Everything I Never Wanted to Be

by Dina Kucera

  I thought it was the end of the road. I told John I just couldn’t do it anymore. I can’t say I wanted to die. I just didn’t really want to live anymore. I just didn’t want to feel the pain. And if that meant not being here anymore, fine. I was tired of being sad, and tired of being tired.

  But it wasn’t the end. It turned out to be the beginning.

  At the hospital, they take my belt and my shoelaces. They take the clip in my hair.

  I say, “Why can’t I have a clip in my hair?”

  They say it could be used as an instrument to kill myself.

  How many times would I have to stab myself with a hair clip to actually achieve death? Five hundred times? Six hundred times? That would take all day. I give them the hair clip.

  An orderly and John escort me through about a zillion locked doors to my “unit.” John kisses me and tells me everything will be okay, and then he is buzzed out.

  I walk into my unit and an older man says, “You got a nice body. I’m not taking my water pills, so I’m not pissing my pants anymore.”

  I think, Finally... my people.

  My room at the hospital is okay except they keep the air conditioning at around sixty degrees. My roommate is adorable. She has suffered from depression all her life, but she is still good for a laugh.

  She is getting shock treatments, and every other day I have to reintroduce myself because her memory is gone for a few days after each treatment. Her memory starts to come back, but then she gets another treatment. It’s like the movie “Groundhog Day.”

  I say, “Hi, I’m Dina, your roommate. You told me yesterday to remind you that you owe me twenty bucks.”

  She smiles sweetly and lies down for hours.

  There were all kinds of people at the hospital. One guy was in the Broadway play Rent. Another guy could sit down and play the piano like he was doing a concert. Another guy was an artist. A lot of very talented broken people.

  The water pill man was kicked off another unit, so he had to have a “tech” follow him everywhere he went. He sang from the top of his lungs, and then did karate-like moves with no warning. He was about sixty, but he picked fights with the young buff patients on the unit.

  He said, “Are you looking at me? Because I’m ready when you are.”

  They laughed and said, “I’m not ready yet.”

  And he said, “I didn’t think you were. You’re nothing but a girl.”

  They had group therapy four or five times a day. In each group, they asked how you were feeling, and then they wrote it down. So they asked me how I was feeling, and I said, “I’m high on life.” Then they scribbled in their notebooks.

  The pill window was the most popular place to be. On the mental ward, they did anything to keep people from flipping out. So you lined up at the “med” window, and they gave you whatever your doctor said you were allowed to have. I wasn’t allowed very many things. Some people got really great drugs. I was robbed.

  Some people were at the pill window every half hour or so. The nurse would tell them they couldn’t have their pills for another hour, and they would say they had heard voices and the voices said it was time for pills. Other people took so many pills that they were falling asleep and couldn’t understand anything.

  The pills they gave the water pill guy were supposed to calm him down and give us a break from his bullshit, but they only made him sing louder—and then one day, he started trying to throw things over the wall to the unit that kicked him out. I mean he was throwing chairs and garbage cans. He hurled a giant metal chair over the wall and screamed, “How do you like that, bitches?”

  No one on the unit could stand this old man, but for me he was a constant source of entertainment. I realize that it’s probably not right to see humor in a crazy person. But I think he would appreciate me seeing him as entertaining rather than seeing him as crazy. I tried to talk to him one day. He told me he had been in and out of institutions and jails since he was fourteen. He said there was nothing he couldn’t do, and as soon as he got out, he was going to start a Walk for Peace program—and also file a grievance against the hospital because they were bullshit motherfuckers.

  There is a part of my mind that can become very dark. Jennifer, April and Carly have been hurt because of my alcoholism. So I can be swallowed up by sadness knowing that I have a certain level of responsibility for the way their lives have turned out. I may be responsible in a huge way, or I may be responsible in a small way. For me to know that I contributed in any way to their pain shatters me from the inside out. To this day, I have to fight off being consumed by that sadness... that darkness.

  My reason for not wanting to stick around was not because of Carly’s drug addiction. It was because I felt she wouldn’t have become an addict in the first place if I had made better choices. When you’ve done the wrong thing by your children, that’s a giant pill to swallow every day. Nothing else in life matters as much. How much money you make, your great job, your pretty clothes—none of it means anything. If you fail your children, you have failed.

  I was in the hospital for eight days, which is a very short stay by “going mental” standards.

  My doctor said it was exhaustion and that I needed to find a way to get more rest and less stress.

  On my way out, the water pill man said, “Here’s my number. Call me if you need anything, ever, and I’ll take care of it because I have contacts everywhere, even overseas.”

  I said thank you and hugged him.

  Then I left, and as soon as I got in the car, I put on my belt, I put on my shoelaces, and I put my clip back in my hair.

  High on life.

  I think of all those people in the hospital, and I realize I gained a little piece of warmth and hope from my stay, which is something I didn’t go in with. I pray they will all be well and happy and find a way to work through it. I feel good. I think for me it was a one-time overwhelming feeling that put me there, and that I won’t be back.

  After years of tormenting myself, what I’ve decided is that I have to forgive myself, which is something that doesn’t come overnight. I have to work at it every day. I’ve also realized that it will drive me crazy trying to help the girls and be a wife and grandmother. No good can come from trying to do it all. Which is why I ended up in the mental ward.

  One time when I visited Carly in rehab, she said she was thinking about becoming an attorney. I told her she would be a great one. I told her at first she would have to be a public defender and defend people who don’t have a lawyer. I also told her that often lawyers have to defend people they know are guilty, but they have a right to be defended.

  I told her, “For example, you are given a case for a guy who ran into his mother’s trailer with his car, drunk, after a violent fight, and knocked her trailer over, killing her. But you have to defend him and convince a judge or jury that he is somehow innocent.”

  Without even a pause, Carly said, “It wasn’t his fault that the trailer fell over because it wasn’t secured to the foundation.”

  I wish she’d use her power for good instead of evil.

  Carly may continue to relapse. April may drink forever. Jen may flow in and out of sobriety. There is nothing I can do about their addictions and choices. I can only navigate my own demons and go to sleep at night with the choices I’ve made that day. And some days, it isn’t pretty.

  I can help with Moses. I can take care of Mom. I can work and do the best I can to keep John thrilled to be in my presence. That’s it. Life has to go on.

  Carly is nineteen. When you turn eighteen, other treatment options open up. People under eighteen are simply screwed. Each state has a certain number of dollars for drug treatment. Almost none of it goes to adolescents—and the money that is approved for them is mostly for outpatient treatment like counseling.

  Our country is stuck in the 1980s, when teenagers were sneaking behind the bleachers at football games, drinking cheap beer and smoking pot. No one wants to know that we have fourteen- and fif
teen-year-old intravenous heroin addicts. Crystal meth is completely taking over our communities. Drug dealers are now dealing more prescription medications than illegal drugs. These prescription drugs are resulting in fifteen-year-olds overdosing and dying all across our country. All of this sounds very dramatic. I wish I was just being dramatic. I’m being truthful. Teenage addicts have no place to go unless they come from some sort of money or their families have access to money. A large pile of money. They have no options. They are treated like they are just misbehaving or acting out, when in reality, they are hard-core addicts.

  Our society—we—set them on a certain path. From what I can see, there are two ways to go. We can set them on a path of treatment, recovery, faith, hope, and a future. But that would require drug and alcohol treatment, and that, of course, requires money. The second path—and the one we are currently utilizing—is putting them in youth jails. Detention centers. This sets them on another path, which consists of a life in and out of these kinds of places. There are young people who come out of detention centers and never use again because they don’t want to go back. But that’s rare. Usually they end up being in and out of jails for many years.

  And what does this cost? What does it cost in terms of the crimes they are committing? What about the cost of their medical problems? What about the cost of law enforcement and courts? What about the cost to the community? What does it cost to have these people sit in jail?

  I dropped out of high school in the ninth grade, so I am not a math genius. But wouldn’t it be cheaper to provide these kids with medical treatment? The War on Drugs is actually a war on people. Especially on our young people. But I think most people don’t want to acknowledge the seriousness of the drug problem, let alone acknowledge that we’re approaching it the wrong way. People just don’t want to believe this is really happening. Or they say, “Not my kid.” Thank God it’s not your kid. But that’s what I said, too. I was wrong. Today, it’s my kids. Tomorrow, it could be yours.

  I am not a fan of a revolving rehab door. I feel that jail can be used as a tool after an addict has been through treatment, has had a spiritual experience with a higher power, and dug deep within themselves to find where the pain is coming from. Then, to end up in jail and have that time to allow those things to surface could assist in their recovery. But it should be the last resort. Not the first.

  Carly and Andy moved into their own apartment. I had a feeling something was wrong because we hadn’t heard from them in a while, and when we went to the apartment, they didn’t answer the door.

  Then on Mother’s Day, I got a phone call from Carly.

  Carly: “Hurry and come pick me up. Hurry.” Then she hangs up.

  I get to the apartment, walk around the corner to their building, and I see Andy sitting in the dirt, covered with blood and crying. There are people from other apartments standing on their balconies looking down at him.

  I run to him and say, “My God! What happened?”

  He stands up, still crying, and says, “Happy Mother’s Day.” And walks away.

  I think, Holy shit, and run up to the apartment. Carly is standing there, intact, no blood, but the entire apartment is destroyed. Every single thing is broken. There is glass everywhere. All the furniture tipped over, broken, like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

  I put Carly and her dog in the car and take them to my house. On the way, she explains that she and Andy have been using meth to get off heroin. Andy thinks that Carly is a police officer and she is setting him up, so he destroyed the apartment. He actually thought the dog had a recording device planted under its skin somewhere.

  We get home and no more than four hours later, Andy calls. Carly talks to him and then hangs up the phone and says she has to go back with Andy.

  I know enough to know this means that she’s beginning to withdraw, therefore she has to get back to the apartment.

  Carly says Andy is really sorry and she loves him and they are going to get clean together.

  Andy comes to pick her up, and because Carly is now legally an adult, there’s nothing John or I can do. Of course, we scream at her the entire time it takes Andy to come to pick her up, and then we scream at him. Then we watch them drive away.

  Over the next week, I convince both of them to go into separate rehabs. I make arrangements for Carly, and Andy’s family makes arrangements for him. We move them out of the apartment, and they both go into treatment.

  The decision-making part of the brain of an individual who has been using crystal meth is very interesting. When Carly and Andy were in their apartment, they ran out of drugs. They sold every single thing they had except two things: a couch and a blow torch.

  They had to make a decision because something had to be sold to buy more drugs. A normal person would automatically think, Sell the blow torch. But Andy and Carly sat on the couch, looking at the couch and looking at the blow torch, and the choice brought intense confusion. The couch? The blow torch? I mean, we may not need the blow torch today, but what about tomorrow? If we sell the couch, we can still sit wherever we want. If we move some of this glass, we could sit on the floor, or on the kitchen counter, or on the window ledge. But the blow torch? A blow torch is a very specific item. If you’re doing a project and you need a blow torch, you can’t substitute something else for it. You would have to have a blow torch, right?

  In the end, they sold the couch. So when we moved them out, that was it: a blow torch. Although moving someone when all they have is a blow torch makes for an easy move.

  Carly went into a three-month drug treatment facility in another city. Andy went into a treatment center in town.

  We went to see Andy in treatment. He was, as they say, “thriving” in rehab. He really needed a job when he got out, but he had sold his car, so he didn’t even have a way to get to work. So John and I made a deal: John would give Andy a job and they would work together. And since Carly was gone, Andy could stay with us as long as he completed his rehab and then went to outpatient treatment for two months.

  The frustrating part is that even when an addict or alcoholic goes into treatment, that doesn’t mean they are “cured.” Most relapse. Most relapse over and over. Most people need to be in a drug treatment as many times as it takes. The encouraging part about this is that while they are in treatment, learning something, hoping to evolve into a spiritual human being, they are not carjacking you on your way home from work.

  A few weeks later, Carly finally came home, too. We were so excited. It was like a holiday. And she was happy to be home.

  She walked in the house and hugged and kissed her dog, and then went into her room and got on her bed and screamed, “My bed!” Andy was with her and he had also been clean for three months. Andy and Carly were both clean and happy.

  She came home on a Wednesday. By Friday morning, we had a problem.

  I am unloading the dishwasher in the kitchen when Carly walks in. I look at her and see that she is grinding her teeth.

  I look back down at the dishes and think, No, not really. It just can’t be. I look back up and sure enough, she is high.

  We fight back and forth for about an hour, with me screaming the “fuck” word every three seconds. Then her crying, then me crying.

  An hour later, she admits she is high. So is Andy.

  I say, “Get out.”

  John walks in not knowing what’s going on. I tell him they are both high and both leaving. Then John starts screaming. Then Jen walks in and starts screaming. Then Carly and Andy pack a bag and leave, walking.

  I call the rehab Carly had just left. They say they can take her back if she comes back in the next couple of days before they close her paperwork.

  I call Carly and say, “You can come home when you’re ready to go back to rehab. But they’re not going to just hold a bed especially for you until you’re ready. You’re not going to get high for weeks, and then expect they will take you back.”

  Carly says, “I don’t want to go back. I want
to go to a halfway house.”

  So I say, “I’ll pick you up and we’ll find a halfway house.”

  Carly says, “I won’t go without Andy.”

  “Well then, sit there with Andy. Call me when you want to get clean.” I hang up.

  Days later Carly called. She was high and hysterical. Andy was hysterical. I told her I needed to know where they were. She said she didn’t know. Hours later we found them in a crack apartment. If you took a map and pinpointed the asshole of Phoenix, it would be where the apartment was located. I took both of them to the emergency room hoping the hospital would relocate them to a detox. The doctor checked them over and released them. No detox.

  At that point, Carly had been home for a week, and she had been high on meth and heroin for four days. I called Andy’s father and said Carly and Andy were going to be released from the hospital, and that Andy was about to become a homeless person. Andy’s dad said he would come pick Andy up. I took Carly home. She continued to argue with me about going back into rehab. We argued and argued.

  The next day I was exhausted. I lay down on my bed and said a prayer. I told God I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have any more strength or answers.

  Ten seconds later, I jumped off the bed, went to Carly’s room and said, “You have half an hour to shower and pack your bag.” I pointed at the bag that was still packed from when she came home. “If you don’t pack your bag with the things you want, we will take what you have in there right now. Get up. You have half an hour.”

  I dialed the number to the rehab and handed the phone to Carly.

  “Tell them you’re coming back,” I said.

  She said, “This is bullshit. You can’t force me.”

  I said, “Dad is in the other room. He’ll pick you up like a rag doll and throw you in the car. Tell them you’re on your way back and make it fast because now you only have twenty minutes.”