Petra’s Diary Part Two: Rehab
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE from CAUGHT UP Truth and Metaphor | An Imaginary Tale
Petra’s Diary
Part Two: Treatment
21
August 19, 2006
I arrived at the Palace, my nickname for this extravagant treatment center.
“You’ll be in this room for the next few days so I can monitor your detox,” said the nurse.
From the corner of my bed, I can see the nurses' station. It is Saturday and I’m in serious trouble. The hospital gave me my early morning dose of Suboxone at 8:00 am. It's 1:00 pm and I’m going into withdrawal.
“I need my next dose.”
“You have to wait until 6:00 pm.”, said the nurse.
“But…I take 2 pills every four hours.”
“The fax from the hospital says you get 12 mg per day. I’ve received written orders from the doctor in charge of this facility to decrease it to 9 mg.”
"No, you’re not listening. I take 12 pills a day!”
I’m getting sicker by the minute. She thinks I'm lying even though I’m damp with cold-sweat.
In my room, I curl into myself on the bed. My roommate looks at me with concern and horror. Ghostly forms move in and out of the room. Distant voices send waves of comforting words I cannot decipher.
I am in agony.
August 21, 2006
Let me elaborate, just a wee bit, on the last two hellish days of my life. What I expected to do in a padded room at the hospital blindsided me within hours of arriving here. As providence designed, it was the weekend and no one could intervene. The nurse wanted to believe me, but I am an addict, and as such, I am branded, “a manipulating, drug-seeking liar.” The girl who played the system inside the hospital, has paid the piper.
I saw the Palace doctor first thing this morning. The hospital paperwork, finally straightened out, revealed a shocking truth. For once in my life, I was not lying. The doctor offered to increase my Suboxone. I declined.
“I’d rather not waste the withdrawal.”
I have that weird empty-shell feeling as if I’ve lost a significant portion of my soul. The unfamiliar person looking back at me from the mirror appears ancient and bloated. My pores look like caverns in a sickly gray landscape that used to be my face.
“When did I dye my hair black?”
People should be running away from me in horror. I am a hideous monster.
August 24, 2006
Structure is everything at the Palace. Up at 6:30 am, yoga at 7:00, breakfast at 8:00, in our first lecture at 9:00, followed by group therapy and more classes. Three days a week, we have mandatory recreation. Yesterday, I had to walk around the lake. My fellow inmates seemed to enjoy the fresh air. Not me. I was dragging my body behind me as if it weighed a thousand pounds. One foot in front of the other. I have so much residual poison in my body that any proper exercise makes me feel like I’m going through full-on withdrawal again. I’m jumping out of my skin.
Why am I so awkward in social settings?
I seem to function at a much lower level than everyone else and hide in my room every chance I get. The one real blessing is my roommate. We share the same spiritual beliefs and even though we have both screwed up; we seem to be a comfort to one another. Also, she has none of the weird, annoying habits that I have heard the other women complaining about.
August 25, 2006
I met my counselor for the first time today. There are some very special counselors here at the Palace. Mine is not one of them. She is a hard-ass bitch who has it out for me. It is clear, I am not her cup of tea.
August 26, 2006
I’m understanding some concepts. They say I have a disease. It’s genetic and I’ve had it since before I started using. Drugs seemed like the best solution to all my problems, but they just made everything worse, much, much worse. There’s a poster of the 12-Steps on the wall of our classroom. I’ve been reading and re-reading them. Deep inside, I know those steps are my future and that I will discover my life inside them.
Don’t ask me to explain how, or why, I know this. I have no real understanding of what the steps mean, or how I might apply them, but there are people here who do.
August 28, 2006
Emotional meltdown from the bottomless pit.
Today I shared in group. I wanted to say something worthwhile, something helpful. What I really wanted was to feel a little higher than scum. Whatever I said, I have zero recollection… sparked a stern, soul-crushing disapproval. Someone, I can’t remember who, shot me down hard. Humiliated, I lost of control of my emotions. I tried to stay put and ride it out, but it was impossible. The tiny spark of humiliation, something that should have been easy to handle, attached itself to a lifetime of humiliations. I rode the old, all too familiar freight elevator down into trauma-spawned insanity. Hysterical, I ran out of the room and hid in the bathroom.
Susan, my roommate, followed by Cheryl, the counselor in charge of today’s group, hunted me down. She instructed me to breathe. In between gasps for air, I tried to put it into words.
“I’ve screwed everything up. I’m useless. The scholarship money is too much pressure. I can’t live up to it. I’m not worth saving.”
Cheryl was not buying the bullshit I was selling.
“First off, you’re forgetting you put together an entire decade of sobriety. That was an accomplishment. So you fell off the wagon. So what? Almost everyone does that. I know you just wanted to help. Trust me, one day you’ll be invaluable to other addicts. It’s just…well, today’s not that day. How about you give yourself a break?”
August 30, 2006
Last night’s torrential rain altered the landscape here at the Palace. The cool crystalline lake, attacked by some corrupt viral infection, has degenerated into a steaming, stagnant mudhole. What was once crisp mountain air, is now a thick swampy suffocating blanket of terror. My nerves are on high alert.
I have childhood issues that stem from a couple of years spent in Africa. I sort of remember what happened. If you can call a series of splinter flashes bona fide memories. When that car hit me three years ago, my nightmares, the ones that soak the sheets, flooded my present-day reality. The fear was so intense… I thought my heart and brain were going to explode. I’ve done my level best to master the onslaught with painkillers.
An epic fail!
Stepping onto the balcony this morning, that muddy-brown lake and the sticky air buzzing with insects overtook my mind, hurling me back to Africa, the one place I cannot allow myself to go. To top it off, today was “recreation” day.
“Get up off your addict ass and do some exercise.“
Trust me, no one used those words, but it’s what I heard. In reality, I think it is fair to surmise that the counselor encouraged us to take a pleasant stroll along the water’s edge.
I suffered an anxiety attack all the way around that nasty mess of an evil lake. I knew I was far too raw to confront my demons today, but out of character, I followed my captors’ instructions with no pushback. I raced down strange familiar paths, trying to escape ancient predators. I can’t outrun them because they are not chasing me. They live inside me, in the borrowed pieces of my soul.
Art therapy followed the supposedly pleasant outdoor adventure. All the other ladies drew lovely pictures of the natural beauty they had just encountered. Not me. I drew an ugly, murky disaster fraught with pain, horror, and loathing.
People have told me that what happened to me as a child is not happening to me today. I have a hard time wrapping my head around that. My counselor says I need to stop playing the victim. Does it sound like I'm playing?
September 3, 2006
Until today, Sundays have been a great day for me to lounge around and hide in my room undisturbed. The ladies without visitors—and there aren’t many of us—get to watch a movie in the early afternoon. I enjoy that.
This Visitor’s Day is different. My mom is bringing Daniel to see me. The wilderness camp sends the kids home every 6 weeks for a three-day “Homestay.” I feel enormous self-loathing and anxiety, so much so, I asked my mother to make up a story about why I’m here.
I don’t want the camp people to know that I’m a drug addict. She told them I’m getting help for post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s better to be perceived as a mental case than a crazed addict.
That’s my story and I am sticking to it.
—
The visit was tough. It's impossible not to recognize that my addiction has broken our family into pieces. I'm glad it's over.
September 5, 2006
I'm down to 4 mg of Suboxone a day. I seem to handle the tapering-off program well, which is probably why I did the stupidest thing ever. There is this other junkie at the Palace. A couple of days ago, she finished her tapering off program after being on replacement therapy for two years. She hasn’t slept since her Suboxone ended and she has been in agony. We have all been catering to her day and night, but she is inconsolable.
As I walked down the hall from the nurse’s station, Suboxone under my tongue, she gave me the classic pathetic “junkie-eye” and something came over me. I have no impulse control. I yanked the pill out from under my tongue and slipped it into her hungry, bird-like mouth.
For hours after that, and into the night, all I could think was, “This is an honest program.” I will not get better if I keep lying and acting like an addict.
September 6, 2006
I turned myself in to my counselor. What transpired next was contrary to my expectations. I was certain my counselor would commend me for my honesty. Instead, the two of us (me and the other junkie) ended up standing in front of the Palace administrators. They made us write essays explaining why we deserved to stay in treatment.
In our private session, my counselor asked, "Why did you do it?"
"Because of the junkie code. Because I had something and she was sick and that's what junkies do."
"Bullshit! Why'd you do it?"
"Because I couldn't stand looking at her sorry face or hearing her pathetic whine one second longer."
"Bullshit!"
I had searched deep inside myself with unflinching self-awareness to come up with that last answer, so I was confused. I heard my roommate’s voice in my head.
"Whatever they ask you, it's always because you want to use."
"Because I'm an addict and I want to use?"
"Yes, because you have a disease that wants you to use."
God bless you, Susan.
September 7, 2006
Drama and chaos follow me around like a couple of bad chums. I learned something about honesty. Some things are better left unsaid, and it’s never acceptable to appease my conscience at the expense of another person. I should have discussed my plans with my junkie accomplice before saying anything. Even though she begged and pleaded for my dope with her eyes, I was the one who gave it.
I asked the director of the facility to allow the full weight of this to come down on me. If someone has to go, let it be me. I wrote my essay. Now I have to take responsibility and apologize to everyone in the facility, even the guys, for what I did and the chaos it caused.
Why does this public humiliation shit happen to me wherever I go? I have become a public spectacle. So much for hiding out.
September 8, 2006
We get to stay. My punishment is that I am yanked off Suboxone, effective immediately.
How bad can it be?
September 12, 2006
Early this morning, paramedics escorted me from the Palace grounds and transported me to the psychiatric ward.
Here I am sitting in another glass box, choking on second-hand smoke, surrounded by paranoid crackheads and a few of the genuinely insane. Strange that certain addictions land you in detox and others in the loony bin.
Anyway, five sleepless days and nights of yet another round of wicked withdrawal symptoms left me edgy. As much as I love my roommate, it became unbearable to watch her sleep in peace night after night. I marched down the hall to the nurse’s station at three o’clock in the morning.
“Either I’m going to have to smash her head in or start banging mine against the wall.”
I tried to explain it was a figure of speech, a dramatic way to get my point across, but she wasn't buying it.
The Suboxone has been masking all my withdrawal symptoms from narcotics and Xanax. Imagine what it would feel like if someone cranked up a nervous system programmed for 110 volts, to 220 volts. That describes Xanax withdrawal. Throw in jerking limbs, constant terror-level anxiety, nausea and sleep-depravation and you have a medical emergency.
It's funny, but about two nights ago I was begging my counselor to let me go to the hospital. She assumed I was drug-seeking and told me to sit still and read my Narcotics Anonymous book. I was never very clear with the Palace staff about my Xanax use. It doesn’t matter what landed me in the nuthouse; I am relieved by the intervention. The staff doctor is attempting to devise a non-addictive cocktail that will put me to sleep. I long to sleep.
—
The psyche ward is way more fun than detox. We don’t have to go to any meetings. We get to lie around all day. There is one crack addict who has been sleeping for three days. Now, that is impressive. We also have phone privileges four times a day! I call Leo every chance I get. He’s going to visit me with some Coca-Cola and cigarettes. Confined people appreciate gifts and conversation.
I am sleepy.
September 15, 2006
We’re en route to the Palace. I should get back just in time to get on the “short bus” heading to my favorite NA meeting. I’ve had three decent nights of sleep. By decent, I mean four to five hours a night and an hour in the afternoon. It is enough to give me a brand new outlook on life. I’m still crawling out of my skin and feel like I’m an electric eel, but sleep restores the fight in me. I’m committed to coming back from this disaster, all the way back, no matter how high the cost.
September 16, 2006
My favorite counselor, Cheryl, told me she didn’t think I would make it back.
“Everyone expected they’d transfer you to a mental institution.”
Glad the doctor at the hospital helped me side-step that one. Should I advise the Palace Director to be more discerning with the alumni’s scholarship money?
“No, stupid, shut up!”
September 18, 2006
I told my counselor, you know, the fucking evil one, that I had an epiphany in group therapy this morning. Her eyes rolled back in her head while she waited for my next line of bullshit. I explained that I’d been staring at those 12-Steps of recovery written on the wall. The 4th Step, the one where we “take a fearless moral inventory of ourselves,” kept staring back at me.
I saw the step turn into a physical door, a giant, medieval oak door. It landed right in front of me and cracked open. There was a brilliant light behind it. I got this sensation, an inner knowing, that when I complete that step, a door that has been closed my whole life will open.
Side note: I did not mention the vision part. I am prone to visions, but keep them to myself. Don’t want to be hauled off to the loony bin again.
The Wicked Witch of the West looked back at me with the softest, most caring eyes I have ever seen.
Another fucking miracle!
Something broke inside me, and I am open to suggestions. Before this moment, I would not have been able to wrap my mind around the Palace’s recommendation.
“We think the best place for you is a halfway house in South Florida.”
My mother is coming this week for a family conference to discuss my condition and aftercare recommendations. If all goes according to plan, I will leave immediately to a half-way house in Boynton Beach. My family will shoulder the burden of shutting down my apartment and moving everything into storage.
The rest of my son’s “Homestay” visits will alternate between my mother’s house and Leo’s.
That idea stirs up unimaginable guilt in me.
September 20, 2006
I have a flight out tomorrow. All clients are supposed to complete Steps One thru Five before leaving. I have not done Step Four or Step Five. The staff advises against it. They’re concerned I might end up back in the hospital. Considering my vision of Step Four as a gateway to a new life, I am adamant.
When I have a strong desire (a rarity, most of the time I’m pretty dead inside), it is a force to be reckoned with.
They allowed me to proceed.
As instructed, I wrote a long list of resentments I have been obsessing over my entire life. Resentments against my parents, friends, employers, the church and the whole damn world. I explained each one in a sentence or two. Then I considered what part I played in each scenario. It was eye-opening.
Next, I wrote a list of defects of character associated with each resentment. My counselor asked me to single out the three defects that appear most often.
Mine are:
I am a victim
I blame everyone and everything for the condition of my life.
I take no responsibility for my actions.
With this new information in hand, I completed Step Five with a serene 1960s hippie counselor, a beautiful old crone named Catherine. I went through it all. It took a couple of hours. By the end, a light went on in my head. A recognizable pattern of manipulation emerged.
Because of what happened to me as a child, it has been easy to milk people for sympathy and, sometimes even cash, by making them feel sorry for me. Using my abuse as a justification to use drugs, risking self-annihilation at every turn, I have convinced anyone who challenges me that my sordid upbringing gives me the supreme right to escape by any means necessary.
Everyone else is to blame for my present circumstances, and I am incapable of taking responsibility or owning up to anything.
I am a powerless wreck manipulating anyone who cares to listen to my sad, stupid story. The whole thing makes me sick. I find it embarrassing and pathetic.
Catherine gently points out that every time I tell my tale of woe to get a desired outcome, I re-injure myself.
Right then and there, I changed my fucking mind.
I made a vow to stop playing the victim, to stop blaming anyone or anything. I intend to learn how to take full responsibility for my life.
When we finished Step Five, she congratulated me.
“As soon as you get to Florida, find a home group, get a sponsor, and start working the steps. Work them all over again, from the beginning.”
If you would like to support my work, I invite you to make a donation. “Buy Me a Coffee” is a friendly metaphor, not real coffee. Each “coffee” is $5 and you can buy as many as you like. It is a one time much appreciated gift. Thank you for caring!
A harrowing tale, shot through with unlikely humor and fantastical creatures.
This autofiction (autobiography and fiction) novel revolves around a lifetime spent underwater struggling to find the surface. The narrative follows the journey of an unlikely heroine from the bondage of childhood trauma to self-awareness and freedom.
It is a roller coaster ride from the depths of hell to triumphant success that finishes with a big Hollywood ending.
That is great news!
This was harrowing and hopeful. Thanks.