. I just wanted it done. It was January 15, 2007 and Allan was moving out at the end of the month whether the house sold or not. Time was my enemy so I took the offer, glad to be near the end.
After that, things happened fast. We closed on the house on January 26 and had to be out by the end of the month. Meanwhile, I was supposedly staying with my parents, although I spent most of my time at the house packing. At least that’s what I told myself. The closer I got to the deadline, the more paralyzed I became. I couldn’t do anything but get high and gamble. I was free falling into an abyss and the soundtrack for my life was a requiem.
Allan was gone, Andy was still with my parents and I spent long days and cold nights in the house by myself. The only people I saw were Mario and my boys, and the quantities of meth I was moving was increasing. I was on a rollercoaster barely hanging on while the cars careened around the track, and I had no way to stop it.
So many years. What the hell happened? All I’d wanted originally was a little help getting through finals. Five years later, there I was; alone, without my son, sitting in the dark in a house I was trespassing in, looking down the barrel of three to five years in prison, sucking on a glass dick, and inconceivably, I was still certain that I could quit at any time.
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.
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