No, Thanks....just Coke...No, really....

Posted this on my myspace blog a month or so ago...

I recently was invited to a holiday gathering which was, like many other celebrations, a festive event involving great music, rich food, and freely flowing alcoholic beverages.

Most of the people in my life know that I am in recovery and that I do not drink - and most of them are incredibly respectful and supportive of that in my life (most of them also knew me when I wasn't in recovery...which is precisely WHY they are so supportive, lol). The folks hosting this event, however, are new friends - and I didn't know alot of the people there. As we arrived, we were asked what we would like to drink - and when I said "Coke," I got the strangest look of misunderstanding...then the question turned into "with rum?" Answer: "No thanks, just Coke." A bit later, a very similar conversation took place again - oddly enough, with the same person, who seemed to be feeling like maybe she just wasn't offering me the right drink and that if she kept trying different options she would finally land on something I would like. Finally, I said "I really am fine with Coke, I just don't drink alcohol." I watched her face as this sudden look of knowing came over her...then her nose sort of crinkled up and she said "Oh man, that sucks...I didn't know you couldn't drink."

This is not the first time I have heard this - or seen this look of combined astonishment and, well, some sort of strange pity...it usually comes just before a statement about how hard it must be, or a time when they got really drunk, or some such thing.

Can I just say...it's not that I can't drink - it's that I don't drink...there is a difference. It's nothing to be sad about - and, in fact, I am quite happy with this choice. Watching other people drink does not make me want to drink. Watching other people get completely lit just reminds me of why I have made the choices I have. Seeing other people have a drink does not offend me. I do not feel bad, sad, thirsty, or left out unless the alcohol is the complete focus of attention - in which case, I will go home.

It's a strange feeling for me when this kind of stuff happens. There is this automatic assumption that I am not having as much fun as other people because I am not drinking - and that is just not true. The fact is, that I have more fun sober than I ever had fucked up - and the best part is that I remember it all the next day...AND, I don't have a headache.

And in the power of my own choice...I have made it through another day sober, beaten the odds one more time...and, for me, there is nothing that calls for celebration more than that.

And on that note...thanks for letting me share

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The Difference Between Then and Now

That last post was not so much about my addiction - I could write a hundred posts with the same kinds of bad scenes in them. The arrest, and ensuing prison sentence, were the beginning of my recovery, and the opening up of a whole new world for me...like starting all over again as a little toddler learning to walk and talk, and right from wrong, and how to take responsibility for myself. Even now, over 5 years later,I find myself in situations in which I feel just like a small, vulnerable child that can't quite figure out the right thing to do without a little help.

I thank God that I have developed the skills, and the courage to be able to reach out when I need to - it's the only way I can survive sometimes if I am being completely honest...

Five Minutes to Live...August 23, 2003

The tiles of the bathroom floor were cold and hard against my face as I drifted in and out of consciousness. The evening had started with a trip to the emergency room followed by a trip to the pharmacy to pick up the pain killers that the doctor had prescribed for my imaginary ailment. It was a scene that had been played over and over in the previous months as my addiction to the pills had overtaken my life. Before I could even make it all the way to the hotel room that had, along with various homeless and battered women’s shelters, been my temporary home since my girlfriend had kicked me out of the apartment that we shared - I had already taken all of the pills in the bottle and thrown it out of the car window. I could feel them taking effect and knew I needed to hurry and get into the room if I was going to be able to enjoy their full effect.

Before lying down on the bed, I poured out a coke into a glass full of ice and fixed myself a sandwich. I had run out of the anti nausea medication that I usually took with the pain pills to avoid getting sick to my stomach and a ruined high, and had been unable to talk the ER doctor into a new prescription. I was hoping the sandwich would ease the irritation to my stomach enough that I would not need them. The process of getting high had become a ritual, and I was ready to lie down and feel the escape that I knew the hydrocodone would bring.

The numbing effect of the drug began to wash over my brain, and I could feel the release…the relief… I took deep breaths in an effort to make the drug work better, reach its full effect faster. Suddenly, I could feel myself salivating heavily and I knew that the sandwich was probably not a good idea. Groggily, I pulled myself up off of the bed and hurried into the bathroom struggling not to vomit before I could get there. The contents of my stomach emptied almost in an instant, but the retching and heaving did not. After a few minutes that seemed like an eternity, the dry heaving gave way to a spewing of bright red blood onto the off white tiles of the bathroom floor. I thought it would never stop. Finally, weak, and spent and trembling, I laid my head down on the floor. I knew that I was dying. Just like they always say it does, the events of my life started to make their way into my head. I saw the faces of all of the people that I had ever loved – and who had ever loved me, and I heard their voices confronting me and pleading with me not to leave them. The urge to close my eyes and sleep was impossible to resist, though I knew that giving into that would surely mean never waking again.

Here in this cold hotel bathroom - lying in a pool of my own blood, vomit, tears, and sweat – I began to pray - to anything out in the big black universe that would listen. I prayed to wake up. I prayed that a stranger would find me. I prayed that my mother would never know how I was found. Shivering and crying and struggling to stay awake, I promised that, if I could just be allowed to wake up…if  I could just make it through this one last time…I would be better, stop using drugs, fix things with my family and friends, and become a productive member of society. The word "Amen" barely passed my lips as the darkness finally engulfed me and the world around me went dark.

Hours later, I opened my eyes and found myself on the same bathroom floor, horrified and disgusted with myself. Too weak to get to my feet, I crawled into the bathtub with my clothes on and turned on the water. The water was clear and cold as it washed away the filth that I had slept in. My head began to clear and I remembered the desperate, pleading promises made, and yet, I knew that I would not make it through this day without my pills.

Finally feeling strong enough to get into clean clothes and forage around for something to eat, I sat on the side of the bed and picked around at a bowl of cheerios as I formulated my plan to get off of the narcotics that I had become dependent on. I had been forging prescriptions for some time, and had even been arrested a couple of times for it. “Just one more scrip,” I thought. The best plan, I decided, would be to forge a prescription and then taper myself off of the pills gradually to avoid the horrible withdrawal symptoms that plagued me anytime I went more than a couple of hours without the drug in my system. Still weak from the night before and nauseated from the cereal, I headed down to the pharmacy – fake scrip in hand. It seemed to take longer than usual for the prescription to be filled and I could feel my muscles start to twitch as the level of narcotic in my system started to drop. I paid for the pills and hurried out the door, trying to beat the withdrawal symptoms before they had a chance to really take hold. In a scene that seemed right out of a movie, the police – who were waiting for me on the other side of the door – flanked me on both sides, grabbed the bag holding the prescription, and shoved me to the ground. I felt my head spinning as I was handcuffed and pulled to my feet. As I sat in the back of the police car, under arrest, I once again remembered the promises I had made to God in my desperation to stay alive the night before. I leaned my head back against the plastic seat in the cruiser…tired, I was so very tired. In that moment, I knew that all was lost. It was August 23, 2003 and I was still breathing, my body was alive… just barely – but my soul … my soul was dead.

It was August 23, 2003 - the day that I would, more than at any time in my life, begin to understand two things:  Powerlessness, and Grace.

Thoughts on Addiction and Recovery...A Disclaimer

Drugs always wear off eventually, but addiction is forever – at least that’s what all the professionals say. I don’t really know how much I believe that. There are so many concepts out there about what addiction is, and what the treatment should be. Is it a disease, a choice, a lack of morality? Is it rooted in genetics, or trauma, or escape, or a deeply ingrained selfishness or sense of entitlement? I am not writing this blog to answer any of these questions for the simple reason that I do not know what the answer is. I have a sneaking suspicion that eventually, it will be proven that the answer is quite possibly “all of the above.” I think addiction is much more complex than anyone really even realizes at this point in time. I am writing simply to share my journey - from highest mountain tops, and the darkest valleys....and all of the quiet, peaceful, sometimes a little bumpy, roads that connect them all together into one path...

My addiction started with medical issues and quickly became my escape plan to get away from a life filled with emotional pain, anxiety, and insecurity. It eventually progressed into selfish and immoral choices based on my own needs, resentments, and inability to acknowledge the good in my own life. Addiction made me a horrible human being. It took my life away, and eventually – it killed my soul.

Today, I have been clean and sober for more than 5 years, by the grace of a higher power and a little help from the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. Some days it's easy, and some days are excruciating...but there is not a day that passes that I do not find my way to my knees and say a prayer of gratitude for the very fact that I am alive to tell my story.

This world of the internet is amazing. The first people to read this will likely be my friends...and whoever they pass it along to. Perhaps a stranger or 2 will do a google search on addiction or recovery and click this link to find themselves reading in these pages...who really knows how far the ripple will really reach?? But somewhere, someone is hurting, and confused, and sick...feeling alone, and crazy, and desperate. If this blog finds that one individual or someone that loves them and wants nothing more than to help...and just one word gives them what they need on that one day....

Well, then it will all be worth it, won't it??

My name is Christy, and I am a recovering addict....