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.
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.
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