Never Again

    Never Again

Purple crescent moons hung under my tired eyes. Scarlet blood vessels trailed across the whites. Deafening ringing rattled inside my head and I was certain my brain would explode at any given moment. 

Knuckles bloody and white, gripping the porcelain sink. Beads of sweat formed on my ice cold forehead, letting me know that the withdrawals were about to start. The sweat would trickle into a fever, which would proceed an evening of nausea and involuntary retching. The agony was like a slow tune, building to a massive crescendo of pain. 

I rang in the New Year with a fifth of liquor and an ungodly amount of pills. It wasn’t entirely unlikely that I dabbled in a little cocaine throughout the night. My nostrils were crusted over with blood and numb to the touch. Scratch that, my nose most definitely sucked up a gram or two. 

A phone belonged to me somewhere, but I wasn’t sure of its whereabouts. My brain screamed for help, begging me to feed my addiction with something that would dull the agony. 

I didn’t take pills and chase them with vodka. Oxycodone swallowed me whole and washed me down with my own life, taking over everything and then some. My reality was defined by the number of pills in my bottle and the ounces of booze left in my cup. Every second that passed without my fix rattled my brain. 

My stomach lurched, someone was banging their knuckles against the bathroom door. 

“Jeff wanted me to check on you, are you good?” an unfamiliar man asked. 

I nodded slowly and tried to force away the belch that was rising in my stomach. Something bubbled inside of me, possibly a potion of various liquors and other substances. I had no other option than to ride it out. I had no phone, no memory of how I got here, and certainly no money. 

Someone had dropped me off at the steps of a community center, which was surprisingly packed with people. I guess I wasn't the only person who needed a come to Jesus meeting after celebrating New Years Eve. Narcotics Anonymous seemed like such a daunting sign to tape to a door, it was almost a deterrent. My imposter syndrome was kicking in, my brain's way of telling me that my way of life was perfectly alright. I was young, I could party like this a few more times and live to tell the tale. There were people who were worse off than me. I wasn’t really addicted, I chose to do the things I did. But those were all boldfaced excuses. 

After a car accident that left me with four broken bones, a spinal fracture, and a month long coma, I became heavily addicted to opiates. The pain took over every inch of my body and the drugs were handed out like candy. Once I healed from my injuries and was discharged from the hospital, I relied on my pills to blanket the pain. My prescription ended eventually, but that is when my addiction began. If I couldn’t get my hands on pills, I would find something else. And then I spiraled into a black abyss of mind numbing nothingness. 

I sat in a metal fold out chair amidst a circle of people. The majority of us looked exhausted and weak, but the person at the center of the circle was fresh faced. 

“I know the holiday season can be rough, but you’re not alone. If you choose to become sober, you have people here that will support you and help you get through it. It is not easy, but it is entirely possible. The only way out is through,” a man stated confidently. 

I focused on his words and tried to swat away the intrusive thoughts that weaseled their way into my mind. You will never get sober, you can’t do it. People began sharing their stories, but I couldn’t muster up the courage to do so. The only thing I was about to share was the stomach bile rising from my belly.

It had been four years since I last saw my mother. I was ejected from her home the minute she discovered my obsessive addiction to pills. Once she noticed the pill bottles in her medicine cabinet were rearranged, she knew I was in deep trouble with an addiction. My mother, Kara, tried for months to help me get sober. But I disappointed her each time. I stole cash from her purse, swiped trinkets off her nightstand and sold them, and robbed her of the fond memories she had of her only son. It was atrocious what I did to her, she didn’t have any money to spare, and any cash she did have, I claimed as my own.

 I would sulk down the corner, cross the street, and wait on the corner of Madison and Elk Drive and wait for my dealer, Jared. He was a constant in my life, someone I could always depend on no matter what. When my friends and family could no longer help me, Jared was there to provide a helping hand. But the only thing he provided were little pills in exchange for cash, our friendship was truly transactional. He wasn’t my friend, he wasn’t a confidant. Jared wanted to see me suffer and he wanted my downfall to be of my own demise. Because the more I needed him, the more he succeeded. 

Withdrawing from opiates is the closest thing to what I imagine burning in hell would feel like. One minute your flesh is boiling hot and the next your skin is ice cold. Neverending nausea pools in your belly and the retching is constant. Your body is so dehydrated and exhausted, unimaginable migraines and cramps that take over every inch. 

I knew this because I had tried to quit. The tremors began and I was violently shaking and hugging the toilet, wishing there was any other option. After two days without opiates, I had relinquished all control. I was sweating profusely and I stripped my legs of my jeans and tossed them on the floor, splashing my face with sink water. In my blurred vision, I looked down and saw something that spread warmth over my body like a warm blanket. A tiny blue pill had escaped the pocket of my jeans and the cycle continued. It was too easy, taunting me like a test. It was a test, and I failed. 

I swiped a water bottle from a plastic table at the community center and gulped it down. The sun was beaming through the clouds, which didn’t offer any relief for my raging headache. It would take me a mile to walk back to my mother’s house and I was confident that I could make it. Just put one foot in front of the other, I thought. The only way out is through. 

A chill wafted through the air and trickled down my spine. I searched for warmth in my pockets, pulling my sweater over my white knuckles. My stomach lurched as I read the street signs, I had reached the corner of Maidson and Elk Drive. I closed my eyes and wished with all my might that I could transport my soul elsewhere. I reluctantly opened my eyes and saw Jared sitting in a black Escalade with the window rolled down. A smile played on the corner of his lips, recognizing an old customer of his. 

“Happy New Year, Andrew. You don’t look so good. Can I get you some blues?”

He was referring to the powder blue oxycodone pills I was heavily addicted to. I shook my head slowly and avoided his gaze. 

“Never again.” 

For a split second, I considered his offer. I could find a way to pay my debt to him and then take up getting sober tomorrow. But tomorrow was never certain, I was dealing with a matter of hours before my body collapsed on me with the way I was taking care of it. 

I trudged through the Connecticut snow and finally found myself at the door of my mothers home. My fists pounded the door and I eagerly waited for her to welcome me inside with open arms. I longed for the love and comfort of my mother and I desperately needed to seek shelter from the winter storm that was brewing. 

She appeared from behind the wooden door, a few new wrinkles had set in around her eyes in the time since I last saw her. My mother frowned as she took in my appearance, gaunt and sickly looking. 

“You know I can’t let you in, Andrew. I love you, but I can’t enable you. We’ve been down this road,” she said weakly. 

“It’s going to be a long road to recovery, but I can do it. I have to do it or I will never make it,” I said. 

At this statement, her voice hitched and she covered her quivering mouth with a frail hand. I had broken my mothers heart more times than I could count and I was tired of being a constant disappointment. I wanted to change, I needed to change. My life depended on it. 

“Please, I’m asking you to help me. Get me clean, chain me to the bed if you have to. I want nothing more than to get off this toxic stuff,” I begged. 

I hadn’t realized how weak and frail I was until I was begging at her front door. Even speaking felt tiring and my energy levels were beyond depleted. My stomach lurched and I was losing control of all my bodily functions. I clutched my stomach, wincing at the searing pain. 

My mother grabbed my arm and took me inside, seating me on the sofa near the fireplace. She fetched a piping hot cup of tea and placed it in my hands. While I defrosted, she inquired about my addiction. It was a long time coming, but I realized that I couldn't do this on my own. I would need to seek help if I was going to get better. Support, therapy, reliable people to lean on. 

“It won't be easy, I know that. Detoxing from opiates is dangerous, but I know I can do it. I want to start painting again, I want to finish school, and I want to live without feeling chained to this horrible addiction,” I mumbled. 

“I’m terrified I’m going to lose you forever. I can’t stand to see you like this. I want to help you, but you have to promise me you’ll try this time. If you start using again, I can’t enable you by keeping you here,” she said. 

“I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am. I love you and I promise I’m going to get better. I won't touch that stuff, never again.”