I did try. I really did. But something inside me kept telling me that I was betraying my own mother. I just couldn’t let go. I couldn’t do this to my mother with all these people whom I hardly even knew. I tried. I went around the room, around every person in the group and spoke to them, but the words weren’t real; I was only doing it to please Jimmy. Nonetheless, my session with Jimmy was the most powerful experience that I had in the Rutland and one that I would never forget.
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At the same time as working things out in group, I was beginning to feel more and more at home in the NA meetings. Everyone seemed very friendly and I had even mustered up the courage to speak once or twice. Tonight was the first time that a woman was in the chair, Katriona. I was mesmerised by her. She seemed so relaxed as she sat in front of everyone, smiling and waving to most of the other members. She couldn’t have being much older than myself. She had long blonde hair and a warm open face. Then she began to speak. She told us all about her traumatic childhood, her drug use and her recovery. Her story was scarily similar to mine. Her presence and the way she held herself captivated me. And I really wanted to have the confidence that she had. I just had to ask her to be my sponsor. But I didn’t know how. What if she says no? I thought. I’d die.
When the meeting was over I anxiously floated around her, but she seemed to be busy talking to everyone else. ‘Just do it,’ I told myself. And after going over the whole thing in my mind several times, I eventually got the courage to approach her. I told her how much I had enjoyed listening to her. Then I just blurted it out. ‘Would you be able to be my sponsor?’
‘Yeah, no problem,’ she replied. I could hardly believe my luck. Perhaps one day, I thought, I might be Katriona—confident, assured, in touch with herself. For the moment I was very pleased with myself simply to have taken the first step and plucked up the courage to ask her to sponsor me. Katriona has been my rock ever since and has supported me through the worst of times and the best.
I was aware that I was blessed to be in a group of people who were as serious as I was about staying clean. And it was in listening to the others speak so honestly about their addiction that more was being revealed to me about myself. I had been blown away by Timmy’s First Step and his courage in telling the truth. Now, I had to take a leaf out of his book and do the same. It was time for me to share my First Step with the group.
On the day of reckoning I was terrified. I could feel my stomach doing somersaults as I joined the circle in the group room. Then Ann gave me the nod to begin. I told the group about how my addiction affected me mentally. How it distorted my thinking and made me believe things about myself that weren’t true, that I was a failure and that, deep down at the core of my being, I was a bad person. I thought everyone around me instinctively knew this, which made me feel even worse about myself. I was different to everyone else in the worst way possible, but I couldn’t put my finger on how. I spoke about my obsession with drugs: every waking second was spent thinking about how I would get drugs, where I would use them and how I would feel when I got them into me. Even my dreams were ambushed by visions of drug-use. During the times that I was drug-free, the obsession was still there, but it wasn’t an obsession with drugs, but about myself. Morning, noon and night I was living in my head. Thinking about myself and of how I looked and how I sounded. How others perceived me and whether they liked me or not. If I thought they didn’t like me, I would become somebody that they did like. I had a thousand faces for a thousand different people. I could be anyone that you wanted me to be.
I continued to say that, if I wasn’t obsessed with myself, I was obsessed with prayer and meditation. ‘Please God, do this for me. Please God, don’t let this or that happen. If I do this, God will reward me. If I do that, God will punish me. It was mental torture,’ I told the group, explaining how I had replaced an addiction to drugs with an addiction to God.
‘I am an emotional cripple,’ I told them. ‘My emotions are so warped that I can’t tell my arse from my elbow.’ I told them that I loved how the drugs made me feel numb, but only for a while. Even when I used drugs now, I was bombarded with all these emotions that I just couldn’t cope with. I was riddled with fear, guilt and shame. I had no idea of how to express any sort of anger and it was even harder for me to smile. My spirit seemed to be dead. It had been crushed so many times by myself and others that I could never see myself being truly happy again. I had forgotten what it was like to be happy anyway.
I then took a deep breath. It was time to tell the group just how powerless I was over my addiction. About all the things I had done in the grip of heroin. Like the time I robbed my grandmother’s wedding ring. I had only started taking drugs and I promised myself that I would never rob my family. Especially my grandmother, the only one who loved me unconditionally, I thought. I repaid this by stealing her precious ring. I badly needed to get money for drugs and the thought came into my head that I would get at least twenty pounds for it. I remember a voice in my head saying, ‘No, don’t do it, don’t do it. You know that’s not right.’ But I felt that I genuinely couldn’t stop myself, that I had no power or control. In the end I took my grandmother’s ring and I will never forget how she cried when she realised that it was gone. I hid the ring in one of my teddy bears until I could smuggle it out of the house, and when I heard her crying I pretended to help her to find it.
It was at this point that I looked around the group room at the clients. None of them had walked out on me yet. They weren’t scoffing at me or laughing at me. So I carried on, telling them about the times when I broke into other people’s homes, or shoplifted, or sold my family’s clothes to buy drugs. I knew in my heart that this wasn’t right, stealing from people who were asleep in their beds. I was doing it against my own will. Once I was using drugs I just couldn’t stop myself. Every time that I did something I said I would never do, it became easier for me to push the goalposts back further and further, until I was left with virtually no morals or principles.
Then I got to the prostitution part, the deep, dark shame at the centre of it all. The one thing that no amount of excuses could seem to justify. I was shaking in my chair at this point. But I had to keep going. ‘Selling my body was the last thing I wanted to do,’ I told them. ‘I got to the point where I didn’t care any more; that voice in my head, the good part of me, begged me to stop. But I just couldn’t.’ Now, I felt wide open to the group. Completely exposed. I hated talking about my sexuality. It made me feel so ashamed. In my mind, selling my body was worse than anything else I had ever done.
I didn’t go into too much detail about how I prostituted myself. Just telling the group that I had done it was a huge risk for me to take. ‘But I know for a fact that I wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t on drugs. I only did it because I had a habit to feed,’ I concluded to the group. That was that out of the way and I was relieved that I had told the truth. I was getting it all out into the open. I went into detail about the damage I had done to my family and anyone I came in contact with. I finished reading out my First Step by admitting to the group that I was unmanageable in every single area of my life and that I simply couldn’t live like this any more. I was ready to take the next necessary step to help me to stay clean. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. I had finally admitted that I couldn’t do it on my own. I couldn’t overcome my addiction by sheer willpower, or by prayer. I needed their help and I was asking for it now. I was admitting for the first time that I was truly powerless over my addiction. Now, I could begin my recovery.
_____
My First Step completed and having followed the rigorous regime in the Rutland, the day had finally come for me to leave. After giving my little speech and saying my thank yous, I was ready to go. This was it for me now. I was going out into the big bad world completely drug-free. I had a sponsor and had got a list of numbers from NA members and I was determined to stick to my plan of going to ninety meetings in ninety days.
My mother had come
back from America and she and Philip had moved into a new apartment together. They invited me to come and live with them, but I was determined to stand on my own two feet. Anyway, I was far from ready to live with my mother. I would have to sort myself out first before I even attempted to have a relationship with her. So I got myself my own little flat on the southside of Dublin. It was the first place that I could call my own and it was perfect.
I hadn’t once thought of using drugs, but it felt really strange being clean. My suit of armour was gone now and I no longer had the drugs to hide behind. It was as though I were walking around Dublin completely naked. All the group therapy that I had done left me feeling raw and I suddenly had a heightened awareness of myself. Everything seemed to overwhelm me. The bright lights of the city. The traffic. Other human beings. Jesus, I wondered, had I been dead? It was as if I had opened my eyes for the first time. I was noticing buildings for the first time. Even the sky looked different. I had been too stoned for too long and too ashamed to hold my head up high and look at the sky. I knew that I would have to be very careful. The slightest little thing could trigger a craving.
To help me, I was told to avoid people, places and things that I associated with my drug use. Katriona suggested that I wear a Walkman and a watch when I was walking around on my own, so if I bumped into one of my old mates who was on drugs, I could pretend not to hear them, or look at my watch and say that I had to be somewhere at a certain time. Upstairs on the bus was a no-go area: this was where all the active drug users sat and addiction was rampant. Many a time had I smoked gear, had turn-ons and sold robbed stuff upstairs at the back of the bus. Sitting up there now would be asking for trouble. These were some of the things that I would have to do if I wanted to stay clean.
My life at this time revolved solely around NA. I was learning how to live my life again and I was loving every minute of it. I couldn’t believe it when I saw Tommy K still knocking around in NA. He had been in my group the first time I had been in the Rutland all those years ago and had got clean. I wondered what he had done to stay clean that I hadn’t managed to do. The difference in him now was unbelievable. Tommy K could barely pull two words together in the Ruts. Now, he was doing service and chairs in NA and he seemed to know what he was talking about. It was as though Tommy K had never even touched a drug. He looked so healthy now and grown up. When he saw me he gave me a big hug. This was a first: he had never been the hugging type. Seeing him doing so well made me even more determined to stay clean.
For the first two months in NA, I was like a duck out of water. I had to constantly stay around members to avoid temptation. ‘An addict on their own is bad company,’ I was told. Stick with the winners. But I was very intimidated by the long-timers. The people who had been clean for years. I just couldn’t relate to them. I felt so inadequate when I listened to them talking about their mortgages and their bills. These things just didn’t apply to me. It was easier for me to hang around with Jessica and Chris, my friends from the Rutland. I could relax with them and just be myself.
We spent most of our time hanging around coffee shops with other newcomers, on a high just because we were alive and drug-free. But I was still very vulnerable. I could wear a Walkman and a watch and sit on the lower deck of the bus. I could attend daily NA meetings and hang around with clean, healthy people, but my biggest weakness was one I found harder to avoid.
Justin was just another recovering addict of whom I didn’t take much notice at first. Katriona had warned me to stick with the women—she knew that I was vulnerable to men and she didn’t want to see me being taken advantage of. But at this time I found it easier to talk to men, and, as Justin hung around with us, I began to notice what a nice guy he was. He seemed very quiet with a good head on his shoulders. He was easy to talk to and I could have a laugh with him as well. Over the weeks that passed I found myself thinking about Justin a lot. He was becoming more and more attractive to me every time I saw him. He paid me lots of attention and made me feel good about myself. And I liked how respectful he was towards me.
Katriona was worried when I told her about my attraction to Justin. ‘Don’t make the mistake again of getting into relationships for all the wrong reasons,’ she cautioned. ‘Your self-esteem is on the floor, you’re lonely, you’re hurting and you’re clean only a wet day. Give yourself a break.’ Katriona was right. I wasn’t even sure why I wanted to be with Justin. And I knew in my heart that I wasn’t ready. But against all the warnings I hooked up with him anyway.
My relationship with Justin started out really well. We spent a lot of our time together and I really enjoyed his company. But I knew that I had to keep my focus on my recovery. That was my priority. I tried to keep myself occupied by doing an after-care recovery group during the day. It would give me a reason to get out of bed and I would also have all the support and structure that I needed.
Five months had passed and I was still clean. I was still learning about NA and I was surprised at how well I seemed to be juggling my relationship with Justin and my recovery. So we began to spend more and more time with each other. But over time I started to notice that my priorities were changing: Justin was slowly but surely coming before my own recovery. Instead of meeting Katriona or going to NA, I was cuddling up with him. During the times that I did meet Katriona, I spoke to her at length about my relationship with Justin. Suspicious of my motives, she questioned me continuously about my reasons for being with him and what my ‘pay-off’ was. ‘Why are you with Justin?’ she would say. ‘What attracts you to him?’ I couldn’t tell her; I had no idea. ‘Is it the fact that he’s still a little bit dysfunctional?’ she probed. She was right. Justin was a bit dysfunctional, but then so was I. Most of us newcomers were. It was to be expected after years of drug use. ‘You’re still living in the madness, Rachael,’ Katriona insisted. ‘You’re clean and crazy. You’re hanging around coffee shops looking for any sort of escape from yourself. Your life is still completely unmanageable. You’re missing days in your after-care recovery group. Your money is gone the minute you get it and you’re in a relationship with someone who has stopped going to meetings and who just seems to be angry all the time. I think you need to stop and take a long hard look at yourself, not at Justin.’
Katriona always told me the truth, whether it was nice or not. I knew that she was right, but at the time I couldn’t see how my attraction to men like Justin played a part in my addiction. I had a very low opinion of myself and I looked up to Justin because he had been clean longer than me. If anyone at all paid me attention like he did, I lapped it up. When I thought about what Katriona had said to me, I knew in my heart that I was making the same mistakes all over again and replacing drugs with other things, but I kept kidding myself that I would somehow make it work.
My relationship with Justin was not healthy, I knew that, and it was beginning to go pear-shaped. Justin was having problems with his family and he was like a walking volcano about to erupt. He was becoming increasingly paranoid about my whereabouts and my relationships with my male friends. One day when Justin asked me if I thought one of my male friends was attractive, I told the truth and I admitted that I did. I had been too honest for my own good. Justin couldn’t handle this.
That night myself and Justin had a huge row. He was convinced that I was betraying him when I wasn’t and every time I tried to leave his flat he would stand in my way. I couldn’t believe that this was happening between us. I knew Justin was angry, but I never thought that he would treat me like this, shouting at me. He was scaring me. The argument was really getting nasty. We must have rowed for almost an hour. Things were said that should not have been said. Justin said things that hurt me deeply. And it went on and on. And the longer it went on, the more my confidence crumbled.
_____
I thought that I was getting stronger, but after this row I realised that I was as fragile as ever. By the time Justin left I was a wreck. My confidence in myself was gone. My self-esteem was on the floor.
_____
All of my old demons resurfaced and with them an overwhelming urge to make myself feel good again. For some strange reason my mind kept reverting to the prostitution. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. But I could no longer remember how bad it was. All I could think about was that powerful feeling I got when men paid me to have sex with them. I could always depend on my sexuality to make me feel good about myself. I suddenly found myself on a bus heading up to Baggot Street. I was so blinded by my own hurt that I couldn’t remember when I had made the decision to go back up there. And I wasn’t exactly sure why I was going. I hadn’t really thought about it. All I knew was that I had this overriding urge to walk those dark streets just to see what was happening.
As I walked along the docks of the canal I noticed a bunch of flowers tied to one of the railings. They had a note hanging from them and, curious to see what it said, I walked over to the railings. Then I saw her name. The note read SINEAD. I knew Sinead well. She was a lovely girl, who worked the streets and had been murdered because of it, because she owed money to somebody. I felt a pang in my stomach and for a split second I realised what I was doing. Just go home; you don’t have to do this, I told myself. But I had already crossed the line in my head and nothing could stop me now. That night I got in and out of many cars. But I didn’t feel powerful. I just felt ashamed. So ashamed that I wanted to rip my insides out. But a part of me was satisfied because in my mind that was exactly what I deserved.
I was hanging by a thread and the only thing stopping me from using were my friends. I had noticed that the people whom I had thought were my friends suddenly weren’t there any more, but others, whom I thought weren’t my friends, were rallying around me. Jimmy Judge was there. He asked me if I wanted to see him as a friend or a counsellor. He could be either/or. But I had to choose which one. I knew I would be blessed to have Jimmy as a friend, but if he could be my counsellor I would benefit so much more. He also told me something that shocked me to the core—that as long as I continued to sell my body I was raping myself.
Dying to Survive Page 18