My Last High
Sitting in the room at Super 8, I struggled to find a vein. I looked around the rundown room; couldn’t ignore the scratchiness of the tan blanket I was sitting on, the brown and green grimy carpet that hadn’t been cleaned probably ever, and listening to the fighting coming from the room next door. Jon –my boyfriend-- had been gone for what felt like hours. He left to “go find help so you can stop complaining and get high.” By this point in my addiction, the only place left for me to shoot up was a vein in my neck, which I couldn’t do myself. I was starting to get dope sick; my hands shook, I was sweating, I was getting irritated. I had just started to break down in tears when Jon and our friend Die walked into the room. In less than 10 minutes, Die was able to find a vein. Finally, some relief!
Since the night was warm, and it had stopped raining, I knew Jon would want to go for a walk. The only time he would leave the room when he was high was at night. He was paranoid people were staring at him. But at night, according to him, one couldn’t tell. Across the street from Super 8, behind Kalamazoo 10, was Summer Ridge Apartments. They were a higher-end apartment, and their dumpsters were almost always full of the most random things. To a tweaker – a common term for a meth addict -- a full dumpster was like finding gold mine. This night was no different. After getting into the second dumpster, we hit paydirt! It was move out week, so the dumpsters were full. Since we were on foot, we couldn’t take everything with us; we’d have to come back with a car. I knew this was not going to upset Jon, and I dreaded the conversation about to come. One thing I had learned in this relationship is I had to “dumb myself down” when it came to Jon. He didn’t like that I was smarter than him, especially in front of our friends. Usually, I said things in a way that made it seem like it was Jon’s idea, not mine. But this was not one of those times. The tension surrounding us was thicker than pea soup. To this day I cannot say why this was. All I knew was Jon’s mood was different, he seemed to be more on edge than normal, bordering on angry. Unfortunately, no matter what I said or did, it wasn’t right thing.
I don’t know what I did that night to set him off, but I knew what was coming. It was going to end with me having yet another bruise, and possibly a few broken ribs. Jon always waited until I wasn’t paying attention before swinging at me. I had turned my head to look through something when Jon’s fist connected with the right side of my head right above my ear. Jon knew when he hit me to make sure to do it somewhere that either wouldn’t bruise or would be covered by my clothes. The force of that blow caused me to hit my head on the side of the dumpster, and I cried out in pain. Someone in the apartment complex we were in must’ve heard me scream when Jon hit me followed by Jon screaming at me because it wasn’t long after crawling out of the dumpster that cops showed up.
Jon had a knack for running away anytime blue lights appeared. And this time was no different. The officer stepped out of his cruiser, and I recognized him from one of the many times before when law enforcement had been called due to Jon hitting me. His body language and demeanor told me he knew I was going to lie about what happened to protect Jon. After all, according to street justice, that’s what I was expected to do. But this time, I didn’t. I just sat there on the curb silently, tears slowly rolling down my cheeks, dizzy, and my head throbbing. The cop radioed for a female officer for backup, since he couldn’t conduct a patdown on me. I swear it only took her seconds to get there, though it was more like 20 minutes. After conducting the patdown, they put me in handcuffs. It was at that moment my brother Vinnie was walking by. Knowing I had drugs in my purse, I didn’t want the cops to search it since that would be another charge, so I gave it to Vinnie to take back to my room. In the back of the cop car on the way to the jail, I broke down in tears. I was relieved to be away from Jon, and for the first time in a long time, I felt safe. After pulling into the jail the officer opened my door and hugged me, waiting for me to catch my breath before turning me over to the corrections officer. I will never forget the kindness the officer showed me at that moment.
Since it was a holiday weekend, I knew I would be in jail for a few days. It wasn’t my first time. I knew what to expect: be quiet, don’t cause a scene, keep my head down, and sleep. Sitting in my cell, while making origami boats and cranes from the paper sack we got breakfast in, I reminisced on how I got here. My addiction started innocently enough when I was prescribed Oxycontin after a c-section back in 2008. Over the course of 10 years, I’d had multiple surgeries, each one resulting in another script for Oxy or some other narcotic. Once the doctors caught on -- thanks to the invention of a medication monitoring system -- they cut me off. So, I turned to the streets, eventually being introduced to meth.
Every time one of the corrections officers walked by my cell, they looked to see what new thing I had folded. A couple even asked me if I could make a specific animal or object. At one point, an officer slid extra bags through the slot in the door. If I sat just right, I could see the TV in the holding area, allowing me to watch “Law & Order.” The humor of that moment is something I will always remember!
When you get to jail, they strip search you, give you a uniform, bed roll, and cup before escorting you to a cell. It’s not like in TV or movies, you don’t get fingerprinted, and have your mug shot taken right away. That happens when you get booked in. That’s also when you’re finally able to make a phone call. I’m not sure what made me realize this jail stay was different. But something in me just knew this wasn’t going to be just a few days. I waited for the correction officer (CO) to call my name for arraignment. Since I was arrested after 10pm, I knew I wouldn’t go for arraignment until the afternoon court session. Once in front of the judge, I learned I was being arraigned on two new charges, neither of them having anything to do with running from probation. Per usual, I was granted a personal recognizance bond for those charges. Nothing had been said about the fact I was absconding from probation, so I thought I was safe! I went back to my cell to wait to be released.
The next morning, instead of being released, the CO shackled me. This only happened if you were being transported out of the jail somewhere. I was led to another holding cell. To my surprise, my best friend and partner in crime, Ashley, was in the same cell. That’s when I learned I was going downtown to be sentenced for running from probation. Sitting in that cell, it became very real to me where my life was headed if I continued down the road I was on. I could keep using drugs, staying with Jon, breaking the law, and wind up going to prison just like Ashley was, or I could change. It wasn’t until after the judge showed me leniency, setting my bond at $200, along with making a pact with Ashley to never get high again, that I finally had hope.
In the past when I’d been arrested, I’d never called my parents. I didn’t want them to worry about me more than they already did. I’ve never been more embarrassed and ashamed as I was when I made that call asking them to bail me out. They were reluctant. They’d heard me tell them before that I was done with Jon, I wasn’t getting high, all kinds of lies. Why should they believe that this time would be different? After much crying, many phone calls, and promises, they agreed to post my bond with a few conditions. I had to stop running from probation, and I had to seek treatment. They agreed to support me, so long as I was doing good and did whatever Cindy, my probation officer, required of me. The hard part was convincing Cindy not to send me to prison. Somehow, and to this day I still don’t know how, I got Cindy to agree to send me to Kalamazoo Probation Enhancement Program (KPEP).
Growing up in the area, I had often heard of KPEP. I didn’t know much about the program, just that it was somewhere between jail and complete freedom, almost like a halfway house for people. I was completely unaware of just how structured my life was about to become. Suddenly, I had people telling me what time to wake up, when to eat, and what I could wear. The staff at KPEP tell you when you first get there that the doors are not locked, you are free to leave whenever you want. However, doing so meant a revocation of your probation, and a one-way ticket to jail! Being in KPEP is where I finally got the courage to leave Jon and the abuse. A few weeks after I got to KPEP, Cindy informed me I had a warrant for a new charge. This time, the prosecutor offered me two choices: Women’s Drug Treatment Court or serve 11-17 years in prison. I chose drug court and looked forward to this new opportunity, not realizing just how much my life was about to change.
After receiving a “nudge from the judge”, I started attending Narcotics Anonymous (NA) daily. I remember sitting in the basement of a church, that just so happened to be a block away from my dealer, listening to others share their story, and it was as if a light bulb went off. These people were just like me! They were living the life I had dreamed about for so long, the one I begged my higher power for. I wanted what they had! So, I kept showing up at meetings. I got a sponsor, started to get some clean time, and began working my steps. The fog I had been living in for so long was finally starting to clear. I started therapy, both group and individual, to work through the trauma I experienced.
When I was about nine months clean, I started to notice just how little people knew about addiction, especially how to help someone in active addiction. The way most family members responded was “tough love”, thinking it would help the addict come to their senses. In reality, it just made me feel hopeless, that nobody believed in me or cared if I lived or died. It was in the rooms of NA that I learned how to love myself for the first time ever. Through writing my steps, I realized the toll my addiction took on my family and how much I hurt them. Meetings became my sanctuary. I learned how to “live life on life’s terms.” I volunteered to share my story with those in treatment centers. I was asked to speak at meetings about my journey, and I even started to sponsor another woman in recovery. Every time I am asked to mentor someone it fills me with pride.
If you were to ask anyone if getting arrested saved their life, the answer would most likely be no. Getting arrested usually leads to a criminal record. Having a criminal record makes life infinitely harder. It affects where you can live, what kind of jobs you can do, even limiting travel abroad. It denies you the constitutional right to bear arms, since a convicted felon cannot own a weapon. But for me, getting arrested saved my life. It was the push I needed to finally leave Jon for good, stop using drugs, put in the work necessary for me to heal, and to heal the relationship with my family. I don’t remember much from my first meeting with my drug court case manager the one thing I do remember her saying was “We can fix a relapse, but we can’t fix lying.” I took that as a sign to finally get honest with not just my family and friends, but with myself. As I write this, I have graduated from drug court. I have 22 months clean and counting. I am sponsoring another woman, helping her to grow in their recovery, while they’re helping me to grow. Recovery is something I work at every day. I’ve learned I only need worry about today. Tomorrow will sort itself out: I just have to focus on today. Recovery is one day at a time.