The result is self-induced mental illness resulting from physical changes to the brain. The damage can be repaired, but it takes time. The brain will eventually create new pathways, using other existing receptors, but the production of dopamine is a long process. The brain wasn’t designed to produce large amounts of the chemical. Studies show that it takes eighteen months before recovering meth addicts regain eighty percent of their normal dopamine levels. This is why the relapse rate is so high with meth addicts. It takes a long, long time before we begin to feel anywhere near normal again.
Dopamine also controls the flow of information from other areas of the brain, especially memory, attention and problem-solving tasks.
When I woke up after detoxing at the Port of Hope, I didn’t remember much of my stay other than the nurse taking my vital signs. The first time I got up to use the bathroom was the third day. On the fifth day, I dressed and went to the cafeteria to eat. The condition for my release was that I eat a meal and attend an A.A. meeting, so I did both.
Eating was difficult, not only because I had no appetite but also because my motor skills were so impaired. I was weak and shaky from five days of inertia, and performing the simple task of dining was like a comedy of errors without the comedy. I was so weak I had to hold a glass with two hands to avoid spilling. Cutting the sandwich in half was so exhausting I didn’t bother. As before, when I detoxed at the Walker Center, my eyes were bleary, as if a thin film covered them. I was a mess, but I was sober, and I was going home.
When I read memoirs about addiction, I’m interested in the how’s of people’s recovery. How did you get sober? How did you stay sober? How is your life in sobriety?
How did I finally get sober? I started by admitting to myself that my life had become unmanageable, that I’m an addict and I needed help.
I chose to go the Port of Hope. Not because I wanted to get clean, but because I was at a dead-end. At first, my recovery was all about avoiding prison. I was sober a year before I wanted to be sober.
The first thing I did when I got home was ask my mother to drive me to GNC to buy meth test strips. I gave them to her and told her to test me whenever she wanted. I used one immediately when I got back and tested positive for meth. Meth leaves the system within 48 to 72 hours. My body was so poisoned, I didn’t test clean for six days.
Julie gave me one last chance. I saw her twice a week for the first month and a half, and then once a week for the following five months. She UA’d me every time I saw her.
The other thing I did the day I get out of detox was change my phone number. The clerk at the store transferred all my settings, including my phone book, and with my dad watching, I deleted all the numbers that had anything to do with my old life. I also had my car painted and changed the license plates. My parents’ last name is different from Andy’s and mine because of my brief marriage, so I knew that no one would be able to track me down. I broke all ties to my past life. Playgrounds and playmates.
With time, my body healed, but my cognitive functioning took longer. I couldn’t retain information long enough to copy a sentence from one piece of paper to another and I’d forget things that happened just minutes before. It was difficult to concentrate and it took weeks before I was able to focus enough to read a book.
I went to relapse prevention group every Wednesday with seven or eight other Walker Center alums. I began to understand that my addiction is only a symptom of much larger issues, namely lack of self-esteem and a lack of self-worth. It wasn’t that I didn’t like myself - I hated myself. I spent a year and a half in those once-a-week sessions before I began to accept the fact that I might actually be worthy of kicking it on this spinning rock.
I had weekly one-on-one therapy sessions with the facilitator of our group, Sarah, and in her new-agey way, she helped me come to terms with my past and start to forgive myself. Babies are born perfect, she’d tell me, and with everything they need. All babies deserve love just for being. Why did I think I was any different? That was the hardest concept for me to grasp. I’ve never felt I deserved anything, let alone love. I agreed that other people did, but I thought so little of myself, how could anyone else love me? In time, though, Sarah led me from the darkness that filled me, into the light of possibility. “The things you are most embarrassed or ashamed about within yourself, Kim, are the things that make you so special,” she told me one day in a therapy session. I thought about that for a long time. Slowly, with help, I began to understand what she meant.
The other addicts and alcoholics in my relapse prevention group nourished me as I’d never been before. Even when I was at my most difficult - refusing to engage with people, bursting into tears, putting up my wall in attempt to shut everyone out - they gave me unconditional love. They called me on my bullshit and they pointed out the good in me and, slowly, I began to believe them. They didn’t lift me up only to drop me on my face, laughing about how stupid I was. They didn’t want anything from me. They didn’t have ulterior motives for the kindness they gave. They helped me begin to recognize the beauty that’s within me.
One night, in front of the group and without provocation, one of the men told me I was beautiful. He was happily married. He didn’t want sex, he didn’t want something from me and he wasn’t lying to me just so he could say, “Gotcha’! Ah ha ha ha ha...I can’t believe you’re so dumb that you fell for that. Hey, guys, she fell for it again!”
The night, for the first time in my life, I accepted the compliment rather than negating it. I felt like the little girl in Little Miss Sunshine, when her grandpa tells her he thinks she’s the most beautiful girl in the world, “and it’s not because of your brains or personality,” he said. I choked on my tears when I heard those words.
Jill, my boss, is probably the most confident woman I’ve ever met. She’s the smartest, prettiest, most fascinating person in the room. Just ask her. One day I said to her, “I’d give anything to have a tenth of the confidence you have, Jill. Where does that come from?”
“When I was growing up,” she said, “my parents always told me I was the smartest, prettiest, most wonderful little girl in the world, so I believed them.”
When she told me that, my heart clenched in my chest and crept into my throat. I believe it’s possible to mourn the loss of something you’ve never had. It wasn’t that my parents told me otherwise, it’s that they told me nothing. And in the absence of anything, I assumed the worst.
Every day since he was born, I’ve told Andy how handsome he is. I tell him he’s the smartest, funniest, strongest little boy (and now man,) in the world. I tell him I love him multiple times a day, and I shower him with hugs and kisses. I’m conscious of what I’m doing, but it wasn’t a decision I made. I can’t imagine withholding that from him. It comes so naturally, it would be alien for me not to. Andy’s a lot like Jill. He has no doubts about himself, no insecurities, no self-loathing. He’s the smartest, handsomest, most fascinating guy in the room. Just ask him.
The group reminded me of my best qualities. Hearing everyone’s story and encouraging each other through recovery made me feel not so alone. People in the group relapsed and came back. They went to jail and came back. We called each other when we were having a hard time or when the cravings got particularly bad. We helped each other heal. We loved each other.
They helped me understand what Sarah meant about my best qualities being those of which I’m most embarrassed by. I’ve always been ashamed of my lack of control over my emotions. I’ve always suppressed my intelligence, worried that people would think I was pompous or arrogant. I cry and laugh more easily and more often than anyone know. I constantly worry about what other people think of me and I base my self-worth on the acceptance of others. If someone likes me, it means I’m okay. If someone doesn’t, it’s because I’m disgusting, stupid or just a plain old geek. It doesn’t even matter whether or not I like them.
I just want to be like everyone else. I look at people walking around at the mall or sittin
g in restaurants and they all seem so at ease with themselves. It’s as if everyone else has figured out the secret to life, and I’ll never be privy to it. I’ve always compared the way I feel on the inside to how other people seem on the outside, creating unrealistic expectations.
Julie ordered me to take Cognitive Self Change, a two-part, long term series of classes designed to help a person change present thinking patterns that can lead to anti-social behavior. The focus is on taking responsibility for one’s behavior. It doesn’t matter what’s happened to me as much as how I’ve chosen to act and react to the world. There are three parts to any behavior: the antecedent, or what happened immediately prior to the behavior; the behavior itself; and the consequence, or outcome. The goal in CSC is to examine past behavior in order to anticipate and plan for future behavior. For example, if I spend time with people I know who are still using meth, and someone pulls out a pipe and hands it to me, I have the choice to smoke or not smoke the drug, but the first mistake I’ve made is putting myself in the situation to begin with.
It doesn’t matter how I was potty trained, how my parents punished me when I was a little girl, or whether or not I have an Oedipus complex. What matters is that I am responsible for my behavior and I need to be conscious and purposeful about the life I want to live.
In essence, I got sober by giving up my perceived control, and doing what people told me to do. I kept doing the next right thing.
How do I stay sober? I respect my addiction.
I make it a conscious decision every day. With four years of sobriety, am I cured? Not by a long shot. I can honestly say that I don’t know what I would do if I were in a situation where someone passed me a loaded pipe. I’d like to think I could just say no, but I’m not sure.
I respect my addiction by not becoming complacent. I don’t associate with people who use, I don’t allow myself to be in a situation where there’s any chance of drugs being present, and I don’t forget how difficult it was for me to get clean. The day I say, “I’m no longer an addict. I’ll never touch meth again,” is the day I’m in trouble. So I don’t think that way. I’m honest with myself: I don’t know what I’d do, so I do everything I can to keep from having to make that decision. That doesn’t mean my sobriety is weak, far from it. It means I’m strong enough to take care of myself. Finally.
What’s my life like now? Better, of course. What would you expect me to say? It’s true, though. I finally have a semblance of peace. But quitting meth was by far the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.
I nearly destroyed my brain, and since I had a chemical imbalance to begin with (depression/bi-polar) the results were catastrophic.
Sarah referred me to a psych nurse who worked with me to find the right combination of mood stabilizers and anti-depressants. It took months to get the cocktail right, and there were times I was suicidal. Four years later, I still see her regularly and sometimes my meds need to be adjusted. It’s an ongoing process and I’ll need medication for the rest of my life.
I still have using dreams. I had them nearly every night for the first year. In them, I’d be in the middle of using or on a binge, when I realized I’d blown it. All the progress I’d made, all the hard work, gone. I would be terrified and wake up sweaty, shaking and crying, sometimes for a couple of hours afterward. I was still with my parents then, and they were my saviors. As heart wrenching as it was for them, they listened to me. They listened as I described my dreams. They let me talk until the images and feelings of failure faded away.
They listened without comment when I had cravings, which were continual for months. I still have cravings for meth and using dreams sometimes. I don’t know that they’ll ever go away, and maybe that’s a good thing. They’re reminders of what’s waiting for me if I were ever to go back to using. They help me to remember and respect my addiction.
The best thing that happened at the Walker Center was that we began to work, as a family, on being honest and talking with one another. That’s been hard, especially for my parents, but I’m so proud of them for trying. I love them so much, and I’m eternally grateful for them. I don’t think I’d be sober without them. Not only did they make it possible for me to go to rehab where, at the very least, I had my first taste of sobriety, but they also took care of my son when I couldn’t even take care of myself.
They gave Andy and me a safe place to stay, and the support I needed when I was falling apart. None of this was easy for them. They really were disgusted, not so much with me, but by the very thought of meth and what I’d done to myself. Somehow, though, they were able to put that aside and just love me while I tried to learn how to love myself. We have a better relationship than ever. It’s a far cry from perfect, but as they say in A.A., “progress over perfection.”
The best part about being sober is that I’m fully present for Andy. I’m so proud of the person he is, and I know how fortunate I am to be his mother.
We moved into an apartment in March of 2008 and we’re still here. Andy rules over his kingdom from the window of his second story bedroom, playing his harmonica and shouting quotes from his movies to anyone passing by. Sometimes, just to the empty parking lot. He doesn’t care. I think he figures that somewhere, someone might be listening, and it’s his duty to share his talents with the world. We live a simple life and we’re dirt poor, but we have each other and that’s all I’ve ever really wanted. We’re happy.
I still go to therapy and see my psych nurse. I’m still working on loving myself and forgiving myself for my past. I often wish I could be done with it, but I’ll never be done with it. I’m a work in progress.
Epilogue
I’ve been working on this book for a few of years. Being a writer is a dream I’ve always had, but it was akin to wishing to be a movie star - something nice to think about, but too out of reach for the average mortal. I’ve been lucky enough to have the time to work on it, though. It’s difficult finding employment when you’re a felon.
Julie didn’t want me to work for the first few months. She wanted me to focus on my recovery instead. Since then, I’ve had a couple of jobs, the most recent I lost because of my drug charge. I drove for a van service once in a while, but when my unemployment ran out, I got scared.
Every employer these days asks about criminal history and most do background checks. In the rare cases when I got an interview or call back, the result was always the same. No thanks.
So in December of 2010, with five dollars to my name and bills to pay, it just popped into my head that maybe I could make and sell fudge, because I happen to make the best fudge on earth. I posted on Face Book what I was doing and ended up selling 39 pounds of fudge that month. That got me through December but, of course, the bills keep on coming. So I stated making other things and sharing the pictures with my friends.
Then someone hired me to do a Super Bowl party - just a little light catering. Then someone wanted to know if I could do a birthday cake for her son. I'd never done a "real" cake before but I needed the money so I casually said yes while frantically searching the Internet for blogs and tutorials about cake decorating. I really liked the creativity of cake decorating and was surprised at how well it turned out.
On February 13, 2011, I celebrated four years of sobriety. My son, Andy, was turning 19 and kept telling me he was getting married. He watches a lot of movies and Mama Mia was one of his many obsessions as is The Sound of Music. He told me he was going to marry Maria in a church and have seven children, but that Captain VonTrapp could live with them, which I think is very generous of Andy considering he'd be breaking up the family.
Just before his birthday, I asked him what kind of cake he wanted. He kept saying, “Mamma Mia, Mamma Mia,” until I got so frustrated, I did a Google search for cake images and we looked at them together. I’d only scrolled down a little when he made me stop and pointed to the one he wanted. “That one.”
“Honey, that’s not a birthday cake. That’s a wedding cake.”
“Oh, yeah. Essa Mamma Mia. Inna get married. Enna Sophie.”
He kissed me on the check and left the room. He’d made his decision. It was my fault. I was the one who gave him a choice.
So I ended up making him a two-tiered wedding cake complete with white chocolate flowers and leaves. The bottom tier was chocolate fudge with Oreo butter cream filling and the top was white with raspberry filling - just like a real wedding cake. I figured, why not do this for him? As much as I refuse to limit my son's future, the reality is that he's never going to get married, so if he wanted a wedding cake for his birthday...I'd do anything for my son. Andy was beside himself. I posted pictures of the whole ordeal online and people were very responsive. I got more orders here and there for cakes.
The chocolate flowers really caught my interest and I began researching more about working with chocolate as edible art. This led me to chocolate stilettos. Life size, 3-D chocolate stilettos. Now those were fun to make and the sky's the limit as far as design. I could do very plain or fabulously funky.
I was fascinated by chocolate and spent hours studying and experimenting. I started getting sales within a couple of days for candy barks and hand dipped chocolates. Then I got an Easter order for three stilettos from a woman who wanted to give them to her daughters as baskets. When they arrived in Texas, one of the shoes was nothing but a puddle of chocolate.
Shipping chocolate would require ice packs and insulation which would result in higher costs. I was back to square one, except that I still had local orders trickling in. One day I was just sitting at my desk doing nothing when out of the blue I thought, "I wonder how those professional companies make those really cute cookies?"
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