Recognizing A Hero In Addict (8 cont)

I did everything the wrong way when I entered treatment the first time. I was cocky, arrogant, and not open to doing what I needed to do to fight my disease, which is ironically the same wrong attitude and wrong way non addicts typically go about fighting addiction. Deep down, I wasn't really any of those things at all though. It was a front I put on, a mask to mask my real feelings to the outside world, and it carried over into rehab.

What I hadn't realized, but probably should have, is after a while it's hard to know where the person you are from the drugs ends, and the real person you are without them begins. In retrospect, I was terribly afraid and scared. Most people are awkward in their adolescence for the simple and logical reason that they don't know who they are yet, and your adolescence is one big, mistake filled grace period used to figure it out. I made a great deal of mistakes throughout my adolescence too, but none of them were done in the pursuit of finding myself. I had no idea who I was, no idea of who I was without the drugs anyway.

Up to this point, I hadn't gone a full day without opiates in 10 years. As a matter of fact, I still technically won't go a full day without opiates in this first rehab stint.

The amount of drugs I was consuming, and namely methadone pills, were even worse than having a dope habit, and I know this because within a year of leaving treatment, I'll also be acquiring a dope habit. So while methadone, like suboxone, is also used as a medication assisted treatment (MAT) to stave off the worst of the withdrawal symptoms as it was here in the first rehab, it was such a reduced amount in comparison to my usual consumption, that it, the withdrawal, hit me really hard. Methadone is almost impossible to recover from do to the horrific withdrawal symptoms and post acute withdrawal symptoms, otherwise known as PAWS, that can last literally years after stopping.

I was in treatment for 6 days, and during that time they used the MAT liquid methadone to stave off the worst of the withdrawal, but it was still horrendous. I endured the necessary hell required of me to begin weaning off the massive amount of various opiates I was accustomed to consuming daily. Once I was past the horrific hell of the worst of physical withdrawal, the mental withdrawal held all the power. The mental withdrawal is it's own kind of hell, and it lasts forever. It never goes away, but it gets easier the more time that passes.

The hole, the void I had been filling with drugs for 10 years, was now open and gaping. I, as most addicts do, made the mistake of trying to find the quickest fix next to drugs-a rehab romance. The term rehab romance exists because this is such a common practice in rehabs. You try to quickly fill the void with love, sex, and acceptance. I had a crush on a guy that I kissed, and focused the most of my energy on feeling anything and everything besides what I needed to feel to try and get better. I had no real feelings for him, but focusing on anything besides myself was far easier. I wanted to get better. I knew for as long as I knew I was taking narcotics, that I had a problem, and I admitted to it. There's just so much more to recovery than admitting and accepting you have a problem. I didn't know yet, or rather I didn't reflect enough on myself and my life yet to realize that drugs were a symptom of my overall problem. After awhile drugs also become the overall problem so much so that it masks your original issues to such an extent that you actually believe if you can just stop taking the drugs, it will make everything better. I made this mistake the first time.

I spent six days in the facility, and I desperately wanted to get better, but I made a crucial mistake. On the sixth day, my first real day off the liquid methadone to stave the withdrawal, the van was supposed to be taking me home to my apartment in Harrisburg. I was steadfast in not wanting to do drugs, and I wasn't in a rush to leave to acquire drugs, but rather because I wanted to be home in my own environment. Sleep in my own bed, see my cat, not have to see people in horrible shape. I wanted to feel a sense of normality for once. On that sixth day, there was a snowstorm that cancelled all transportation. I was so devastated. I was prepared to be home, and now I was going to be forced to endure another day of sleeping in a facility. This is my first critical mistake out of rehab. I called my Dad who only lived 30 minutes away, and asked him to come pick me up in his pickup truck so I wouldn't have to sleep there another night. In recovery, you have to be brutally honest with yourself. You have to fight the intense urges you have to use, and you have to fight the lies your brain is trying to feed you as truth in order to satisfy it's own cravings. I knew this was a terrible idea to stay a night at my parent's house, my main suppliers' home, on my first real day off opiates in 10 years, but my brain told me I was strong enough. This is never a position you want to put yourself in, even if you truly feel deep down you're strong enough, it's just better not to risk it at all.

My Dad obliged, and one of the hardest things I've ever had to do is to ask my Dad, on the drive to their house, not to give in to my potential request for pills. I didn't ask him to give them to me, yet, but I knew I likely would, and I wanted to cut off any chance of my probable, eventual request being fulfilled. My Dad was really supportive about my request, and he told me how proud he was of me for taking quitting so seriously. My Dad had been addicted for many years now, and he understood the impossibility of this noble feat, and he told me he would do whatever he could to help. My Mom was a different story.

When I got to their house I went straight to bed, and I'll never forget what I woke up to in the morning. I came downstairs to just my Mother being awake, and before we exchanged any words, she held out her palm, and inside it were a various array of narcotics that my body and mind were already screaming for me to take. She didn't say anything, and neither did I. I took the pills, and I sank right back into my active addiction. The next few years will be comprised of living inside a pit of despair that I will almost die trying to escape.