After a long wait to be assessed by the doctor, I received my ninety mls of methadone. It was such a relief to feel my bones and my blood warm up, but this only took away the pains and helped me to function just enough to protect myself from the other women in Dóchas. There were many young girls trying to make a reputation and a name for themselves who were loud and boisterous. They would take any opportunity to humiliate you in front of others. By nature I wasn’t a fighter and at this stage in my life I hadn’t the energy to pretend that I was. All I could do was be myself and hope that knowing most of the old-timers would guarantee me some element of safety.
I quickly settled into my cell and established a routine of doing nothing. There were many activities that a prisoner could get involved in, such as going to school, getting lessons in hair and beauty or going to the fully equipped gym for a class in aerobics. But all I wanted to do was lock myself into my cell. Even though drugs were readily available beyond my four walls—and sometimes within them—I realised that being locked up was a chance to get myself off the heroin. I knew that this would be far from easy, but I made a decision to do my best.
It wasn’t helped by the fact that the days at Dóchas were long and boring. The highlight of my day was getting my methadone and wishing my time away. I knew that spending too much time on my own wasn’t a good idea, because I had too much time to think. For the time to go quickly, I needed to be around the other prisoners. It was July and the sun was blazing in the sky, so myself and some other girls would sit in the garden. Some of them would tell me all about their lives and how they ended up in prison. Most of the girls I spoke to lived lives that were full of regret and guilt. Others hadn’t an ounce of remorse and got great pleasure in telling me all about the crimes they had committed.
One girl in particular, who was much younger than me and whom I had known since she was a little kid, insisted on telling me in graphic detail about the murder she had committed. She had already been convicted and was looking at spending the foreseeable future in prison. We both sat alone in her cell as she animatedly told me her story. As I listened to this young, pretty girl, I thought to myself, Jesus, what happened to you. I was dizzy, I felt like vomiting and the hairs on my arms stood up with fright. I knew this girl looked up to me and she was trying to impress me. I couldn’t get out of her cell quickly enough. There but for the grace of God, I thought. I may not have murdered anyone, but I had done plenty of other bad things.
Sometimes I would sit and watch the girls get their drugs in. It baffled me how the prison officers wouldn’t even notice what the women were up to: they must have been blind. The women would congregate by the prison wall waiting for their ‘dropsy’ to be thrown over. All of a sudden, I would see a package flying over the wall. Then the women would scatter and one of them would stay behind, suspiciously looking around for her deal. This is how most of the arguments would start in prison. The women would take turns ‘sorting each other out’ with their drugs. Most of the time somebody would get left out or ripped off. This would lead to huge fights, with some pulling others down flights of stairs by the hair and even scalding each other with boiling water mixed with sugar. The ironic thing is that the Dóchas Centre had no facilities to help those of us who might have wanted to become drug-free. There were no counsellors to talk to or groups that would be of any benefit to us. The problem of drugs was being avoided, which defeated the purpose of any sort of rehabilitation.
I kept my head down and tried to stay focused. My court day was slowly approaching and I was certain that a bed would become available.
One morning my cell door was unlocked and my fluorescent lights were turned on. ‘Rachael, it’s time to get up, pack your stuff and be ready in twenty minutes.’ I was relieved and ready to say goodbye to Dóchas Prison. After packing all my belongings, I was given my methadone and brought to court. Once again I was put in a grotty little cell. I sat alone and prayed that the judge was in a good mood. My destiny lay in his hands. Staying clean for one week in prison was difficult enough. Anything more than that just seemed impossible. Please God, let there be a bed available, I thought as I stood to meet my fate in front of Judge Cormac Dunne.
‘Well, Ms Keogh, a week in prison has obviously done you the world of good. You look a lot better,’ the judge stated. ‘What is the situation with Cuan Dara?’ he addressed my solicitor.
‘Your honour, we have been in close contact with Cuan Dara, but due to the waiting list, a bed has not become available as yet.’ My heart sank. ‘They have informed us that the next bed that becomes available will be for Rachael, but that could take anything up to six weeks. I would, however, ask the court to take into consideration Ms Keogh’s circumstances. She is a young woman who has battled serious drug addiction for a number of years. She has had long periods of being completely drug-free and she says that she realises where she went wrong. She believes that if she is given the chance, she could become drug-free again, but she and her family maintain that going back to prison could be detrimental to any chance that she has in achieving this.’
‘Really? Where is her family?’
‘Her mother is with us in court today.’
‘Where are you, Mrs Keogh? Mrs Keogh, would you please come up here and tell us what you think?’ the judge requested. I was beginning to feel nauseous, but I knew that my mother would speak up for me. I heard shuffling sounds coming from behind me, then the echoing noise of my mother’s footsteps as she walked past me, up to her designated seat.
‘Well, Mrs Keogh, do you think that going back to prison would jeopardise Rachael’s chance of recovery?’ the judge asked. Everyone looked at my mother and waited for her to respond. She said nothing. She sat silent and frozen to the spot. Tell them what you think ma, tell them, I screamed in my head, hoping that somehow she would hear me.
‘Mrs Keogh?’ the judge said, urging her to respond.
Then my mother’s bottom lip began to wobble and I knew that she was about to cry. No, no, don’t cry, don’t cry, I thought, but my mother broke down and sobbed her heart out in front of the whole court.
‘Ok, Mrs Keogh, thank you very much. You may step down now,’ said the judge with a hint of sympathy in his voice. Then he turned and looked at me as if to say, ‘Shame on you for putting your poor mother through this.’ He shook his head and sighed heavily, addressing my solicitor. ‘Mrs Brennan, I have no choice but to put your client back into custody until I know for certain that what you are saying is true. I will hand this case over to the recommendation of Dr Brian Sweeney. He will assess Ms Keogh in the Dóchas Women’s Centre during next week. Next court date, one week from now.’
I was devastated to be back in prison. It really felt like I was back at square one in my recovery, but strangely enough, things turned out quite differently. Perhaps it was Dr Sweeney’s quiet listening to my family story and the chance to pour out my heart to him and not be judged, that made me realise I could do this, I could get clean. After telling Dr Sweeney everything during my second trip to Dóchas, it seemed that the worst was over. I even surprised myself by not using heroin while I was in prison. With the knowledge that I had been freely given from Narcotics Anonymous, I decided to take things one day at a time, or if needs be, one second at a time. I asked God to help me and it worked.
I was granted bail pending a place becoming available at Cuan Dara, on condition that I attend NA meetings. I was free. But I was still on ninety mls of methadone and I needed to stick with my plan and my bail conditions. If I did this, my doctor agreed to reduce my dose to forty mls of methadone and make me a priority for Cuan Dara detox centre. Keeping busy was a must, so I went to three and four NA meetings a day, surrounding myself with people who had gone before me. Whether I knew them or even liked them, it didn’t matter. Once I was with other recovering drug addicts, I knew that I wouldn’t use drugs.
Most days I got great relief from the meetings. I was in a place where people understood me. There were no authority figures or peo
ple threatening to throw me out because I was still on methadone. I was told by many that I had earned my chair and that I was to ‘keep coming back’. Other days I hung on by the ‘skin of my teeth’, but I did my best to listen and to take advice. ‘Do the opposite to what your head tells you,’ I was told. ‘If you feel like using drugs, come to a meeting and tell somebody. Bring the body and the mind will follow.’ I used the clichés as my mantra. All that mattered to me now was that I keep moving forward. And as the days passed by, I became stronger and more determined than ever before.
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Six weeks had passed and I had abided by my bail conditions. But there was still no sign of an available bed in Cuan Dara. My mother had meant what she had said. She was standing by my side in everything that I did, encouraging me to persevere and to have faith. Both of us knew that a lot of damage had been done between the two of us and we would have a lot of talking to do if we wanted to get on with each other, but now wasn’t the time to think about it. Every day she helped me to dress and bandage my arms. They no longer had gaping wounds on them and it seemed that they were beginning to heal well.
In my desperation to get clean I exposed myself to the media and to the public. It was a last resort to get help for my addiction, but to my astonishment my story exploded onto every newspaper across the country and kept popping up in the following months. I had to keep my two feet firmly on the ground and remember what I had done it all for, to get clean; not to get carried away with the little bit of fame and recognition that I was receiving. My life was at stake and I had to remember who I was and where I wanted to go.
Three months had passed now and my frustration was growing over the lack of available beds in any suitable detox unit. And when Sky News asked me if they could make a fly-on-the-wall documentary about my journey through recovery, to follow up on their original story about my addiction, I agreed. Someone once told me that desperation was ‘a gift’. A gift that gives you the ability to run through brick walls. I had that gift now. I had been to hell and back and if I could get through all that, I could get through absolutely anything. All of a sudden I had a great confidence and an enthusiasm that I had never possessed before. I was no longer afraid to face up to myself or anyone else for that matter. I wasn’t going to play a role that others had chosen for me any more. I would be myself, rotten arms and all, and if you didn’t like me, then you could ‘Kiss my arse’.
Sky News used me for a good story and I used them to show people the reality of addiction and the third-world facilities that we have in Ireland for people who were seeking treatment. I had now been waiting for four months to go into Cuan Dara and I still hadn’t used heroin. I was doing everything that I could possibly think of to push my case forward. Becoming an annoyance to anyone who had the power to help me, even storming Dáil Éireann and confronting the minister responsible for the government’s drug strategy. Why was I waiting this long? I demanded to know. I was going to lose both my arms if I didn’t receive help. The minister, who was sitting on a panel with his fellow politicians, had a look of puzzlement on his face, and beads of sweat ran down his forehead. He didn’t reply to my question.
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The drugs had taken their toll on my health. My body was still very weak and I spent my twenty-eighth birthday in hospital. At first the doctors thought that I had tuberculosis, but I was later to learn that I had residual heroin attached to my lungs. This blockage and lack of oxygen resulted in bad circulation and clubbing of my fingers. I also learned that I had hepatitis C. But this only made me more determined to become drug-free. Two days after my birthday a bed became available for me in Cuan Dara. I thought that I couldn’t get there quick enough and as soon as I arrived I broke down, crying with relief. I had made it. The nightmare was over now. I knew exactly what to expect this time and I knew exactly what I had to do. And come hell or high water, I would stick it out.
After six days of being weaned off methadone, I was completely drug-free and for six weeks after that I crawled the walls, suffering with the usual aches and pains and insomnia. I cried my heart out and laughed my head off, but mostly I was full of anger and rage. I was adamant that people treat me with respect and I wasn’t letting anyone away with anything. I would no longer say ‘yes’ when I meant ‘no’. Almost everyone got an earful off me. My counsellor, my doctor, even some of the other clients. If anyone attempted to try and drag me down, I was ready physically to harm them. I was fighting for my life here. I exhausted every facility that was on offer. Every bit of energy that I had channelled into my drug addiction was now being channelled into my recovery.
When my six weeks of detox ended in Cuan Dara I was offered a place in a rehabilitation centre called Keltoi. I was clean now and I had already done work on myself in Cuan Dara and was in danger of being complacent. What did I need with another rehab? I was sorted, I thought. I had broken the hold heroin had on me and had promised myself I’d never look back. Then I was reminded by my good friend Declan, whom I had met in NA, that this was my addiction talking, speaking to me in my own voice and convincing me that I was sorted. After talking to Declan, I realised that I was actually terrified of going back into rehab: I wasn’t sure I could face further confrontation with myself and others, more First Steps and constant questioning of my motives. But Declan encouraged me to persist, telling me that the longest journey I would ever make would be the journey from my head to my heart. Going into Keltoi would be the beginning of that journey. I felt as though I were jumping off a cliff.
Declan had surprised me throughout my relapse. I had ducked and dived from NA members all through it, but for some reason I kept bumping into him. I knew that my relapse had affected him deeply, but he’d managed to stay clean. Every time I saw him when I was using, he offered to help me. He believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. My relapse taught me who my real friends were and I knew that Declan was one of them. It was karma that Declan should be with me now.
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Keltoi means ‘the hidden people,’ and is neatly tucked away in the largest park in Ireland. It didn’t look anything like a treatment centre to me. It was a three-storey yellow building that looked more like a modern respite home. Keltoi took in eight clients over the space of eight weeks, which created an intimacy between the staff and clients, and on my first day in Keltoi I was introduced to everyone including the dog. Most of the clients I already knew from Narcotics Anonymous, which made me feel more at ease. There were seven of us in total, five men and a girl with whom had I been through Cuan Dara.
I felt as though I were walking into the Little House on the Prairie. Everything seemed so peaceful and harmonious, right down to the deer who happily nibbled on the grass and lounged around in the garden. I was used to the confrontational approach of therapy, where I was vigilantly observed by staff and clients alike and ruthlessly made aware of my character defects. Keltoi was something completely different. Clients were expected to find their own answers within themselves. The six counsellors on site were there to gently challenge us and nudge us in the right direction.
I had been half expecting somebody to jump out at me and frog-march me into group therapy, where I would be torn apart for being such a bold girl. But that never happened. Everyone was warm and friendly, to the point where I was starting to think that it was all a set-up. I wasn’t used to people being so nice to me without looking for something in return. There were lots of surprises at Keltoi. When dinner time came, two of the staff sat down at the table to eat with the clients. This was a first. Usually in treatment centres the staff eat their meals in a separate room, but I was told that nobody was above or below anybody else in Keltoi. Everything that the clients did, the staff did. We worked together and we ate together. There was no ‘us’ and ‘them’.
The daily routine was laid-back but structured. Breakfast began at ten and we weren’t allowed to eat until everyone was at the breakfast table. Then we would all sit around together and go over our plan for the day
. Each of us had a duty to carry out, whether it was working in the kitchen preparing home-made meals from scratch, or cleaning the house. We were kept occupied from ten o’clock in the morning until lunchtime. When we were finished our lunch we had free time until two o’clock. This was when group therapy took place.
At my first day in group I was told to introduce myself and to sit back and take in how the group worked. I couldn’t believe it. The conversation was light on the head and it focused on the here and the now. There was no ‘deep-sea diving’ into the past. It was suggested that unless we really needed to share something of a delicate nature, we could hold onto it until we had our one-to-one session with a counsellor of our choice. But seeing a counsellor needed to be planned one week in advance, so I immediately put in a request to see each and every one of them. Group therapy ended at around three-thirty. Then we were free until six o’clock when we had our tea. At seven-thirty we had a wind-down group, taking twenty minutes to reflect on the highs and lows of our day. After wind-down we were free to watch television or just hang out together until it was time to go to bed.
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