Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Overcomming sexual addiction, has nothing to do with this blog.

Today was a day of looking for Xanax, anywhere and everywhere I could think of. I didn't find a single pill. This city is full of undercovers, and uniformed police scaring every would be seller of Xanax at home. Where does that leave me? Going to the ER, and giving all the signs of major panic attack, which I don't have to fake, I do have major panic attacks. I just am sick of suckering doctors into giving me a perscription of Xanax. I did that with Dilaudid in my home State, going from Doctor to Doctor getting perscriptions of Dilaudid.

I'm running dangoursly low on my Xanax, and I haven't been weening myself off as I always say I'm going to do...soon! As anyone with knowlege of addiction knows that the only two drugs that can kill you while detoxing from are, alcohol, and Benzodiazapins including, Xanax, Adavan, Librum, Clonazapam, Valium, so on and so forth, all these drugs have generic names too. So if I let my supply run out, I'm in danger of dying from Benzo withdrawl, which would piss me the fuck off. Dying of benzo detox, and not being able to use Heroin, or any other opiate to get high before I die.

I'm lowering my dose of Methadone, which is letting my Bi Ploar condition rear its ugly head again. None of the medication is working. I find that all I can think about is getting high, just feeling that euphoric feeling one more time, and then I start to think about how I'm going to get my parents to help me get into school in Seattle, and I know they can't help me right now because of this new house they are building, and if I get a job I fuck up my chance at getting SSDI, which I'm probably not going to get anyway, and then what?

I'm an Aquarius, I'm suppose to be the sign of abrubt change, but fuck I hate abrubt change. I hate not knowing what is going to happen to me. I could end up in the big house for seven months if I go back to Wisconsin. If I'm in Wisconsin, and I am off, or I still getting off, and then come off of Methadone , I can't get any opiates. I don't know anybody anymore, and I don't want to take any chances. My dad has his perscription, but he has become so tolerant to his medication he takes his full dose, if not more than his full dose every day. Which means if I were to try to use his Percocets to maintain I would be using up a painkiller my dad needs for his back pain.

This is the kind of shit that gets me into the suicide thinking. There is nothing for me in Wisconsin. I've lived there most of my life. Without Opiates to sustain my addictive personality I will probably live the alcoholic lifestyle that the rest of my family lives, but for some reason its okay to drink 24/7, but its not okay to take a pill to escape. We all have our vices. Mine is opiate addiction. I just want out of Wisconsin, and I'm being dragged back to the state. Then my parents will find some reason for me not to go to school in Washinton. Then God only knows what will happen. What if I get so fucked up in the head...craving opiates that I do something really stupid like trying to robb a pharmacy, and then what? Prison. Is that where I belong because I want to escape the thoughts that cricle my mind daily?

I so wish I would have contracted HIV when I knowing injected HIV+ blood into my veins three times. At least then I could die, and the doctors would give me a choice of what kind of quality of life I want to live, and I can choose opiates.
I injected myself with HIV+ blood almost five years ago come June, and still every single HIV test I get every six months comes back HIV non reactive.

I'm already feeling like a desperate junky again, and I'm still on my methadone. I would gladly give up the Xanax, but I'm addicted to taking pills whenever I feel even the slightest bit of discomfot emotionally. I even take it when I don't feel any emotion discomfort, I take just incase I should encounter some kind of emotional discomfort.

I really hate to say this, because I love my mother and father to death, and without them I would be lost, but without them I wouldn't have this overwhelming guilt, I wouldn't have anything holding me back from either self growth or self distruction. I know my dad has a life insurance policy, but its not much money. I don't even want the money, I just want to be free.

There I go again. Blaming my parents for holding me back, when in reality I could just go off and do as I please. I am a grown adult. Its my own personal guilt that is holding me back. Overcomming that guilt, is one of those hurdels that when I overcome it I will feel like....I have no idea what I will feel like, but I hope its good.

I want my parents around as long as they can possiably live. Without them I have no one.

I have to go and get smokes.

Thanks for reading my complaints, and whining.

I hope your life is in a much better place than mine is right now.

Anna Grace

P.S. I wrote this blog fast, and didn't bother to spell check or even re read the blog to make sure all the words are in there. Sometimes...or all the time I miss words, and miss spell words making the blog horrid. Sorry.

Monday, April 27, 2009

some french word I can't spell is what the title of this blog is.

This morning I awoke to a loud pounding at the front door. I jumped out of bed startled as did my dog Eleanor who went off on a barking tangit. I took a quick look at the clock next my bed and it read 6am. I had no idea who it could be, my dad is still in Wisconsin, and my mom works until 7am, and gets home at about 8am.

Last Night was my first night alone since all of the problems with the front door, and crazy men telling me not to toy with them like a cat had begun. I had made it through the worst hours of the night, and now its morning an everything should be fine. Except the constant pounding at my door, and my dog barking at the top of her lungs, and me in a frozen scared position. I didn't know what to do, should I call 911, should I open my blinds to see if I can catch a sight of who it is doing all this pounding.

Finally after several minutes of being scared stiff, I somehow unlocked my body, and ran to the door, and screamed, "WHO IS IT"! Then I herd a key in the dead bolt lock trying to disengage the lock, and my mothers voice yelled back, "ANNA, ITS ME YOUR MOTHER! LET ME IN THIS KEY ISN'T WORKING"! With a sigh of relief I unlocked the dead bolt, and let mom in. When mom finally got into the apartment, I had already made my way to the couch and lit a cigarette. Without words mom and I both knew that we had just frightened each other to death.

Mom sat down on the chair next to the couch, and took off her shoes, and set down her purse. I asked, "Why are you home so early"? She replied, "I was worried about all night, and wanted to get home as fast as possible, so I finished up with the C-section patient, and hurried up and did my notes, and speed home. Then I get home, and my key isn't working for the deadbolt, and I had been pounding on the door for several minutes, scared that you were inside the apartment dead."

"Oh goodness mother, a bit dramatic. You gave me a scare I'll never forget". I said. Mom apologized, and went on to ask me about my night, which was uneventful. I took a sleeping pill at 8 pm, and hadn't woken up until I herd the pounding at the door, and Eleanor barking in attack mode. My mom went on to tell me about all the horrible things that went through her head last night, leaving me alone knowing there is a crazed, and dangerous person with our address. She scolded me for not calling her last night at work. I apologized, and my mom went off to bed.

After mom went to her room, it was just me and Eleanor out in the living room wide awake after the rude awaking. While playing with Eleanor I made the mistake of saying WALK, and Eleanor was in her bag ready to go outside for her morning walk. I had to go to the Methadone clinic and get my dose, so without even getting out of the closed I slept in I was off to take Eleanor a for her walk, and then in the car and off to get my Methadone. The reason I wake up in is for my Methadone, and Eleanor.

I drove to the clinic, and by now it was seven o'clock, and already it was hot and muggy. A good day for a swim in our apartments freezing cold pool. After I got my dose, I drove home, and every traffic light I hit was green. I was home in what seemed like no time. On the drive I had sorted out what I wanted to do with the day. First and foremost go to the gym, go for dip in the pool, and finish up some paperwork for my Social Security Disability application, and for my welfare, which yet again I am getting cut off from, for not being in some sort of , as they call it, "real drug treatment program". Motherfuckers. After all these things were finished, I would see if our computer was working, and post a blog.

When I did get home, instead of going to the gym right away, I opened the computer right away to see if it was working properly yet. It was, and I couldn't resist I had to write about myself, and my uneventful life. After writing down what I had planned on doing, it makes me feel as though I must get it done, or I never get it done. So its a good thing I posted a blog before getting to the day I had planned on the drive home.

BTW, my dad didn't come home, that was a lie. It was meant to keep whom ever it was that had been harassing us away, by saying my father was here. He comes home tomorrow. Just in case anybody was wondering why I was alone last night, while my dad was in Wisconsin, when I made a point of saying he was flying back to Hawaii first flight he could catch.

I must give props to a blogger I think is brilliant, and would love anyone who hasn't already read his blog, to go and read as so as you can. His blog is Memoirs of a Heroinhead, and to find him just go to view my profile, and scroll down to blogs that I follow, and you will find him there.

Has anybody notice that I follow my own blog. LOL.

Thanks to those of you who do read this blog of mine. I would also like to say its not only Heroinhead who's blog I admire, but it is all of the blogs that I follow that I admire. It is just that Heroinhead latest post is brilliant. For me reading that post, was like reading a book you just can't put down. Bravo Heroinhead.

For now I bid you all ado.

Anna Grace

Saturday, April 25, 2009

today the day after the ordeal.

This morning we woke, and found that our door opened properly. Still my parents are very freaked out by the situation, and want to move our of Hawaii asap. Which is bad for me. I have no idea what in the world will happen with all my psych treatments, and Methadone treatment. In Wisconsin they don't have health insurance for the poor, and homeless in Wisconsin, and just getting my Methadone cost 100 dollars A WEEK. The medication I need for my Bi Polar costs 100's of dollars a month, not to mention the therapy, and Psychologist appointments. Going back to Wisconsin is pointless for me. Not to mention I have legal issues that have not been cleared up. Which of course my dad thinks he can fix by just calling a lawyer.

Weird things have still been happening, but nothing as dangerous as the door being screwed shut, and fire lit outside our kitchen window. This evening I went to seven eleven and got a pack of smokes, by myself (which the police had warned us not to do), but I was in desperate need of a smoke so I made my down. I got to the sidewalk, and pushed the walk button, when some guy ran up to me, and pinned me against the post, and said, "you can't toy with me like some cat. I know you are attracted to me and want to have sex with me." I wash in shock and my heart was pounding so hard I thought this guy could hear it. At first I didn't know what to say. I had never seen this man in my life. He was in his late 20's early 30's, with blonde hair down to his chin. He wasn't ugly by any means. It took me a few seconds to come back with a retort that would get him to unpin me from the post. So I said, "I'm sorry, but I have no clue who you are, and I have not toyed with you in any way deliberately. I'm a lesbian, I am only sexual attracted to women." By those words he was stunned, he backed away from me, and yelled, "You will atone for you sins, may God have mercy on your soul." As he ran away from me.

As you can imagine my adrenaline was pumping, so I ran into seven eleven, and used the lady at the counter's cell phone to call my mom. I told her to come down to and get me. There was no way I was leaving that store alone.

While waiting for my mom, I racked my brain to find an image of this man that pinned me against the post. I do believe I have seen him before, I've seen him inside the seven eleven I was in, and sitting outside on the stoop of our apartment building a number of times, but never really payed much attention to him. At most I may have smiled and nodded my head at him to say quick hello.

My mom gets to the Seven Eleven, and we are wondering if we should call 911. I wasn't in immediate danger anymore, and the man was long gone. So we decided against calling the police, and instead my mom walked me home, and I gave a description of the man who had accosted me to our door man, and told him to keep an our for him. He was wearing a red T-shirt with a picture of the Hawaiian Islands on it, he had black swim trunk shorts on, and blonde hair, down to his chin, with a above average looking face, but was insane in the membrane. (remember that song?)

When I got back to the apartment, I thought to myself, wtf is this attractive crazy guy obsessing over me for? I'm over 200lbs, I've given up on putting on makeup, except for the black eye liner and eye shadow I can't leave the house without. I sweat profusely from the Methadone. I shower at most once a week, and my hair is literlly a mess, with snarls all over. I mean come on, the photos of myself on my blog are the photos that I thought were the best, and those photos are not the most attractive photos ever. You can tell I'm alot fatter than I was just a year and a half ago, form my pictures on my Myspace profile.

Aside from the stranger danger that happened this evening, I haven't done much. I found out that my welfare is being cut off, I'll still get my health insurance, and food stamps. Which means my benzo habit has to stop. It has to stop. My Methadone treatment has to stop, and I need to loose weight, which I do every time I move out on my own, or in with a boyfriend, or girlfriend. Its like when I live with my parents all I do is eat, and me and dad have stopped working out about a Month ago. I have to start that up again, but who knows maybe that is where I this guy who thinks I'm toying with him like a cat is from.

Next time anything like that happens, or if I see him again, I'm gonna scream at the top of my lungs, and I can scream very loud, like break your ear drums loud, and not leave the apartment without my mom or dad. Which sucks.

I'm so pissed at myself for putting up photos of my apartment, and other photos that anyone who lives in Honolulu could figure out where I live. Even though they don't exactly which apartment I live in. Unless I did, and don't remember. From now on I'm going to be extremely vague when it comes to where I live, and what I do during the day, and at what time.

Eleanor is coming with me and my mom and dad every time we leave the house. Making sure that nobody hurts my baby girl.

I must go, but I will write more sooner rather than later.

Anna Grace

Friday, April 24, 2009

Someone screwed our door shut, and tried to start a fire in front of our apartment lastnigh.

This morning I posted a post about my mother and I being locked inside our apartment. It was a humours post, and I laughed about my mom trying to get out into the hallway to unlock the door from the outside, but she couldn't make it.

5 days ago we were locked inside our apartment also. We called a locksmith, he put the door handle back on tighter and we were able to get in our again. We thought nothing of this, we just assumed that our lock got loose from all the opening and closing we do.

Then today our door was locked from the outside, so were stuck inside. We called the locksmith, and when he got here he found that someone had literally screwed a screw into the deadbolt lock to make sure that we could not get out, and then started a fire outside our kitchen window. When we informed our building manager, and asked him to come document this he refused to, so we call the police, and only after telling the building manager that we called the police did he come up. He was rude to us, and was afraid that we would consider him a suspect. Which didn't even cross our minds until he refused to look at what someone tried to do to my mother and I. Which is lock us in, and start a fire, were we would have died because the door was screwed shut.

When the police got here, I asked them to take fingerprints of the lock, and the door, and the wall where the person who screwed the screw in with a drill would have held his hand to do this.

I know that the person who screwed us in our apartment did so after 10pm, because I had gone to seven eleven and got snacks at 10 pm and our door did not have a screw in it, and there was no burn marks on the carpet outside our window. I was also awake until 1am this morning, and the person who did this had to have used a drill, and had knowledge of carpentry. Most likely male. I have a few suspects in mind, but I the police can't just take my word as to whom I think is most likely the perpetrator of this crime.

The police had us write out a police report, and the took the screw in for DNA testing, because their would be skin cells still on the screw from the perp. after the locksmith realized that someone had done this he did not touch the screw, and the police advised us to wait for them to get to our apartment before we touched the door, or the screw. They also took swabs were the fire was started to see what kind of excelerent was used. The perp did not have any fuel to keep the fire sustained to do enough damage. Luckily!

The fact that this happened twice in one week, and the fact that our apartment manager and the locksmith who unlocked our door last time are the only people who know about this, make us suspicious of them. The locksmith that worked on our door last time we were locked in did not answer his phone at all today. Which is fishy because locksmiths always answer their phones. The guy who unlocked the door lastime was in his mid 20's early 30's and his name was Richard. He seemed harmless at the time, but looking back he pretty much forced me to go down to his van with him to get the credit card info, and I wanted to go over to the seven eleven and take out the money and pay him in cash.

After the whole ordeal with police and everything was done, the police said that their is somebody out their who want to see you hurt, one of you. Either me or my mom. They told us not to leave the apartment alone at night, and not to knock on anybody's doors to ask questions, or to see if they herd or saw anything. The police already did that, and would be back to do it again after the people got back from work. As this did happen in the morning around 9am or 10am, and the whole ordeal wasn't done with until 2 almost 3 pm today.

My mom and I needed groceries, so me, mom, and Eleanor left together and walked to the grocery store. On our way back, some guy comes up to me, a guy I don't think I've ever seen before, and says he is drunk, and asks me what I would if I was drunk. My mom was about five feet away, and couldn't hear what this guy was saying, and I told the drunk guy to get away from me, and that I was feeling uncomfortable and scared by his question and how he got in front of me and blocked me from my mother. I yelled for my mom, who came over to me, and then I asked this guy if he screwed our door shut and started a fire outside our apartment, and he makes this big scene, saying, "No what would make you think I did anything like that?" I was like get away from me or I'm calling the police. Finally he walked away, and me and mom crossed the street, and were like, "what the fuck was that about". I racked my brain, if I had ever seen him before, and then I remembered I had seen him once in the bar my dad hangs out in, and I've seen him sitting outside seven eleven sometimes. He never spoke to me before, until today.

It seemed to me like, he felt I was not noticing him unpurpose, and that he wanted me to notice him. That he had intertwined himself into my dads life, and my dad unknowingly gave him our address and apartment number. Non of this I know for sure, I have no idea who it really was that did such a thing. All I know is somebody did it, and when we find out who, we are pressing charges.

Anyway, we ended up calling my dad was in Wisconsin and told him about what happened, and he caught a flight back to Hawaii as soon as possible, and we are going to pick him up from the airport in an hour. All this started happening after my dad left.

Really their are no coincidences in crimes. This person knew my dad was not with me 24/7 anymore, and knew that my mom worked nights, but was sick last night, and didn't go into work. (thank my lucky stars)

It could be Charlie, I hadn't seen or herd from him in over three months, and I just happened to see him downtown after I got done getting my take home dose, and I didn't talk to him, all said in passing was, "holy shit you've gotten even more skinny". Which is just a statement, not meant to be mean. It wouldn't be hard for Charlie to piggy back into our building and do this, but I don't think it was him. I've herd stories that he has gotten out of control with his addiction, but I always tell the people who ask me about him that I no longer speak to him, and we have no contact, and I would rather not talk about him.

Those of you who are reading this post, and don't know who Charlie is should go back to my posts from September and October.

On my Myspace page I took all photos of our apartment from the inside and photos of the building we live in, and our pool, and our corridor, which looks identical to all the corridors in our building except the 16th floor. Anyway, I took down all those photos, and any photo linking me to Charlie, and just anything I could think of that could give away where I live.

There is another guy who I see all the time, and it feels like he is waiting for me all the time. He offered to read me my tarot cards, but he would only do it in his apartment alone. I thought that was much too dangerous and declined. I took one of his cards with his phone number on it, and said I would think about it. I then called him back after seeing him every day, and him asking me about when I want to get my cards read. I told him I would do it if my mom could come with me, and we could do it in a public place, and he said fine, and we set up a date and time, but we never showed, because something just didn't feel right. The guy was just not right. After that day we didn't show up, I would still see him was like he knew the times I would be going out of the building, such as in the morning to get my dose, and in the afternoon when I walk my dog, and morning when I walk my dog, and at night when I go to seven eleven. He also called my dad's phone a number of time, and my dad is a very rude person on the phone. My dad ask who it is, and when this guy would tell him who it was, my dad would say we are not interested and hang up on him. After about 10 phone calls from this guy, and my dad hanging up on him or not answering the phone when his number appeared, this guy confronted me and asked why my boyfriend was being so rude to him, and I told him that it was my father, and that I was sorry my dad had been so rude. That was about a month and a half ago, and I've seen him around, but haven't spoken to him, just smiled politely when I saw him. Now I am suspicious of him, and everyone on the floor we live on.

The police said it will take time for the DNA results to come back, he said, "it's not like you see on TV, the DNA doesn't come back in a half hour, it takes a few weeks, and sometimes months, and in your case since this isn't a rape, or a murder it will take some time on the DNA, but the prints he took wouldn't take too long to come back. The police took my moms, and my prints and the locksmiths prints to exclude us from any foreign prints.

I doubt this is some stalker, because I'm fat, and I never put on makeup any more. I'm not at all interested in men, and I never talk to them. In fact I hate talking to men in real life. All men think about is sex, and I'm not sexy right now with this fat from my methadone and butterfingers, so I believe somehow, somewhere I pissed somebody off, or my mom did, and this person is trying to get back at us.

All in all its been a fucking crazy and freaky day. Tonight I'm going to stay awake all night, and keeping the TV low, and read. I will listen to hear if anybody is creeping outside our apartment. If someone is I will call 911 immediately. My dad is a big man, and will defend my mother and I to the death.

Just in case its somebody out there in cyberspace who hates me, and is mad at me for writing something, then just tell me what your mad about, and I will take it down. You don't have to lock us in our apartment and try to start a fire. I hate to get police involved in any situation, but this situation merited police intervention. Our lives were put in danger.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Today has so far been the funniest day I've had in a long time. First off, when I woke up I went to check my email, and I had commented on Scarstic Bastard's blog. It was the first time I had read this blog, and I only bothered to read the most recent post. (big mistake) Sarcastic Bastard, what would you think male of female? I thought male, and when I read the blog I thought it was written in third person, by a cross dresser.

After reading the post, I left this comment....

So you cross dress. I'd love to see a picture, and do you have an alter ego called SB? Saracastic Bastard! Is your alter ego like Ziggy Star Dust in anyway? That is if you have one. Maybe you just like to refer to yourself in third person. LOL.I love your blog. So far it has entertained, and taught me a few things.I think dressing for ones cat is a great way to start the day. Yes, Jesus really does love the gays.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Below is the comment Sarcastic Bastard left me after my comment

Sarcastic Bastard said...
Hiya Anna Grace,Thanks for commenting. Nope--not a cross dresser. I'm a chick. I just thought Sarcastic Bitch didn't sound as good, and my personality is pretty forceful, so I figured I could carry Bastard off. Ha.Thanks for commenting. Comment anytime.Love to you.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009

This is what a fellow reader of both my blog and Sarcastic Bastards blog said

Memoirs of a Heroinhead said...
Hiya SB,You've hit on something there with the joke about "having a job interview?". sadly, most people dress up for occassions or for others and very rarely for themselves. that little joke reflects them more than YOU. I only ever dress up for myself... it's a healthy vanity.Everyone thinks your a guy!! Some a cross-dresser... lol.Anna... Anna.. Anna... What are we gonna do with you? ;)
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
This is what Saracstic Bastard said to Heroinhead's comment about my comment.

Sarcastic Bastard said...
I thought the cross dressing thing was hysterical. I always joke that I'm a gay man trapped in a woman's body.Thanks for commenting, Shane. Wish you lived closer so we could have a drink and a chat.Much love. Give my regards to France. I love that country.
Thursday, April 23, 2009

This is what I said after reading the above comments( I had use anon because it wouldn't post under my name)

Anonymous said...
OMG, I laughed so hard, those gut wrentching laughs.

When I read first Shane's comment, I wondered why he'd say, "Anna, Anna, Anna, what are we going to with you".Then I read SB comment, and I swear to you I peed my pants laughing so hard. There was no lol, or rotflmaof, would convey how hard it made me laugh, I had to let SB and Heroinhead how much I was entertained by these comments. The most entertainment I've encountered in a few days. I should have read more than just one blog, and I should have also considered that a female can be a bastard child too.

I'm sort of dissapointed that your not a transexual, crossdresser. I was quit excited learn about cross dressing.
Anna Grace

So now I'm done laughing about this embassing blog moment, and my mom is leaving to go grocery shopping, when she goes to open the door, it won't open. She calls me over to help her. We pulled, we wretched, we cried, we screamed, but that door would not budge.

After we calmed down, and realized that we are locked inside our apartment, and there was nothing we could do about it, we got out the apartment managers number, and called him, and he told us to call the owner of our apartment, and have her call the locksmith.

My mom wanted to leave really bad. She gets clausterphobic, so in my room I opened up my windows, and let her try to crawl out. Mom got half way out of the window, when she realized how far the jump will be from window to floor, so she had me get a chair from our lani, and I put it outside the window, so my mom gets in position to jump, and she falls over half hanging outside the apartment, and on leg, and part of a thigh was in my bedroom, and my mom was screaming for my help, and I'm trying to help her, but I am laughing so hard and I can't stop, so I'm trying pull my mom back in the window, when our neighbor walks past us, and instead of offering any kind of help, he just looks at us and rolls his eyes, as if this were some kind of game. This made me laugh even harder, and while laughing I had no muscular strenght to pull my mom back inside the window. Finally after my mom was screaming at me, did I stop laughing so hard as to not be able to pull her in.

I get my mom back in the apartment, and she lays down on my bed and starts to laugh hysterically with me.

It is noon here, and its been a full hour since this ordeal happened, and we are still locked in our apartment. The only way out is my window, and after seeing what mom went through trying to get out, I'm too afraid of the same thing happening to me to even try to get out my window.

Must go now, will update later.

Thanks for reading. Sorry SB, and Heroinhead for posting your comments on my blog without your permission. If for some reason you want me to take them down I will asap.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

I'm just what they say I am.

Yet again, I'm feeling panicked, and just plain worried about everything. I can't sleep, and I keep crying for no reason. I am all alone, or it is just me, and Eleanor my dog. My dad is in Wisconsin, and my mom is at work. It is 10pm, and I can't go out, because fuck I hate going out. It would just make me even more panicked.

This is the downside of being addicted to Benzo, aka Xanax. Once you start taking them when you don't need them, you end up getting a reverse reaction when you take one when you really do need one. Like right now, I need a Xanax to calm down, but I took two and it just made it worse.

I'm even contemplating taking my take home dose right now. If I did that I would have no reason to wake up tomorrow, but I wouldn't be able to sleep, so I would have to get up and go looking for Methadone on the street.

Damn this fucking addiction. I should have waited to use Heroin until I did something with my life, you know something creative. Something that would make me proud to be alive. Instead I got hooked before I could do anything. Now I feel stuck, stuck here, there, and everywhere.

I promised my parents that I would move back to Wisconsin with them for one month before I move out to Seattle. Somehow I have a feeling now that my parents are putting their money into building yet another house, I won't get out. I won't get out. Fuck I'll never get out. I am out in a sense, but I'm still stuck. How do I release myself mentally? How do just not care about my parents, and say fuck you bitches I'm leaving and I'm not coming back. So many people have done that, but me...nope I can't bring myself to do it.

One other thing, I was reading about people who have idols, and apparently having an idol, and an obsession with that idol means you can't think original thoughts. You just emulate what you think your role model/idol would do. Would....who the fuck knows. So I'm just a loser who thinks Kurt Cobain was cool. Really genius, he made great music, and at just the right time. Me I made nothing at just the wrong time.

The other day, after getting my dose I went to a group meeting, and the Methadone doctor was giving the presentation. It was about how Heroin, and Methadone work on the brain. In that presentation he didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. Before I ever did Heroin, or shot up a drug I bought a book called, "The Heroin User's Guide". Of course I didn't find it in any book store, I had to go to Barns and Noble and have them order it for me. I read that book from cover to cover at least 50 times. I know that Methadone is a synthetic form of Heroin, and Morphine is just one Molecule different from Heroin, and that molecule is the reason Heroin hits you faster and harder, some would say better. I know the pros and cons of using intravenously to smoking Heroin, I know that the safest way to use Heroin is to smoke it, second safest way is to snort it, but you can only snort China White H, and there is no China White down here.

All the other people in the group didn't get it. One kid/adult brought his dad who is a cop, and wanted to understand why his kid needed Methadone to stop using Oxycontin. This cop could not understand why his son couldn't just stop. People are so fucking ignorant. Even doctors, you go into a doctors office and the second you tell the doctor your on Methadone treatment, they dismiss you as just another junky here to get pain meds, when in reality if your on Methadone your not drug seeking, your there because your in real pain, and the normal vicoden the doctor would prescribe for an non opiate addict just would not kill the pain for a person on Methadone treatment.

Then I was thinking the whole time, while all these people who ARE ON Methadone treatment asked questions about shit they should already know, that the only reason I'm going down on my Methadone, and trying to get off it totally is so I can stick a needle in my hand/arm and feel that fucking rush Heroin gives you, or to even to just take a Percocet and feel a buzz. I'm sick of using Methadone to cover up that urge I have inside me to use.

I know that anonymous comments are the most truthful comments. I am a mediocer writer at best, and that I will never become a famous author, (which btw I never wanted to be a "famous" writer, just a published writer) they are right. Just because they are right doesn't mean I'm going to give up, fuck writing is the only thing I have. Without it I would have just now having a panic attack, thought about taking all the pills I could get my hands on, and just fucking ODing, and get this shit over with.

One good thing to mention, I have inspired my mother to write about her childhood. She never really told me much about her childhood. My Grandma, my mom's mother is totally unwilling to talk about the past. So I would never get anything out of her. I don't know why she refuses to talk about the past. I guess in her mind the past is the past, and there is nothing you can do to fix it. Still just hearing the stories, and relating to them is something family members want. I would love to know about my ansectors who migrated from Ireland, and all the other family, and where they migrated from and when. What they were like.

Fuck, I'm only 26 years into my life, and most likely will never have a child of my own, a blood related child, because of some sort of condition that was bestowed upon me. So if the purpose of women is to bear children, then I have no purpose at all. Even knowing this, knowing that I may never have a family or anyone who gives a shit about who I was while alive, I'm still writing it down for them. For you, and them, and everyone. No matter how boring, no matter how ugly and pointless my life is and will have been, I will have it written down...for someone to read someday.

I should trademark ppfaceannagrace. The only way to find me on the Internet is to google ppfaceannagrace, and all my blogs come up, and my Myspace page comes up. Although I noticed Myspacers are leaving in flocks, and going to other social networking sites, because myspace has so many technical difficulties. Who knows what the future will be like, I have journals, some just notebook journals, and some leather bound journals. I bought the leather ones to ensure they lasted longer than the notebook ones. So after my death, if they are not just thrown away, or put into storage like all my sister's stuff. How will my future family cousin's and second cousins know how to find my blogs, or my open journals.

My blogs are not written in any kind of good prose, they are just thrown on the page by my fingertips, without a second thought. I just write what I'm thinking, I don't think about what I want to write. I just write what I'm thinking.
Although for the book I have to think about what I'm going to write, but here on blogger, no I don't think about it I just write it.
My book is horrible presentation of prose.

Going back to that group where the doctor was explaining to us Opiate addicts how methadone and other opiates work on the brain, I realized I was smarter than most of, if not all the people in the room, aside the doctor. All that shows is I'm smarter than a bunch of junkies who agreed to go to a presentation about how Methadone works. In that presentation the good stuff, the doctor skipped over, all the "medical jargon", as he called it, is what I was interested in.
Being an addict of course I'm interested in the medical jargon. You never know when that can come in handy.

Note to self, buy a medical dictionary!

110, that is my IQ, which is as ordinary as it gets, 10 points really doesn't make much of a difference, I'm the same as a person with an IQ of 99-109. If only I had an IQ of 120 or even 115 I would be in a different class of intelligence. Yet I'm not. There is not much you can do to change your IQ. In reality there is nothing you can do to change your IQ. I've never taken one of these Internet IQ tests. I've always had mine done by a doctor in school, because I was diagnosed with a learning disability in Math and Language. I have a learing disability in Language, that's like telling a person who wants to be a pro basket ball player that they have no legs.

So tell me, really tell me what the fuck is the point. I know some anonymous person will tell me to just kill myself, and others will tell me that I'm a good writer no matter what anyone says. I just want honesty. The real honesty comes from the readers, and how many readers I have, and the comments those readers leave. I've found that people who's blogs get alot of comments are the best writers. They have large vocabulary, and titillating stories to tell.

What the fuck do I have to write about? Shit!
I'm too negative.

Thanks for reading, and really I mean it. I hope all is well with you, and your not in my negative mind set.

Anna Grace Y.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Just a rant.

There are so many bands out there. Millions of bands, yet the most of us have alot of favorite bands, musicans in common. Which brings me to the 27 club...Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, on of the members of The Rolling Stones (don't remeber his name.) and of course here I am leaveing out Kurt Cobain, who also checked out at age 27. So what is it, if there is anything to it with the 27 year old prolific musican dying at the age of 27? I asked a numberoligst once, and, 2+7=9 is what she said, and 9 is the number of completion. She went on to say that, these musicans were at the point of completion...they had done what they needed to for the universe. I balked at this at first. I was like fuck that, if any one of these musicans were still alive they would have made alot more great music that we missed out on.
Then I thought about it more. Look at how their lives ended. It seems like all their lives spiralled out of control. They were all living the rockstar life style, that alot of us want to live, but hardly any of us will truly live to be rockstars. I think it gets to a point when your a musican, where it becomes too much. They fall into drugs or alcohol, along with all the other drugs there are. Soon they find themselves addicted, and after that their music starts devolve. The Rock Star I know most about is Kurt Cobain. He worked hard to fit in, and find a scean, like all of us, which he ended up finding in punk music. When Nirvana first began Kurt would imagine what it would be like to be a rock star. He was an admitted wanabe Heroin addict. He once said, in the punk scene, the scene he found to be his scean, Heroin was considered glamours.

Fuck it, I could write it all out, and I wouldn't be saying anything that hasn't already been said.

This all started because me and my mom were talking. My mom is just a few years older than Kurt, but his music is what my generation embrassed. Actually I'm too young, it would be more my cousins, who are in their mid thirties scean, but they grew up outside any punk scean, and didn't listen to Nirvana. Yet if they here one of Nirvana's songs they say oh I love this.

Then my mom said, at work they watch American Idol, a show I hate. I fucking hate it, I think it is ruining music for eveyone. Still who knows perhaps that is how they will find the next Kurt, but I doubt it because American Idol owns you after you win. I guess tho, all record companies own you once your famous, in one way or another. Anyway, my mom said, this one guy sang a Nivana song, and all the nurses who are my age or around my age 26 said I love this song, and my mom said so do I. I of course introduced her to Nirvana, put it on her MP3 player making her listen to it.

Then I asked my mom, do you think if I began a band, if the generation after me, what would my children's generation, would think of my music as the type of music that never goes out of style. She said I don't think so, I think your born with that in you, and from day one its all you do. You read every word of music magazines, study everything you can of music, learn to play an instrument, and even if you master that, you have to have this certin charisma.

Of course I want to be a female rock star, and do the whole Heroin thing, but I'm too old to now. I already did the whole Heroin thing, and lucky for me I've always loved writing more than I did music, but to me writing and music went together. Even now they do for me. What type of music I'm listening to inspires what I'm writing. I like to listen to Classical music, like Motzart and such. I find I can write longer, and better while listen to classical music, than I can listening to Music I like.
The new music of my generation, the music I like, such as the Oolahs, and Halloween Town, and Elliott Smith, never really made it as main steam as Nirvana did, yet they still have time. Elliott is pretty main stream, yet he's not on the radio much. I think he should be on the radio more, but I guess the world doesn't find the comfort in being sad like I do.

Soon I will add Tindersticks to my top favs. Until then.........9, the completed what they needed to complete on their time as human beings in this universe, hopefully they out there completeing something else as something else in some other solar system.

Thanks for the music.

Jesus Christ has saved my sould

God no, I haven't gone to the dark side. I just watched this movie called Saved. Its a old movie, that I never watched because I thought the title indicated the movie would be about how Jesus saves people from burning in Hell for questioning his almightness.

This movie is not at all what I thought it would be about. It's hella funny. Expesially Mandy Moore's character. It seems the whole movie is mocking penacostal, or super religous people, but it mocks them in funny way, but not a really harsh way.

Other than this movie, I'm doing nothing but loving my methadone dose, and Xanax.

Whenever I post a post with this title I get alot of readers. So all those readers who never read my blog before, I suggest you down and read the other blogs that are about more than just a movie I'm watching.

Make sure to tell me if you hate me or love me.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Just a quick update.

OMG, I just bought a dress on, where you can buy totally original clothes made by just some person in their house. There will be no other person wearing this dress. I cannot wait to get it. I almost bought another dress, but I decided against it, because it was just too hippy. The dress I did buy, is like a babydoll dress, and a sack dress from the 60's. I hope when I get it, it fits number one, and it looks good number two. It only cost 30 dollars with shipping and handeling.

Other than that, my Saturday has been dull. I took Eleanor for her morning walk, got breakfast at seven eleven, and bought some sushi for lunch. I figure today since I have evething to myself, I will try to work on my book. Mostly re working the dialouge so the reader can tell who is say what to whom. If I'm feeling creative I will write a chapter or two. Depends on if I get into a groove. Since I've been here in Hawaii I haven't gotten in the grove. The most I've written on my book here in Hawaii is three pages every few weeks.

At one point I declared the book done, but now after my rejections for the two literary agents who rejected me, and the one who didn't even bother to return my message. I've have decided to take some of their advice, and go into my past, aka the beging of my addiction to the point where the book is started right now, with me going to jail for relapsing on Coke and Crack, because the Methadone was blocking my ability to get high. Oh yes, and it will be fiction, but based on my life, seeing as how I admit to alot of illegal activites.

Other than my book, that alot of anon's hate, and a few people like. Thank you so much to those of you, or the one of you who liked my posts of my book.

I'm nervous about credit card info on the internet, but I only had 50 bucks on my card, so even if they did get ahold of my cc# they would be fucked, unless they put their own money in it.

Eleanor is missing my father, aka old man. I remeber my dad calling his dad, "my old man" when I was a kid, and we would go visit them, which we did everyday. I always wanted to sleep over at grandma Betty's and Papa Donalds. Grandma would take me to rummage sales or we would go "bumming" around and visiting people. Just dropping in and gossiping. Gosh I miss being a kid. I miss makes me feel like that kid again.

Oh yes, and I am so jealous of Kurt Cobain. He did it, and I haven't. Not killed himself, but made great music, and related to millions if not billions of people.

Fuck you anons, I can and will get million if not billions of people to relate to me.
so those anon haters, should go kill themselves.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Don't mind the gigantic photo of me at the top of my blog. I fucked up.

WTF, I fucked up my blog. Now there is a gigantic picture of me above my blog. I never put that there.

I should have never fucked with my blog format in the early hours of the morning. Please excuse the appearance of my blog, and since I'm lazy and have no idea how I fucked it up so bad, I'm gonna leave my blog this way until I go over to the internet cafe, and have a puter geek help me get it back in form.

Also click on the ads. Just do it. Every time you read my blog click on the ads. I get money for it, and I'm putting it towards my schooling, so you don't have to read a blog that isn't write eloquently. Really it in your interest to click on my ads as much as possible, as you are the one reading my blog. If you have ads I will of course click on your adds also. I have no idea how the ad thing works, but it said I could make money, and well I need money. I'm in the middle of a crisis, not having enough cash to rent an apartment whilst going to school in Washington State. Nor do I have enough money for my own plane ticket, and I don't want to squeeze my mom and dad of even more money. I'd like to do this on my own.

My dad made it back to Wisconsin safe and sound. Now here I am without my the person attached at my hip. Its refreshing. Although Eleanor is as I predicted...wondering why the fuck my dad isn't home. I'm gonna take her with me alot more, so she isn't always waiting for dad to come home.

Fuck I don't have anything else to say right now. I just fucking woke up and looked at what I did last night, and it sure does not look like it did when I went to sleep.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Bye, bye daddy.

Today has so far been a somewhat normal day in the life of Anna Grace. I got up went to Chinatown to score Xanax. I haven't been to Chinatown since the three shootings, and one stabbing death had happened within two weeks. I had herd on the local news that Chinatown will be littered with Police presence, both uniformed, and undercover. The police are mainly in the crack alley are of Chinatown. As Crack and Crystal Meth are the more prevalent drugs in Hawaii. Also Crackheads, and Tweekers are dangerous creatures when high, without money, and want to buy more to get even more high. These people are pumped up and aggressive, and will snatch your purse, with a knife at neck, they will steal whatever they can get their hands on, and they will sometimes kill to get their next fix.

I rarely go down the four streets in the middle of Chinatown called Crack Alley. Its full of very skinny women, who look twice their age, and black men trying to sell you on drug or another. Most likely if you do buy of that guy, you've been ripped off. The many crackheads sit or lay on the sidewalks were they live. Their lives mostly consist of buying crack, smoking crack, running out of money, ripping someone off, and buying more crack, this cycle last two to three days strait, until they finally fall asleep on the sidewalk, and the next day they start all over. Over in Crack Alley you can find Heroin, but most likely you'll be ripped off. Only if your all the dealers whom are your usual dealers are out of Heroin is when you resort to Crack alley in desperation to get well.

I go to a part of Chinatown call Fort Street Mall, its really a college campus, Hawaii Pacific university. So here you have your students, mixed in with your pill heads, and opiate addicts. This morning I stopped in the mall to see if anyone of my "people" were there, and yep they were there. They just were not holding anything. Not with all the Police crawling all over Chinatown, and the people who go down their everyday notice faces, they know the students, they know their customers, but lately they have been seeing faces they have never seen just lingering around. Under-covers, some of who approach someone who they either saw make a deal, or suspect of selling will try to make a purchase, and if its not a familiar face, and no-one is there to vouch for the person the seller pretends like they have no idea what they are talking about. Still everyone in the mall is giving out phone numbers and meeting here or there, and everywhere, but Chinatown. I have no idea where the crackheads are going, or what they are doing.

So I took a phone number, and was told to call it in a day or two. So I left and went to the clinic to get my methadone dose, and my take home dose. On my way home from the clinic, I realized I had forgotten to get my dad some supplies for his flight that left today. So go back to the mall, and go into Longs Drug Store, and get the grooming products he asked for. On my way out of Longs, I see someone who points me in the direction of someone who is holding and willing to sell. I know this person, I had met this person last time I lived here, but as of late he has been ill, his HIV is turning into AIDS, and last I herd he tried to off himself. We made the deal, and I was gone.

The entire drive home I am looking in my review mirror for anyone following me, I'm always paranoid when I'm riding home after I made a purchase. When I got home and into the apartment I could sigh a sigh of relief. When I walked in the door my parents were packing my dad's suitcase for his flight. I handed him what I had bought for him and his travels.

Oh yes, by the way my dad is going back to Wisconsin for some business, and will be gone for two weeks. So after I got home, me, dad, and mom all sat around talking about my dad's vacation. How much Eleanor will miss him. Eleanor is so attached to my dad, I think it is because my dad doesn't smother her with kisses, and loves. She has to scratch at him to get her to pet her, and when he does she is so pleased. Eleanor feels like my dad is her big protector. She always runs to him after a bath to escape her combing, and he will wrap her up in the towel and rub the towel on her to warm her up, and keep her safe from me or mom with our mean combs, and electric razors. Eleanor is at her happiest when all three of us are home, and mom and dad are in their bed, and I'm on the couch, and she can see me, and at commercials I run in to my parents room and play with her. She will only play ruff with me when either my mom or dad are in the bed. She will not play rough if its just me and her, because she has no one to protect her from me.

I of course worry about the flight. My dad was a 82nd Airborne Ranger, and has flew in many airplanes, and jumped out of many airplanes. The more you fly, the higher the average is you will be in (God forbid) crash. So when my dad calls at around Midnight Hawaii time, once he has reached Chicago, and then the again after the 45 minute flight to Green Bay I will be able to sigh a sigh of relief.

After that, I'm looking forward for a two week possiably longer vacation from my 24/7 life with daddy. No more arguing over the couch, no more dad making me go down and get him something from seven eleven when he has two legs, and could do it himself. It also means less dishes, less laundry, more time alone, and no one waiting for me to come home. I can go out and not have to answer all kinds of questions about where I was. My mom works nights, usually three on four off, so I will have entire nights to myself. I can sleep in my parents much more comfortable bed with a TV, with Eleanor.

The only downside is for the next two weeks Eleanor will constantly be barking at the door at night, when she thinks its time for him to come home from the bar. No more waking up early, and having dad with her. Actually though Eleanor likes to sleep in. She might get up at five am with my dad, but she will run in my room and bark at me to either get up, or put on the bed with me so she can sleep longer.

So today was a bit of a different day than my normal day. I didn't go to the airport with my mom and dad to see him off, because I HATE AIRPORTS. I used to like airports when I first started flying, because it meant vacations. I began to hate Airports when I moved to Hawaii, because it is a long ass flight, and I always end up with two or three layovers lasting more than an hour, on time I had an eight hour layover on my way to Hawaii. Luckily at the time I was still shooting up, and I had a prescription written out me for 60 8mg Dilaudid, aka Hydromorphone. That eight hour lay over seemed like a two hour lay over. There is long funny story in there, but I don't feel like getting into it. It has to do with me nodding out in the middle of eating a snickers bar, and being woken up by the stewardess, ask me if I was alright, then I realized I had melted snickers bar all over my face and clothes, it gets worse and funnier from there.

I smell watermelon bubble gum, which means its time to stop blogging.

Hey there mean Anon's...if you don't like it don't read it, and if you do read it, don't feel obliged to leave a comment on how much my writing, life, The sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me, is totally, absolutely not true. I wish I could read mean anon's blog, and go and leave mean comments. Dashing their dreams. Of course they are too scared to leave their name, so I can find their blog.


Thanks for reading my rants.

All my love to everyone who reads, and doesn't read my blog, and that includes you anon comment hater.

Anna Grace

Information, I got off my chest.

It takes 10 positive compliments to make up for one negative/mean/hurtful comment.

I don't have but 100 and some odd amount dollars to my name, and I am a mediocre writer at best, I feel as though I will never achieve my goal of becoming a published writer. When and if I get to Seattle to go to school I'll be broke alone and scared.

I have a personality that is hard to get along with, I'm nice, but I have quirks eg: I say unapproved things at inappropriate times. I like to be alone, unless I'm off opiates, then I can't stand to be alone. I need constant action to feed my need to included, but I am never included because of said quirks. I hate college type bars, and enjoy Burkoski type bar, where its all alcoholics, but even there I feel out of place.

I feel out of place here at home with my parents. I can feel the natural anxiety I have again now that I'm going down on my dose, and it is hitting me hard.

If I had the ability to write, this post wouldn't have started out like it did. Me just stating what I'm feeling.

I could try to make it better. Try being key word. I'm not giving it my all because it takes time to give a post ones all. I am tired and sleep always overwhelming me.

I got my period when I was 11 years old. I was too embarrassed to tell my mom so I would steal her maxi pads when I could, and if she ran out, I would wear toilet paper stuffed in my crotch. This would cause a foul smell, and I know the people around me noticed it. I was in sixth grade, and was still best friends with Kaycee.

I remember I couldn't wait to get my period, it was like my right of passage into adulthood. Yet for me it wasn't like it is on T.V shows, or for my friends. I was embarrassed, because I was the oldest, and I didn't want my parents to think of me as woman yet. So I never did tell my parents, my mom found out when we were on a car trip up north, and I was laying in the back seat wearing shorts, and my mom saw toilet paper sticking out of my panties and shorts, and she asked me in front of my dad if I had my period. I denied it, but when we got to our hotel I couldn't go into the pool or hot tub, because I new I would bleed all over the place, so I had to have my sister tell my mom that I need to buy pads. I went two years without telling my parents.

From sixth to eleventh grade I was defenitley the ugly friend. Seventh grade me and Kaycee are still best friends, and did everything together. Kaycee started making new friends, and these friends did not like me. I was not smart enough, pretty enough, normal enough. Since grade school my marks were low. My parents never really took an interest in me nor my sister's education. They were busy working so we could have stuff, not just stuff, but nice stuff. Which meant they had to work all the time. Kaycee's family was more my family from third grade thru seventh grade. Kaycee and I were stuck together like glue.

The fact that my parents HAD to keep up with Jones pissed me off. We didn't need these things, but my parents did it out of love. They wanted Angie and I to have everything we wanted. Somehow the got the idea that things showed love. Now I wish they would have took an interest academically, and such.

One day in seventh grade homeroom, I was sitting at my desk waiting for the bell to ring, and for school to end. Kaycee's homeroom was across the hall from mine, and that particular day her homeroom had to clean out their lockers. Kaycee's locker was just out of eye shot from me, but I could hear every word she was saying. We still had fifteen minutes of school left, and after school Kaycee and I were suppose to hang out, and ride bikes.

As Kaycee was cleaning out her locker, she had found some of my stuff in her locker, and one of Kaycee's locker neighbor's locker said, "Oh my god, why do you have Anna's Y. stuff in your locker, and she pushed it towards him and said I don't know here you take it." Then he pushed my stuff back towards her, and said, "eww gross I don't want her stuff"!
I tried to hold in the tears after hearing my best friend in the whole word deny that she liked me. My chin began to quiver and as soon as the bell rang I ran to the bathroom and sobbed. When I finally came out Kaycee was waiting for me, and she kept asking what was wrong, and I couldn't tell her, and I kept tearing up, and holding in tears. She asked if we were still on for going bike riding. I told her sure, and we met up later.

That was the moment my eyes were opened. I was the weird, ugly, dumb, friend. Kaycee and I were both in special ed classes because of our learning disabilities. I think that is why in third grade when I first met Kaycee we became best friends fast. We lived in a small town, and my parents had put Angie and I in Parochial school, St. Anthony's. Even back then all the older kids made fun of me, just me. I didn't understand why, I tried my hardest to conform to their standards of coolness, but it never worked. I was the kid that got to hang out with the popular crowed because my best friend was popular, and therefore I was let in, but not all the way in.

Eight grade came, and over that summer I had lost my virginity, to some random guy because I just wanted to get it over with. Within the next day everyone knew, and in a town of 2,000 everyone knew. With Kaycee I found the Beatles, and with Kaycee I had found alot of things. I shared my childhood with Kaycee. I met Kaycee right after my Papa committed suicide at our house, and after I watched my dad try to kill himself. Kaycee was my best friend in the world, until she found out I lost my virginity. She was so mad at me, and I couldn't understand why. She and I just did not look at virginity the same way. The summer between seventh and eight grade was a huge life changing time. I started wanting to date boys, and have sex. I found Nirvana, and I shared it with Kaycee, including Hole. I would stay up until 11pm weeknights just listen to indie bands playing on the radio. I didn't want to listen to Boyz to Men, or all the other in bands at the time, aside from Nirvana. There was only one other kid in my grade and I think school who liked Nirvana as much as I did, and that was Clayton. I liked Clayton, but he didn't like me back.

There was alot of family problems at home, mostly caused by me, and running away. I was a monster during those years. My parents made sure I knew I was the cause of every problem in the household. Still my parents loved me, and bought me expensive clothes so I could fit in.

Eight grade starts, and I just gave up. I said fuck this popularity contest. Fuck eating at the cool lunch table, which I sat at up until eight grade. I stopped wearing name brand clothes, and I started hanging out with the outcasts, but I didn't fit in with them either. Those kids were the kids who didn't have parents who gave a shit about them, and my dad gave a shit about me and Angie. I wasn't aloud to go out and walk around Main St. Oconto Falls. The freaks didn't even let me into their group. I got beat up twice trying to become friends with them, and I beat up one chick after she put a ciggies out on my leg. I liked boys, and some liked me back, but I didn't know how to act, and I hated talking on the phone, my dad wouldn't let them come over, so I just emerged myself into listening to music. My biggest regret to this day is that I didn't ask for a guitar and amp and lessons. Instead I wrote poems. Passionate poems, often suicidal poems, teen angst poems. I found that I preferred Mazzy Star, and Fiona Apple, and REM, more depressing music. Yet I still loved to listen to what I though was punk music, Nirvana, Butthole surfers, Pixies, Mudhoney, Vaselines, pretty much every band Nirvana would say was cool I liked, and I really did like the music. Then I found L7 and Bikini Kill, and they were girl bands who play loud music with good riffs, and verse chord verse pop songs mingled with a heavier sound. I hated Alice in Chains, still do, I only sort of like Pearl Jam, one song which I can't remember the name, I think its daughter. Otherwise I disliked them. Mind you Kurt was dead by this time, and I was find all this out from Courtney Love's band Hole, and as I got older my musical taste stayed the same. I liked music you could hear on the radio. Yet I never learned how to play.

Eighth grade passed, and I was outcast, even by Kaycee now. High School came, my freshman year. I was excited because of all those movies showing how highschool is the time of your life. Nope, not at all like that. I thought I would find people who were interested in the same stuff as me, but I didn't dress like them, in the hip clothes. High School, all four years, I floated from crowed to crowed. Also a loner, never asked to parties, I just herd thru the grapevine that a party was on, and I would go by myself. I would get drunk and try to make friends. Then at one party I was 15 I met this 20 year old and he liked me. Enough to pursue me, and it was the first time I ever felt like I belonged. My boyfriend did, so I did too. That boyfriend was a fucking loser, he was too much like me. Never worked, drank too much, couldn't pay rent or buy food. Just drink, drink, drink.

Senior year, I found my dad's percocets, and I no longer needed acceptance. I had found it right there in a pill. I stopped writing, but not completely. I began reading more, I read alot. I was by myself alot. I graduated school, and didn't go to college, because I didn't want to be a marketer, which is what I signed up to be, and the day of registering came I didn't register. I would pretend like I was going to school every morning, and I would park my car in the fire lanes, and walk up and down in the woods, or sleep in my car for four or five hours. I read alot of books during that time, and listened to alot of music.

I only took my dad's pills on weekends, when everyone else was going to parties, and no one liked me. My weight fluctuated from 120 to 160, so I was always self conscience of my body. I grew into my face Junior year, but the people in town still saw me as the ugly stupid weird Anna from grade school thru highschool, and out of highschool.

I remember this one particular incident. I was walking into the library, and I had on a some clothes that were comfortable and I was in a skinny faze, my hair was long and wavy, and just as I opened the library door a car drove past and a bunch of boys yelled out Anna Young will never be pretty, you are ugly. Holy fuck did that burn deep. I tried yet again not to cry, but I walked into the library bathroom and cried. To this day, even after an adult relationship with a poet, and a living life on a razors edge, I still see an ugly duckling looking back at me in the mirror, I'm still the ugly, stupid, weird kid from Oconto Falls Wisconsin.

You know the rest, I got hooked, and moved out of Oconto Falls, then out of state, and finally I decided on what I want to do with my life, and it is write. It would be play in a band, but I can't sing nor play an instrument. Musicians are writers too. A Lot of musicians write books. Its human nature to want to be idolized. Since the Romans, King's and Queen's, and royalty. We all strive in some way to leave our mark on this world after our deaths.

When we give up, or realize that we will make no difference dead or alive, and that the only thing we left behind are children, sometimes not even that, we kill ourselves. Mediocer is not what I want my life to be, but it is what my life is. It is what my passion is. I am no better, and probably worse than you are. Still I've shot up with two needles full of full blown AIDS syringes, and all I got was Hep C. and I don't even have a viral load, which means I'm sort of immune to it. Its been close to five years since used those tainted syringes filled with HIV+,AIDS blood, and still every three months my HIV results come back as non reactive.

I've tried my hardest to kill myself, aside from a gun to the head, which when or if I do decide to kill myself I'm going with the blast to the head. Just as the kids on at recess wrote on a note after my first suicide attempt in the summer between seventh and eighth grade.

My guilt is keeping here with my parents. The guilt that my sister could still be alive if I hadn't drove up to Michigan a day earlier to get at my dads Oxycontin. The guilt that I've put my parents thru hell, and every day I'm reminded of that. The shame I feel that I'm just average, I'm in no way exceptional. The shame that I am who I am, and very few people except me for it. The guilt that it wasn't me that died, instead of my popular, driven, pretty, younger sister.

I've got three months, and hardly any money to start anew in a new State where no one knows my name, and go to school knowing I'm dumb and have a learning disability that I can't prove unless a specialized doctor re diagnoses me. After three years my highschool throws away the IEP papers that show I have a learning disability in Math mostly, and in Language some.

I complain too much. I am thankful for a bed with a soft mattress, a room of my own, a number of windows to look out, the abilty to come and go as I please. I'm thankful for Eleanor, and my parents health. I thankful that of the billions of sperm and millions of eggs in my parents reproductive organs that I was made me, me. Even though most my life I cursed the fact that I was created, I am lucky to have lived as a human on the planet Earth for the blink of eye in the continuum of time.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Here is chapter three thru I think five of book

It is unedited, spelling errors overwhelm the amount of words spelled correctly. This part of the book is quit choppy, and may not make sense in some parts. I took a two month break in between chapter 2 and 3. I wrote most of this part of the book here in Hawaii. Without a place to write, I had no desk, no dictionary, nor thesaurus. I am making excuses, and the truth is I am a mediocre writer at best. At least I do what I love, fuck the rest of you who hate what I write, and how I write it. Its mine, all mine. It is a first draft, and I've only graduated high school with a 2.0 average. Talent or no talent, I've decided to FUCKING WRITE!

Read it or don't read it. Its long, and some or even most will find it boring. It is the truth, raw truth.

What I really want to say is, the comment from Anonymous fucking hurt my feelings. One bad comment and I feel like I've gotten a reality check. There it is in words, I'm boring. Hell yes I'm boring, right now I'm really fucking boring because I rarely leave the apartment. I don't have a natural talent with words as some do. I have to work at it. I have to read books constantly to write anything worth while, I even have had to buy Creative Writing for Dummies, and many other books on how write. All of which I left back in storage in Wisconsin, and right now I've gotten myself hooked on yet another drug aside from my opiate addiction, Benzo's, and now finding Xanax has taken precedents over writing, and reading books, and practicing writing skills with workbooks, and books for dummies. So yes I'm boring, because I'm letting a drug take over what I love. A drug I don't even love more than writing. I can see using Heroin as a good reason for not working on making my words better because I love Heroin as much as writing, but Xanax, WTF Anna. Get a grip.

Here is some more of the book, I hate myself and want to die.

Chapter 3

My PO says, “You will be going to the Jackie Nietzsche treatment center for drug and alcohol addiction”. I tell him, “That is where I went last time, when I was going to court and my lawyer advised me to volunteer myself into drug treatment. You know I was kicked out the week before I was to graduate, for using Benadryl to help me sleep. That was less than 6 months ago, right before Christmas, that’s how I ended up at the Methadone clinic. I can’t believe they are going to take me back so soon.”
“It took some doing, but you got a bed pretty fast. You better take this chance seriously Anna, if you mess up this time, you will go back to jail, and this time for the full 7 months you have left on your sentence. You will not be allowed to go back to the methadone clinic, while you are under my supervision, so don’t even think about that option, because it is not an option”.
That pisses me off, but I don’t say anything. I am worried he will turn this car around and bring me back to jail. Methadone is drug treatment, who the hell is this asshole to tell what kind of treatment I can or cannot receive? Oh yeah, he is my probation officer. My alpha and omega until my probation is up, in seven months.
I sit in the back seat, looking out the window watching people as they walk to their destinations, as I‘m being driven to drug treatment, by a probation officer. Right now I am so glad to be out of jail, that rehab seems like it will be a vacation. I’ve been though it once, I know the ins and outs, I should breeze though it this time. I have a lot more to lose this time if I end up getting kicked out again. I say a silent prayer to whatever might be out there. “Please help me get through this without going back to jail. I will do whatever it takes; just give me the strength to not use”.
The car turns the corner and I can see the house. It is an old Victorian house, four stories including the basement. It is right smack dab in the middle of down town Green bay. Next door to the treatment center is a crack house, across the street is the Village Inn, a flea bag motel, where I used to go when I was homeless and came across enough money for a room and some dope.
As we pull in the parking lot, I look around for any sign of the others, but I look at the clock on the dash and it is 11am, witch means, all the other dope fiend clientele is in morning group therapy. I unbuckle my seat belt, and step out of the car, my PO is right behind me, we walk up to the front door, and I walk in. I go straight across the living room area to the office, and see Rose, the same office attendant that was here last time I was here. I tell her I am here, and my PO is with me. She hands me a bunch of paper work, and a pen. “You know what to do, just go into the sun room, and have a seat. Watch the orientation video in the VCR, and fill out your paper work”. I look over at my PO and wave good bye, he says, “remember what I said, and I will back once a week to check up one you”.
“Whatever, guess I’ll see you soon”. He turns and walks out. I go into the sun room and get to the task at hand. I skim through the video, and read the rules and regulations to make sure there have been no changes since the last time I read it. There hasn‘t been any changes, so I sign my name to the papers, and then I just sit for awhile to make it seem like I watched the whole video.
I decide while I am sitting, there doing nothing, I will look through me purse and grab my smokes to get ready for a cigarette break. I notice that my cigarettes are not in there and neither is my wallet, or my cell phone. The jail must have forgotten them, or they lost them when I was transferred from maximum security jail to work release. I am mad, but not too mad, I don’t need any of those things right now anyway. Well the smokes I need, but I can call Pete or Aunt Debbie to bring me some. I have to call Debbie to bring my clothes and the rest of my shit, anyway.
Enough time passes and I bring the papers to Rose, and I ask her if I can have one of her cigarettes, she says, “sure.” I tell her it will be ‘my first smoke in 13 days.’
She says, “You should quite then, if you’ve gone 13 days you don’t need to smoke”.
“Yes, I do, I have been under a lot of stress, and if I can’t use dope I am definitely going to need to smoke. One thing at a time”. I tell her.
“Your right if I was in your position I would need a smoke too”.
I make our way to the back of the house, where the smoke shack is, along with the picnic table and basketball hoop. The smoke shack is where everyone gathers in between groups. It is not often you get to enjoy a smoke by your lonesome here. I take this rare opportunity to pick my nose. I have not been alone in long time; I can eat my boogers if I want to, and so I do.
Rose gives me five minutes, and she comes and gets me. She says, “I have to give you a tour. It will be quick since you know your way around already”.
We walk up the steps to the second floor, which is the women’s floor. There are five bedrooms two beds to a room, and there is a group therapy room. At the end of the hallway is a bathroom, with a stand up shower, and a porcelain toilet and a mirror over the sink. I think to myself, thank god, I can take a nice Luke warm shower, and dry off with a nice big fluffy towel, in private.
Rose shows me to my room, and it’s the same room and bed I had last time. I lie down on the bed, and take in how soft a mattress feels, and how good it feels to have a pillow, and soft blankets. All these luxuries I had taken for granted my entire life. Not any more, I am going to cherish the little things from now on.
We move on to the rest of the house, third floor is the men’s floor, five rooms and one group therapy room, they also have a bathroom, but no shower in it. The men have to go to the basement or the first floor bathroom to shower. We make our way back down to the first floor, where the kitchen and dining room are. She asks if I am hungry. “Oh yes, I am very hungry. I haven’t had anything good to eat in 13 days”. I make myself a peanut butter sandwich with a banana, and glass of Kool-Aid.
Every bite is like heaven, I scarf it down, as if I will never eat again. To have moist bread and Jiffy peanut butter is like a religious experience.
Rose tells me to hurry, she wants to me to get to group before it’s done, so I can introduce myself to the other clients, before we have to eat lunch together. I clean up the mess I made in the kitchen, and make my way to the second floor group room.
I walk into the room, and everyone looks up at me. Pam the counselor, says, “Hi there Anna, I was expecting you. We are just finishing up, and then we will do introductions.”
I know Pam very well, from last time. She is the youngest counselor on the staff, but she never told me how old she was. I would guess she is in her late 20s or early 30s, She is 5’10, with long legs, I guess she goes about 180lbs, and she is fit. She has very pale skin, which gets a red rash when see is annoyed. Her breasts are huge; she is always dressed very nicely, in tight fitting sweaters and expensive jeans. Her hair is straight, long, and blond, always perfectly done.
She is soft spoken, and looks directly at you when speaking to you. I hate that, I have a hard time making eye contact when speaking to anyone. She was my, ‘one on one’ counselor last time I was here. At first I really liked her, but then I realized she was not an addict herself, and had absolutely no idea what I was going through. Sure, she’s seen a lot of addicts and went to school and learned about addicts, but in reality she has no idea. She also has a knack, at spotting a lie, and last time I was here I was always lying. I learned to hate her.
As the group is finishing up I look around the room at my fellow drug fiends. The first person I notice is Jesse, a ‘long hair’, with tattoos, and a bad attitude, my sex drive comes flying back and hits me hard when I see him. I can tell he is fellow IV drug user, just my type. He has a hard body, and he is tall, his hair is blond, his eyes are blue. He wears holey jeans, and metal band t-shirts. He notices me too.
There is one girl my age, she is skinny, and attractive, later I find out her name is Erin, and she is my roommate. Then there is another women, Alley, she is older, probably in her 40s. She has thin stringy mouse brown hair. She is super skinny, and short, and she is the one who talks the most. That’s it for women.
Then including Jesse there is five men. They are all quite a bit older than I am, only one is black the rest are white. They are all ugly, and I assume white trash alcoholics, who smoke a little crack on the side. Jesse of course is the only exception.
As everyone goes around and introduces themselves, I find out my assumptions are pretty accurate. I, Jesse, and Ally are the only IV drug users in the bunch, I am the only opiate addict, and Jesse and Ally shoot coke. When they are done, I introduce myself, and tell my story. As I speak, I am slouched in my chair; my eyes focused on my shoes, and say everything nonchalantly. I want to give off the vibe that I don’t care, and nothing will get to me. After I finish speaking, group is finished, and we have fifteen minute break, until we have to go on our walk, before lunch.
I take off, and go straight to the phone, and call Debbie. I ask her to bring me ciggies, and my clothes. I really want my shampoo and conditioner, my deodorant, my toothbrush, and most importantly make up. I want to look and smell pretty for Jesse.
I call my dad too, and let him know I am out of jail, and safe in rehab. He is relived, but he says he can still hear sadness in my voice, and says he is worried. He says, “You’re not going to anything stupid and try to kill yourself, are you”?
“No, dad, I am not going to kill myself in here. Maybe if I have to go back to jail, but I promise I won’t dad”.
I hang up and go out to the smoke shack, and bum a smoke from Ally, the only non menthol in the bunch. Every one starts asking me questions; I answer them, even though I don’t feel like talking. I remember how I felt when I was here last time, when someone new came in, that was the only excitement you had. It gets pretty boring hearing people’s sob stories over and over, so when a new one comes in, you get to hear a new sob story, and you hope it is interesting.
Everyone was surprised to hear I was a client here, only six months ago. Jesse said, “So you’re a hopeless case, huh”. I just looked at him, and gave him a little smile, as I took a drag off my cigarette.
After our walk and lunch, I go up to my room and find my roommate, Erin on the phone. I pretend not to listen, but I am, and she is on the phone with a pharmacy ordering her Valium. When she is done, she looks over at me and says, “I know we are not supposed to have Valium in here, but I am crawling out of my skin, and I need it. It is not even my addiction, I am an alcoholic. You’re not going to tell on me, are you”?
“No, I wouldn’t tell on you, but when you get them will you give me some? I really could use some, but if you don’t I still wouldn’t tell on you”.
“Sure I will give you some, if you take them too, then I know you are not going to tell on me”.
I tell her, “You can’t tell anyone else in here, not even someone you think you’re close to. I have seen people get kicked out after telling someone they thought they could trust. It happened to me, with fucking Benadryl, I said something about quietly to my good friend last time I was here, and some how it got back to the counselors, and the next day I was kicked out”.
She nods yes, and says, “My lips are sealed; we won’t even talk about it ever again, when I get them tomorrow, I will bring them up to our room and put them in your top dresser drawer. How many do you want?
“Oh, how many are you going to get in your prescription”?
I get sixty, five milligram pills a month and I only take one a day so I only use thirty pills a month”.
“Well, I’ll take as many as you are willing to give, is twenty okay”.
“Sure, I will give you twenty pills, and let’s not talk about it any more”.
I agree. The last thing I need is to get caught taking pills. Luckily she is getting Valium, because in jail, since I was give Librium, which is a benzodiazepine, when I get a piss test here, and I pop positive for benzo’s I can blame it on the jail meds. Benzo’s stay in your system for up to a month when you use them on a daily basis, and even before I was in jail, I was using benzo’s on a daily basis. It’s like it was meant to be. I guess my prayer didn’t work, I have no will power.
The rest of the day is a bunch of group therapy sessions, same story different person. They all go something like this, “I grew up a out cast, I have low self esteem, and I started drinking in middle school, as I got older I started drinking heavier, or if they are a drug user, I started smoking pot in middle school as well as drinking, then in high school I was doing acid, and the then snorting coke, then smoking it. At first it was no big deal, but suddenly it took over my life, and I was stealing and hurting everyone I love”. Blah blah blah, some where molested, some weren’t, some want to stop using, and some are like me, forced into rehab, by the courts, or a PO.
At the end of the day, I find out my ‘one on one’ counselor, this time is Ann. I know her from last time too. I like her, she is older, and she is from my hometown of Oconto Falls. She had herd about my sister’s death, and was sympathetic to me. She also noticed that I have mental health problems. I had been diagnosed Manic Depressive, once during one of my stays in a nut house. I was prescribed meds for it, but I never got them filled after I got out. I just went on with life, with my moods fluctuating, and me using opiates to keep somewhat level. In my mind I am not so sure I am a Manic, it seems to me doctors want to put a label on everyone and everything.
Ann seems like she will be easier to manipulate, than Pam was last time. I have to give her my drug history, starting with the first drug I used including booze and beer, along with how much and how long I used them for. I do this, and it bores me to death. I did this last time I was here. The only thing new is my cocaine use. When I am done telling her my drug history, she says, “Well, Anna you are in the right place, your drug use has escalated, and I am worried if you didn’t find your way here, you would be dead”.
I think she is being dramatic. In my mind the only thing rehab did for me last time, was take the fun out of getting high. It was like after I got out of rehab, I was now a real drug addict, and that made getting high seem wrong. I don’t dare tell Ann this. She would say something to my PO about it and probably think I don’t want to be there. Which I don’t, but I don’t want her to know that.
In any case I am glad to be out of jail. When bed time rolls around, I get ready for a nice warm, private shower. Debbie brought my belongings earlier in the day when I was in with Ann. She got me Camel cigarettes, I smoke Basic Full Flavors, but the Camel’s must have been on sale. Debbie is very frugal, and really I don’t care what kind of cigarettes I have, as long as I have cigarettes.
I take a nice shower, and put conditioner in my hair for the first time in thirteen days. Finally, I will not have to spend two hours combing through my hair, and it won’t be frizzy when it dries. Debbie brought me a bunch of crime novels. Not my favorite, but better than romance novels, or the Big Blue Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. I lie down on my nice soft bed, put my head on the pillow, cover up with the soft blankets, and I read for a while. After my eyes get too tired to read I look out the window next to my bed. I watch all the cars driving by, and I wonder where the hell these people are going. I fall asleep comfortable for the first time since this ordeal started.
The next morning I’m rudely awoken by my roommate. She alerts me to the fact that I have over slept, we are supposed to be out of bed by 7am and it is 7:30am. We have to be in Mediation by 8:15am sharp. I sit up and look around, trying to get my bearings. I feel a wave of relief when I realize I am in a soft bed, and I can go outside when I want to, get a drink when I am thirsty, I can take a shit in private, and spray air freshener if it stinks. This is the life, and it only gets better the more aware I become. Today is the day my roommate will be getting Valium; soon I will be nice and relaxed.
I brush my teeth, put on my make up, with my usual black eyeliner around my both eyes, with dark brown eye shadow around my eyes too. I want to make sure I look like a junky, whom doesn’t care what people think, even though I do care, especially of what Jesse thinks. My eyes are what most people say are my best feature, and if I do say so myself, I have beautiful, very bright blue eyes, if you stare into them you can see my soul. The rest of my face is not so bad. I know I am not ugly, but I am no model either. At best, if I was in a movie I would be the leads funny best friend.
I put on a pair of worn in jeans and a tight blue t-shirt that says ‘crack is whack’, and has a picture of a vile with two rocks of crack in it, and a line through them, like on a no smoking sign, on the front, and on the back of the shirt there is a picture of a crack pipe and the words ‘don’t believe the pipe’. Perfect for the situation, in my opinion.
According to dress code, shirts that are anti-drug are okay to wear.
When I go down to the smoke shack, everyone reads my shirt; they all ask where I got it. I tell them I found it at a thrift shop a couple of years ago. Which is a lie; I bought it for twenty bucks at a store in the mall. I am such a lame ass. I want to not care, but I care too much about not caring.
When I was high, I didn’t care, now that I am not on drugs, I care.
I sit down and light up a cigarette; Jesse is out side smoking along with all of the dope fiends. I listen to everyone, Lamar and James are talking about how good it feels to be clean, and what they plan on doing once they get of treatment. Ally, the older lady, is talking to Erin about getting high, she talks and talks. No one can get a word in edge wise. I can tell Erin is not listening too closely.
I keep quite, and think how much I fucking hate people. How I would rather put a pistol in mouth and pull the trigger, rather than become like these people.
There is fifteen minutes until we have to go up to the group room for our morning meditation. I remember the daily schedule clearly. First up is half hour meditation, where we sit in a group, listen to birds chirp from a stereo, and were not allowed to talk, or read. Then we are off to three hours of issues group, which is hell, in this group we start out by ‘care fronting’, this is where if anyone notices anything about another group member, be it good or bad, we are to confront them with it, but in a caring manner. An example, “Anna, I have noticed you are glorifying your drug use.”
Then the counselor says, “How does that make you feel Anna?”
I would say, “It is really hard for me to be in rehab, and not talk about my drug use. And when I talk about my drug use it is usually in a positive way, because I really loved getting high. Of course I know this is wrong. Would anyone give me some advice on how to change my perception of my drug use?”
Then someone in the group would offer me some lame suggestions, and the counselor would say something like, “Wow, I think we made some good progress here. Does anyone else have a care front, or issue they want to bring up here in group?”
This went on for three hours, and by the end I am frustrated, and bored. I want Jesse to notice me, so before we start our next activity, I go up to him, and I say very blunt, “I want to have sex with you.”
He looks at me, smiles, and says, “It’ll cost ya a buck fifty”
“I can’t afford that”
“You’re out of luck, then little missy”. Then his face get serious, and he says, “Why are putting on such a front? You we can see right through your ‘I don’t care’ attitude.”
I can feel my face flush with embarrassment; I have wanted to impress him so badly, that I took it too far and am no longer being myself. With out the comfort of opiates, or methadone, I have no idea who I am or how I act. Nothing comes natural anymore.
I don’t know what to say to him in defense of my attitude, so I don’t say anything, and go up to my room and wait for our next activity.
The next time slot is a fifteen minute walk, followed by a half hour lunch. During this time, all I can think is, “when will she be getting that Valium? As soon as we are finished with lunch it is off to another hour long group, then another, and then we have our afternoon half hour mediation. After meditation we are done with groups for the day.
Then we walk to an AA meeting at around five or six pm, AA is my favorite part of rehab. You get out of the treatment house, and you get to meet new people. Every day we go to a different AA or NA meeting. Now that I have my sex drive back, I scout out all the men at the meetings; none are as hot as Jesse.
I know I am not ready to be in any kind of relationship. This is how I always get when I am not using dope, I get boy crazy. I fall in love with some guy, and think about him all the time. Really I become obsessed, and scare the guy off. My heart gets broken and I move on to the next guy.
This is one of the main reasons I started using dope. I am content to be alone when I am using. I don’t need to be in love, or obsessed with a guy. Fuck I hate being in love, I don’t know why I even do it, it’s like I can’t help myself. I hate myself and want to die.
During the whole meeting, I didn’t listen to a word; all I could think about is getting some Valium in my blood. I try to make it look like I am listening because I don’t want to get ‘care fronted’ tomorrow in issues group.
When we get back from AA, we have free time, we can watch TV, downstairs in the living room area, or we can play games in the dinning room. We can also work on assignments that we were given in one of our groups, in the basement. Mostly people use the phone, and go out to the smoke shack and socialize with each other, while smoking and drinking mass amounts of coffee.
I smoke a few cigarettes with Erin, and then I go up to my room. I open my drawer, and find twenty little orange pills wrapped in cellophane. Erin came through. I take two of the Valium, and then I go find some masking tape, and tape the pills under my mattress.
Erin is still down in the smoke shack, talking on the phone with her boyfriend, she talks to him for hours. I will have the room to myself until ten, when we all have to be in our rooms. Eleven thirty is lights out.
I take a shower, put on pajamas, and hop in bed to write in my journal, and read, and wait for the Valium to take effect. We have to hand in our journal so the staff can read them. It is so nice to be alone in a room, lying on comfortable bed, able to eat or smoke when ever the urge hits.
Yet I cannot shake this fear I feel. I am terrified I will screw up and be sent back to jail. What if the counselors don’t believe me when I pop positive for benzo’s, which it is because of the meds they gave me in jail. I told Ann, when I first got here, to call the jail, and get my records. I let her know I would still be positive for benzo’s right away, even before I knew Erin would be giving me some.
What I really want is getting back on methadone treatment. I learned my lesson in jail. I won’t be using illegal drugs anytime soon, if I could just get back on methadone.
Well, yeah I am using drugs in rehab, but I need those. I swear to God if I didn’t have anything I would kill myself. I know I am an addict. The first step is admitting you have a problem, and that you’re powerless. I have that step down.
Do I want to stop using though? Yes and No, I want to stop using illegal drugs, and stop sticking needles in my veins, but I still want to stay on the prescribed methadone. When I am on methadone, I don’t need Valium. I don’t need anything but methadone.
When I was on methadone, I stayed off all other drugs for 90 days. That is a fucking miracle. I hadn’t been off drugs for more than three days in the past two years, until I got on methadone.
Then I met Corey. I think it’s because of rehab I relapsed. If I had never met anyone in rehab last time, and watched them all relapse, then I would not have relapsed. Everyone I was close with from this place on my last stay was only clean for at most two months after they left. Then when they relapsed, I had new drug connections, which I did not have before. This place made it easier for me to get drugs.
I am not totally against rehab. I know it works for some people. You have to want it to get it, and truthfully I don’t want it. I can’t tell a single person how I really feel, for fear of being thrown in jail. Tell me how this is supposed to help me. I fucking hate the justice system in this country.
I hate that people just won’t let me be comfortable. If opiates make me happy, why is it so wrong? Why is booze legal, and heroin not. All of this makes me so depressed; I really want to end my life. I have nothing to look forward to. I felt the best feeling in the world when I was high. Now I am told I can never feel like that again. I may as well go to hell and burn for eternity.
Somehow I start to fall asleep, but suddenly I am worried that something’s wrong with Eleanor. I go out and grab a phone, and I call Pete. Tomorrow is Sunday, and we are allowed to go to leave the facility with family to attend church. I tell him to pick me up at 8am, and bring Elle. “We don’t have to go to church, we’ll go thru a drive thru, and get some breakfast, and then go to a park, and play with Elle.”
“Are you sure you won’t get caught”?
No, it will be fine, I’ll say we went to a Baptist church; their mass is like three hours long. We will have plenty of time.”
“Okay, I’ll be there at 8am sharp with Eleanor, to pick you up for ‘church’.
“Thanks Pete, you are so good to me. What did I ever do to deserve you?”
“You don’t, but you’re the most fun person I know, and I’d rather hang out with you than be all by myself all day.”
“I love you; give Elle a kiss goodnight for me.”
“Love you too. I will goodnight.”
I feel better after talking with Pete, knowing I will see him and Eleanor tomorrow when I wake up. It makes going to bed a lot easier, I’m sure the Valium helped too.

The next morning is cold, but the sun is shining brightly. I’m awake by five am, we can’t leave our floor until 6am, so I take a long shower, and I get all dolled up. I want to look hot for Jesse today. Today is Sunday, so we don’t have any groups today, and I hope if I look good Jesse will want to hang out with me this afternoon, and play scrabble or something.
At six, I make my down to the smoke shack, with a cup of coffee. It is a peaceful morning smoke; this early everyone is still getting showered and dressed, so I have the shack to myself. I look around at the graffiti on the walls, its all inspirational, which I think is stupid, if your going to deface property you should write something shocking not uplifting.
I hear the door of the house open and shut, and foot steps coming towards me. I don’t bother to move from my corner in the shack to peak at who it is. Suddenly Jesse steps into the shack and asks for my lighter. I hand it over to him, and he sits right next to me. I start to clam up, I don’t want to say anything stupid or lame, my heart is racing. It has been a long time since a guy has made me feel so anxious.
What I want to do is kiss him right there, and take him up to my room and have my way with him. Of course, I don’t what if he pushes me off and says I am gross or something? Instead we sit in silence. I try to act non chalant, with my legs crossed, and holding my cigarette away from my face like movie stars used to in old movies.
Then he looks at me and says in a quiet fast voice, “you are really pretty right now”.
I look at him and smile, my face blushes, and I stutter out, “thank you Jesse”. It is totally unlike Jesse to say something like that; he is a macho, funny guy. I don’t know what to think, maybe I herd him wrong, but it sure sounded like, “your pretty right now”, but it couldn’t have been. Could it?
He stubs out his cigarette, says, “I’ll see you around”, and leaves me sitting there dumbfounded. What the hell did he mean by that? Does he like me, we both know we can’t be together here, we would get kicked out? Now I regret not kissing him, it’s probably the only time we will ever be alone together in here. That was my chance, and I missed it.
I decide I need a Valium, so I finish my cigarette and go up to my room. It is seven and Erin is still asleep. I wake her up and remind her of what she told me yesterday when I slept pass seven. She hurries out of bed and gathers up he clothes and toiletries to jump in the shower. She has to wait a while for the shower because Ally is in there, and she takes forever. God only know what that women is doing to herself in there, she never looks any different when she comes out.
While Erin waits to get in the shower, she and I lie on our beds, and shoot the shit. Then Erin says, “I am thinking about leaving. I really miss my boyfriend, and I don’t think I need anymore treatment. I don’t feel like drinking anymore, so if I leave I won’t drink, and I’ll go to AA meetings. No big deal.”
I tell her, “It’s your choice; you’re here by your own free will, so you can leave anytime you want. If you’re not getting anything out of the treatment, you should let someone else get your bed that will. I think you’ll end up drinking though.”
“No, Anna I won’t, it’s like now that I’m finished with withdrawals, I don’t ever want to drink again, and go through that.”
“I wish I was like you. All I want to do is use.
Erin says, “Promise you won’t tell anyone if I tell you something”?
“Yeah, I promise.”
“I only came here because my boyfriend was mad at me for drinking too much, so I figured if I went to rehab he would not break up with me. So far it’s worked, yesterday on the phone he told me he wants me to come home as soon as I can.”
“Hey, I only came because my asshole probation officer won’t let me go back on methadone, so I totally understand. If I was in your position I would leave too.”
“Really, you don’t think I am being dumb?”
“Not at all, but your not going to tell any about our secret pills, are you?”
“No, no, I won’t.”
“Good, so if you do leave, when do you plan on doing it?”
“Not today, I am going to call my boyfriend and talk to him about it, and if he still not going to be mad at me, I will leave tomorrow”.
I tell her good luck, and grab one of my pills, and we both sit quietly thinking about our futures.
What I really think is: Erin is way too co dependant and she will be drinking again within a week. I mean come on, she is using Valium in rehab, and she doesn’t think she has a problem. She is still in denial, you can’t get sober until you realize you have problem.
Truthfully I want her to leave so I know for sure she won’t tell on me for buying that Valium from her. I know that it’s mean, but if she isn’t ready to get sober, then she is wasting her time here anyway. Sure I am not ready to get clean either, but its here or jail, and I pick here.
Lamare knocks on our door, and I go to open it. He says, “Someone is here for you Anna”.
“Okay, I’ll be right down, Thank you.”
I look at the clock, it says 7:30am, and Pete is a half hour early. I run down the stairs, and out the door. Pete is sitting in my car in the parking lot. I go up to him, and ask, “How did you get my car?”
Your aunt Debbie called me, and we moved your stuff out of your apartment, so I took your car and brought it to my dad’s house. I hope you don’t mind that I drove it to pick you up.”
“Are you driving it to work and stuff?”
“Oh no, I am not doing that, I just thought you would want to be in your own car today.”
“Well sure I do, but you’re early and I can’t leave until eight. We are not supposed to have guests at the house until two in the afternoon when visiting hours start.
Why don’t you go to Hardees and pick me up two cinnamon buns, and a hot ham and cheese with an orange juice, then come back and pick me up.”
“Okay, I’ll be back at eight on the dot.”
“I’ll be here.”
He drives off, and I go over to smoke shack to wait until he gets back. He drives up, two minutes before eight, but I run in the house and sign out. By the time I am done with singing out I can leave.
As soon as I get in the car, Eleanor is on top of me kissing me all over and whining with excitement. I was afraid she would forget who I was, but she didn’t. It feels so good to see her, and Pete. I feel free, for the first time in over two weeks. I really don’t want this to end.
Pete pulls into a park. He picked this one, because it’s just outside of the city, and there is no chance anyone would drive by and see that I am not in church. I let Elle out of the car and she stays right next to me, never looks away, like she’s afraid I will disappear again. We sit down at a picnic table to eat. Elle sits on my lap, and I give a few pieces of ham.
Pete and I don’t say much. I don’t want to tell him about Jesse, and it’s against the rules to talk about what goes on in group. I am not one who follows the rules much, but Pete is not interested in gossip anyhow. There is nothing that I can say to him I have not already said. He knows that I really want to spend time with my dog. So he just watches me play with Elle.
After we finish eating we all go for a walk, down the trail into the woods. Elle sticks right by us, only walking over to sniff something every now and then. I feel uncomfortable in silence, and when I get uncomfortable I start to ask questions. I ask, “How is work going?”
“It’s going fine, but can we not talk about work, I hate work and don’t want to think about it if I don’t have to.”
“Sorry Pete well is there anything new with you then.”
“Well, I might be moving down to Florida by my mom, with my friend Chad. There is a lot of construction work down there, and I need to get out of Wisconsin.”
“So that means we are totally over.”
“Anna, you’re the one who broke up with me, over two months ago. I have to move on, and right now we are not good for each other.”
“What’s that suppose to mean, we are not good for each other?”
“Look at where you are Anna. Look at what you’re doing to yourself.”
“Fuck you Pete; you knew when I first met you that I wanted to use Heroin. I told you that my only goal in life was to be a junky, and you fell in love anyway.”
“Yes, you did, but I did not know how much it would hurt me to watch you slowly kill yourself. I still love you very much; I just think that you need to be alone at this point in your life, and so do I.”
“So what the hell am I suppose to do when I get out of here? I don’t have an apartment any more, no boyfriend now, no job, no dope, fuck Pete I may as well kill myself. If it was not for my Eleanor and my mom and dad I really would Pete.”
“I know you would. You already are Anna, and that’s your choice, I know I am not going to change you. You have to do that on your own, or you don’t. Either way I can’t be around you right now.”
I turn around and walk back towards the car, and I say, “Fine you can be alone forever for all I care. Sorry I called you today and made you pick me up.”
I get to the car, and grab Pete’s cell phone; I dial my dealer’s number. He answers, “Who is this and what you need.”
“It’s me Anna, can you bring me three methadone pills, meet me at the County Park.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Pete and Elle come up behind me. I turn towards them and shut the door to the car. We all go back and sit at the picnic table. I tell Pete what I just did, and ask to borrow 15 bucks. He gives me the money, and asks for I one of the methadone pills.
This is why Pete and I are bad for each other, he says he doesn’t want me to use dope, but every time I get some, he uses it with me. He just never seeks out dope, so he thinks its okay. I think in his mind he thinks “she would get high one way or the other; I may as well pay for it and get high with her.”
I’ve known we are bad for each other for a year now, I just never said it out loud. I don’t want to be alone. I still want him to love me, and only me, but I want him to give me my space to be with other guys, and yet have him available so I can call him up if I need money or sex. Yet I still do love him, I am so confused.
My dealer pulls up, Pete hands me the money, and I go over to the dealer’s car, give him the money and take my pills from him. I go back over to the table, hand Pete his pill and I take one of mine, and save the last one for later.
“Okay Pete, I have calmed down. I understand you need to leave Wisconsin, God knows I want to leave this god forbidden state too. I just want to know I can still call you, and talk to you when move.”
“Of course Anna, you can call me anytime you feel like it, I don’t want to sever all contact or anything like that, and I just want us to not be so dependant on each other.”
“You know Pete I am keeping Eleanor, we will probably move up to Michigan with my dad, after I get out of rehab.”
“That’s fine, I bought her for you, I expected you to take her. She loves you more anyway. At night she whines and sleeps on a one of your t-shirts you left at my dad’s place that night you slept over.”
This makes me very sad, I tell Pete, “I don’t think I am going to make it threw this program, I am going to end up back in jail. I can feel it in my bones. I’m so fucking scared, of everything; getting clean, being alone, going to jail. I feel overwhelmed, and I want to skip out of this place, and I totally would if I had a way to get up to Michigan, but not in my car.”
“Anna, what would you do when you get to Michigan? You will still be wanted by the police.”
“By the police in Wisconsin, not in Michigan. I don’t know what I would do for sure, maybe move down to Hawaii by my mom.”
“Anna, I think you should stay in rehab, and if you become sure you’re going to get kicked out, then call me, but do it at night when everyone is sleeping, so we can get to Michigan before anyone knows your missing.”
“Okay Pete, I will stay for now, but if I get even the slightest vibe that my counselor is going to call my PO then I am going to call you to pick me up.”
As soon as I tell Pete how I really feel, and know that he is willing to help me, I feel like the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders. That and the Methadone pill I just took are starting to make me a little high, and I feel like I can do anything. Pete and I stay at the park for another half hour, and play with Elle. Then we drive back to the rehab center. As I am getting out of the car Pete hands me a cell phone, to use instead of having to use the house phone.
When I get back, I look around the whole house for Jesse, and there is no sign of him. I go to the living room and look at the sign out sheet, and find out he signed out and went to church too. I didn’t hear him say anything about someone picking him to go to church. Now I am really curious. In group he said his family lives in a different state, and he never mentioned any girlfriend.
The methadone makes me sleepy, so I go up to my room and read. I end up falling asleep.
When I wake up, it’s already two in the afternoon, and visiting hours are starting. Almost everyone has a family member or friend at the house visiting. I make my way to the kitchen to make myself something to eat, and there is Jesse, with a woman. She is pretty, but a little chunky, not fat just plumb. I would guess she is in her early thirties, around Jesse’s age. She is wearing a long flowing skirt, with a tight sweater. She has olive skin tone, blue eyes and black curly hair, down to her shoulders.
They are making a pizza, to share. Jesse notices me walk in, and introduces me to his woman friend. Her name is Lisa, and she is his ex-girlfriend. She says, “Hi”, and goes back to what she was saying to Jesse. Jesse sort gives me a look, as if to say sorry. I shake my head and smile, letting him know I don’t mind.
I warm up some left over’s from last nights supper, and go into the dinning room and eat. One good thing about this place is they make the best food. At night a resident assistant, or RA as we call them, comes in and makes dinner. The RA’s also sleep here, to make sure none of us leave, or in case there is some kind of emergency. I guess that is why they sleep here, but I am not sure. Nobody ever really explained the RA’s to me. The doors are not locked at night or anything, and the counselors are always telling us we can leave if we want to. Yet they have someone here at night to watch us. Sort of a mixed message.
I am still feeling ‘good’ from the methadone I took this morning. Methadone makes me want to smoke. After I finish my food, I go outside and light up a cigarette. I notice there is a new client. It is a man, about 20 or so. He has red hair, and translucent skin. I go over and ask him what his drug of choice is. He looks gaunt, and thin, I am guessing pills. I guess right on the mark, he is addicted to Oxycontin. Here in Green Bay it’s hard to get Heroin. You have to know people to get heroin, and those people go down to Chicago Illinois, to pick it up. So most people in Green Bay, who want an opiate fix, get hooked on Oxys.
He tells me his name is Mark, but everyone calls him ’Red’. I tell Red, “I too am hooked on opiates; right now I am getting off methadone, and coke. So I know how shitty you’re probably feeling. I am not going to lay, Red, it sucks, but it gets a little better each day.”
Red just sort of nods, but doesn’t say anything. I realize I am a lot more talkative when I got some methadone in me. It’s like I don’t hate people as much when I am high. I decide to leave Red alone, to be sick by himself. I know when I’m dope sick; I don’t want to talk either.
Two of the guys are playing “horse” and I walk over and grab the basket ball and ask if I can play next round. Jesse is still in the house with his ex, and Erin is with her boyfriend in the basement. I don’t want to go down there and disturb them. That is where people go to have sex. There is a little cubby whole down there, and sometimes people sneak in it for a quick fuck. As far as I know, no one has gotten caught doing it the two times I have been here. I have never used it, but thought about bringing Jesse down there for a quickie.
While I am playing horse, I notice my body doesn’t hurt at all. Ever since my 3rd day in jail, my body has been aching. I realize how much better I feel when I have methadone in me, and its not like I am super high, or anything. I just have a buzz. It’s like I am functioning at one hundred percent again.
After I notice this, I get mad. Mad at the fact that I can’t go back on methadone. At least not for 7months, when I am finally off of probation. I think about calling a lawyer, and asking if it is even legal for my PO to keep me from seeking treatment at the methadone clinic. I really want to call a lawyer, but my parents already spent two grand on a lawyer, when I first got into trouble. That lawyer is what kept me from possibly having to go to prison. Now that I fucked up the deal that lawyer made, I don’t want to cost my parents another two grand, just so I can get back on methadone.
My parent really want me to get clean. At least my dad does. Since my mom moved to Hawaii, a year ago, for a nursing job that was only suppose to last three months, I have not been talking with her too much. She was suppose to go down there to work, and help pay off the new house her and dad build on a lake in upper Michigan. Then after three months she was suppose to come home and they would be retired. Instead my mom turned into a lush and a whore.
One night, I am up in Michigan visiting my dad, while my mom is gone. The phone rings and it’s late at night, and my dad is already asleep, so I answer. Its my mom calling form Hawaii, there is a five hour time difference, so its not too late in Hawaii. She is drunk off her ass, and I can tell immediately she is doing something stupid. She says, “Anna, is that you?”
“Yes, mom its me.”
“Anna, is your dad awake?”
“No, mom it’s almost midnight here, I was just about asleep too. Mom I can tell your pissed up. Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing is wrong, I just wanted to tell you that I am in love.”
“What the fuck mom, are you fucking crazy, your married.”
“I know Anna, but your dad has always been so mean to me, down here I am realizing I don’t need him anymore.”
“Mom, how could you do this to dad, he just lost his youngest daughter and now your leaving. Your going to kill him if you do this.”
“Hey, I lost my youngest child too, don’t I have a right to have a life too. Anna, did you know your dad blames me for Angie’s death.”
“NO, mom he does not. He blames himself, and I blame myself. None of us have dealt with Angie’s death properly. Your just drunk, and not thinking right. You didn’t have sex with anyone, did you?”
“Actually Anna, yes I did.”
“What the fuck mom. What were you thinking? You weren’t thinking were you. “
“Anna, I am sorry, I did not mean to hurt anyone, but its my life”“Yes, it is your life, so why do you have to tell me your fucking someone else? Its not something your suppose to tell your kid. Especially you kid who is a drug addict.”
“I love you Anna, and nothing will change that. Don’t tell your father. I will tell him when I am ready. I have to go now, I love you and be good.”
Until that night I always thought I would not care if my parent were screwing around on each other, or even if they got a divorce. But after my mom told she was screwing around on my dad, I broke down. I was pissed off, sad, and scared. Just a few days before my mom gave me that call, me and dad were eating dinner, and I asked him what he would do if mom were to cheat on him. He said she never would do that, and he said that they have been married 25 years, and nothing could come between their love. Holy shit was he in for a shock.
I got that call form my mom in October, right before I went into rehab the first time. I did not say a word to my dad about it, the whole time I was in rehab, but after I got kicked out, and went to the methadone clinic I was fed up with my mom. I wanted her to come home and take care of me, and I didn’t want her to ever tell my dad what she did. So I called her one night right after I got kicked out or rehab, and asked her to come home for Christmas and stay home. She said no, and we got into a fight.
I ended up telling my dad about my moms infidelities right before Christmas. He was devastated. Ever since then my dad has been left to take care of me, all by himself.
So I don’t want to call my dad and ask him to hire another lawyer, just because I can’t make it through 30 days of treatment. He has been through enough. His youngest daughter, my little sister died three years ago in a car accident, his only living daughter is a heroin addict, in and out jail and rehab, and now his wife, the only stable part of his life, is cheating on him.
If I want to get out of here I’ll have to do it without a lawyer. I’m going to have to take a chance and either stay in this place, and possible get caught using drugs, or I can make a run for it and try to get to Hawaii, to live with my mom, and get back on methadone. My dad did say once that he would like it if I went down to Hawaii, and kept a eye on my mom. He figures if I was down there, she wouldn’t be able to drink like a fish, and fuck every bar fly she comes across. At the time he suggested I move to Hawaii to keep and eye on my mom I was just starting the methadone treatment, here in Green Bay and things were going good with my PO, so I did not want to move then, and go through the rigmarole of getting my probation transferred to Hawaii, and finding another methadone clinic in Hawaii. But now, if I can escape from this place without getting caught, and make it to Hawaii, I would keep a eye on my mom, and find a methadone clinic in Hawaii no problem. In my head I also think then maybe my parents would get back together and we will all live happily ever after. The whole problem with my being wanted in Wisconsin wouldn’t be a problem if I am in Hawaii. Wisconsin wouldn’t extradite me for a non felony, at least I don’t think they would.
Visiting hours are done, and everyone’s family and friends are gone. All of us dope fiends, are getting ready for bed, even though its only six in the evening. There is not much to do in rehab on a Sunday. We don’t to any AA meetings, so there is no reason to wear our going out clothes. Everyone puts on sweat pants and t-shirts. I go down to the living room to watch some TV, and Jesse is down there. He asks me, “would you go out to the smoke shack and have a cigarette with me?”
I say, “sure, let me just go up to my room and get a sweatshirt.”
I run up to my room, and put on a little make up, before I grab my sweater. I want to look good for him, without him knowing I am trying to look good for him. It’s a hard balance to keep, not too much makeup, but just enough so I look like I have milky smooth skin.
When I look just right I go downstairs, and make my way out to the smoke shack. I step into the shack, and he is already sitting down smoking, he motions for me to sit in the chair next to him. I feel very nervous. In my head I am wondering if he is going to try to kiss me, and now I wished I would have rinsed my mouth out before I came down here. I sit down next to him, and light my cigarette, and ask, “so what did you want to talk about?”
He says, “Well I just wanted to know if you think this place is working for you, or if you think you will use as soon as you get out?”
“Well do you want me to tell you the truth, or do you want to hear what I am suppose to say?”
“ I want the truth. You know I am here because of my PO too, and if I get kicked out I also go to jail.”
“The truth is Jesse, I don’t want to get out of here and go back to using street drugs, but I do want to go back on the methadone treatment. As you know my PO said that I can’t go back on the methadone as long as I am under his supervision. So truthfully I don’t know what I am going to do when I get out of here.” “Why do you care?”“Because Anna, I like you, but I don’t want to be with someone who is using.”
“Jesse I like you too, and I think I sort of made that pretty obvious, maybe too obvious. The rules say; there is to be no sexual relationships in treatment, and if they even suspect a sexual relationship we can get discharged.”
“Well we are not having a sexual relationship, and I am getting released in four days. After that we can see each other.”“Actually, if your on probation and I am on probation we are not allowed to be in a relationship until we are off of the probation. I really do like you, and I really want to fuck you, but I am not ready to be in a relationship right now, and I’m willing to bet your not ready either Jesse.”
“So when I get out, you still have two weeks left in here. How about on Sundays I pick you up for church? Then we can have sex.”
“Jesse, I am not sure I will even be here then. I could be in jail, or I might just take off. I can’t believe that I am saying this to you. I have wanted to fuck you since I first saw you, and now here I am telling you I won’t.”
“Your probably right Anna, we are not at the right point in our lives to be thinking about getting together. We should be focusing on staying clean. It’s just that I am really attracted to you, and I really want to be with you.”
“How about I give you my phone number, and we can keep in touch, maybe someday when we get everything sorted out in our lives we can be together. Jesse you have no idea how hard it is for me to do the right thing right now, because I really want to fuck.”
“Me too, me too.”
Jesse takes the piece of paper with my number on it, and snubs out his smoke, and goes back into the house. I stay out side and light up another smoke. I need to take time and process what just happened.
I just met Jesse two days ago, and already I had to sort of break it off with him. I know I am doing the right thing for me. I don’t need another man in my life, especially one with a coke addiction. The last thing I want is to start using that shit again. I sort of wish I could have gotten laid at least. If I had let that happen, I would have ended up falling in love or something and my life would be even more complicated than it already is. I reassure myself that I did the right thing, and I even feel proud of myself for not letting my loins make the decision for me.
I decide to go up to my room and lay down. When I get up there I notice that Erin’s stuff is gone. Then I see the note lying on my bed. It says, “Dear Anna, I really didn’t get to know you that well, but what I did know, I liked. I decided to leave with my boyfriend tonight. I did not tell anyone that I left, so when you get this note, you should bring down to the RA on duty, so they know you had nothing to do with my departure. Thank you, Erin.
I go down to the RA, and hand him the note. He tells me to go up to my room and take her sheets and bed spread off her bed, and put them in the washing machine. He goes into the office and makes some calls. I assume the thing that really makes the staff mad when someone takes off with out telling them is the fact that they will most likely not get paid by the insurance. I doubt they think its their fault that a alcoholic is on their way back to the bottle. If they had any real addict staff at this place I think they would take a loss of a client a little harder.
I do as I am told and strip her bed, and bring it all down to the wash. Alley comes out of her room and starts to ask me all kind of questions about Erin. I tell her I am too sad about her leaving to talk about it, but I am sure we will talk about it in issues group tomorrow. She gives me a hug and tells me not to let it affect my sobriety. Really I could care less that she left, I just don’t feel like talking to Alley about it.
Tonight I have the room all to myself. I set my alarm for six in the morning and pull out my true crime novel and read. But I am unable to read, so I turn out the lights, and grab a valium to help me sleep. Then I look out the window thinking about the days events, and reminding myself how thankful I am to be in such a comfortable bed, and able to look out a window and pass the time until I fall asleep.
The next morning is the same as every other morning in rehab. I get ready, I smoke, I eat, I smoke again, and I go into morning meditation. On this morning something is different I can feel it in my bones as soon as I walk into the group room for morning meditation. As we are all sitting listening to instrumental music and trying to relax, most people have their eyes closed. Not me, I like to look out the window to relax, and as I am looking out the window I notice two police cars pull into the parking lot. My heart sinks into my stomach. I know they are here for me. I figure they have found my stash of Valium, or it could be any number of things I have done since I’ve been in rehab. Jessie is sitting next to me, and I nudge him, to make him look out the window and see the police cars. He does, and he whispers, who do you think there here for, you or me? I shrug my shoulders. Deep down I know they are here for me. Just as that thought goes threw my head, I see my probation officer walking up the steps to the rehab house. Jessie sees him too. At the same time we say, “my probation officer is here, its me”. I look at him, confused, he looks at me the same way. It takes a second to register in both of our brains, that we have the same PO. There is 5 more minutes left of meditation, and we can’t leave until the exact time is up. If we were to leave earlier, we would face being discharged. Even though we know that one of us is on our way to jail, neither of us get up to leave. We don’t want to risk both of us going to jail this morning for something as stupid as leaving group early without permission.
Sitting in that room, for those five minutes was the most intense five minutes I have ever sat through. Finally its up, and we both run out of the room. I go and look out all the windows on the second floor, checking to see if there is anyway I would be able run from here, without getting caught. I notice that there is two police cars parked on both sides of the house to ensure whoever it is getting picked up does not try to run. When I see that I have no way out, I go to my room, and set my stuff on my bed and say a quick prayer, and head down the stairs. The entire walk down the stairs I’m thinking of how I’m going to get the cops gun away from him, and shoot myself in the head with it. I know I won’t be able to last 7 months in jail. I have to end it all right now, fast and painless.
I get to the bottom of the stairs, and I open the door to the first floor. First thing I see is my PO, I look at him, but he doesn’t seem notice me. Then I see the police officer taking out his handcuffs, he doesn’t seem notice me either. Finally I realize what’s happening, its Jessie who is going to jail, not me. I can’t believe it, I feel relived for a moment, but then the realization I probably will never see Jesse sets in and I am over come with sadness. What had Jessie done to get kicked out of rehab and put in jail? The only thing I can think of, was the other day when he was late for assignment group, and he was written up. I had no idea that was his third time being written up that day. How could the counselors do this to him, for being a couple seconds late to group!? Anger boils up in me like I have never felt before. How could this place be so merciless? He is suffering with an addiction, and he was in a place that is suppose to help him to overcome this addiction, but instead of helping him they are punishing him, and for something so fucking trivial.
My PO notices that I’m just standing there watching Jessie being hauled away, and he tells me to go back to where I’m suppose to be. I can feel my face redden with anger, I want to lash out at him. I can feel the hairs on my neck stand up, but I do nothing. I just walk away, and go out the back door to the smoke shack. I don’t speak to anyone, I just light my cigarette and cry. I am so thankful that it wasn’t me being taken off to jail. Although after seeing what just happened to Jessie I’m even more fearful that my turn is next. If he can be kicked out for such a meaningless offence there is no way I will make 25 more days in this place, and not go back to jail. I know right then and there I have to escape from this place, and make my way up to Michigan by my dad.
The rest of the day goes by slowly, in issues group that morning we had to “process” Jessie’s arrest. I should have received an Emmy for my performance in that group. I fed the counselors with all the bullshit they wanted to hear me say. Like, how I understand that Jessie didn’t follow the rules, and that he needed to go to jail to learn that in life there are rules. All the while I’m saying these things, I’m thinking of how I am going to make my escape.
That night, at our AA meeting, I call Pete and tell him that I’m for sure breaking out of rehab, and going up to Michigan. I tell him not tonight, but tomorrow after lights out, he should meet me at the Village inn motel across the street from the rehab.
After the AA meeting, we all go back to the house, and get ready for bed. I go up to my room, and begin to write a letter to Jessie. I say nothing of my plan to escape, knowing I have to send this letter to the jail, and all the mail in jail is read by guards before the inmate gets it. In the letter I tell him to keep his hopes up, that he will be out soon enough, and when he is out I will be waiting to see him again. I send him my phone number again, because I’m sure when the counselors pack his room they wont give him the piece of paper with my number on it I had given him earlier.
For the rest of the night I plan my escape down to every last detail. I am not going to tell my dad that I’m coming. The less everyone knows what I’m going to do the better. I’m not going to pack all my belongings I have here in rehab, I will just take the essentials, the rest they can throw away. I sit in my bed going over ever detail I can think of, and trying not to think about what will happen if something goes wrong. Before I know it, its two in the morning and I am wide awake. I get up and go under my bed where I have the Valium hidden. I take four out and eat them. Right now I just need to be out of it for a little while. Within a half hour I’m sound asleep.
The next morning, its business as usual. No Jessie, no fun, and no changes being made in my life. I have no desire to stay in rehab or get clean. I don’t even bother to shower or change my clothes today. I’m a mess. I am terrified that at any moment the police and my probation officer will be at the door to take me back to jail. I still plan on escaping, but in the light of day my plan doesn’t seem so promising. At least I know I can always count on Pete. Him and Eleanor are the only things that are keeping me going today.
We do our routine, groups and more groups. Each group I’m in today I am questioned about what’s wrong. I look at them and say, “oh nothing, I’m just having a bad day”. I’m not even so sure what is wrong. Sure I have the threat of jail looming over my every second, and the thoughts of killing myself rolling over and over in my head, but I have those all the time. Today isn’t much different. Today there is no Jessie, there is no life. I feel like I’m not apart of anything, not even my family. I miss my parents so much, and my mom is almost on the other side of the Earth. I want my parents to get back together. If I could just make it to Hawaii, and give my mom a good shaking, show her how she is fucking up not only her life the lives of all those she loves most, maybe then mom and dad will live and love together.
I go out for smoke, and Ally comes up to me. The last thing I want to do is talk to her today. She starts going on and on about the AA meeting tonight. She is saying something about being attracted to a guy at this particular meeting. I am smoking my cigarette trying to stay calm while I listen to her go on and on. For some reason though I just can’t. Ally represents everything I hate about rehab. She thinks this place is some sort of magic answer to her drug problem. She has this illusion that as soon as she is out of rehab, her life will be the most amazing productive life anyone has ever led. I have seen her type before. Last time I was in rehab. She has what is called, a rehab high. When the idea of staying clean seems so easy because your in a “safe place” where the outside world can’t tempt you with its feminine wiles. Everyone I’ve seen who has had this rehab high, has crashed, and gone right back to the drug.
I can feel my legs getting stiff, I can feel myself get up, but I don’t realize what I’m about to do. I stand up, and scream, “shut the fuck up, your a junky, you will always be a junky, your no different from anyone of us. We all have the same slim odds of actually staying clean outside of this place.”
After I say it, I immediately feel bad, and apologize. I tell her. I tell her that I’m just having a rough time today, and I didn’t mean a single word I just said. I do mean it, but I take it back anyway. I don’t want to get kicked out for saying I don’t think Ally will stay clean. Ally doesn’t seem too shook up about my outburst, as soon as I’m done apologizing she is right back to her motor mouthing about this guy in AA. I run into the house as fast as I can, and up the stairs to my room. I pick up my phone and call Pete. Its 3pm, and tonight is the big night. I am blowing this joint.
Pete answers the phone, and he sounds out of breath. I ask, “what were you doing, jacking off?”
He says, “no, Anna, but thanks for asking.”
I go on to say, “ Well Pete, tonight’s the night. Are you ready?”
“Yup, I sure am, are you?”
I say, “I don’t know, I just blew up outside at one of the other house guests. I can’t get my mind off the fact that I could end up in jail for 7 months at any moment, and I have no idea how I’m going to get out of this damn place without being noticed.”
Pete says, “Anna, calm the fuck down, I will be there no matter what happens. I love you. I will be waiting for you at 11pm in the Village Inn parking lot. We can do this.”
This makes me feel a little better, He says, “ I think you should take a few of your Valium, and just relax. You can’t let people know your up to anything.”
“Your right Pete, I will take a few Valium, and go to this AA meeting like I normally would. I will act as normal as I can without seeming suspicious. I got go now, I will see you in a few hours. I love you too. Thank you Pete for doing this for me. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
He says, “ I don’t know what you would do without me either, but your going to have to figure that our pretty soon because I’m moving to Florida for sure.”
I say, “I can’t talk about that right now, but whatever, I love you and bye.”
Bye Anna, and don’t worry, it will happen how its suppose to happen.”
I get off the phone and immediately take three valium as Pete suggested. Then I sit and read threw the Journals of Kurt Cobain until its time to go to AA.
After those Valium kicked in the afternoon went by fast. Before I know it, its 10pm and everyone is getting ready for bed. The RA that’s on tonight is the old lady, with bad hearing. I lucked out so far. I don’t have a room mate, so I just might get out of here undetected. I go about my business as if I too am just getting ready for bed as I do every night in here.
I think about Jessie for a minute, and it seems like such a long time ago that he was in here with me. Its only been one full day, but it seems like eons ago. I still haven’t been able to process his leaving properly. I think to myself, as soon as I’m out of this place I will make sure to write him a letter in jail. I can’t put my name on it, but he will figure out its from me. Hopefully.
At 11pm I throw as much shit as I can into one duffel bag. I have to leave a few items behind, the most missed will be the Journals of Kurt Cobain, but I don’t have time to think about it. I pack fast and hard. I get as much as I can in. I am finished at 11:11pm. I make a wish on the clock. I can’t say or it won’t come true. I think you can guess it. 11pm was lights out, so all the lights are out. I walk as quietly as I can down the hallway. The RA is down stairs on the first floor in the office. I just have to make it down a half flight of stairs in the house, and out the fire escape, and across the parking lot and road and I’m free.
I make it outside to the fire escape, I shut the door behind me. I cringe as I shut it, because its loud. As soon as the door is shut, I take off down the stairs like a bat out of hell. The only thought I have is run. I run as fast as my feet will allow. I make it to the road. I don’t see Pete’s car. I panic, I run across the road, and keep looking back to see if anyone is looking for me. I see a cop drive by, and I duck into the lobby of the Village Inn. I ask how much a room is, to make it seem like I have a reason to be in there, aside from running away from rehab. I don’t pay attention to the answer. I just look for Pete, I pull out my phone and call him. He answers on the fourth ring, just as I’m about to hand up.
I say, “where the fuck are you? Your suppose to be here. I am here, and your not. Are you coming?
Pete says,” Sorry, I fell asleep, I am on my way right now.”
I say, “ hurry up, and I hang up.”
Pete lives about 8 minutes away. Each second I wait for him, I get more and more nervous. By the time he pulls up I’m in a full blown panic attack. I see his car and I run out of the lobby, and into his car.
I say, “Thank God, drive.”
He says, “There is a problem, I don’t have enough gas to take you all the way to Michigan, and I don’t have any money.”
I say, Shit.
I call my dad, and tell him that I skipped out of rehab. He was asleep when I called. I don’t have time to tell him the whole story right now, I tell him what he needs to know. I ask him if he will call my aunt Debbie and ask if I can sleep there until he can pick me up in the morning. He says, “why don’t you call her?’
“Because dad, its almost midnight, and I would give her a heart attack.”
Then I decide against going to Debbie’s she might be mad at me for skipping out, and try to call them to take me back. It would be good intentions on her part, but I would end up in jail. I can’t think of anyone else. I can’t stay at Pete’s because my that’s the first place my probation officer would look for me. Then the idea pops in to my head. My Grandma Grace. I rarely see my grandma. We are not very close with my mom’s side of the family. I call her, and tell her that I was kicked out of rehab in the middle of the night, and I have no place else to go. I can tell she is surprised and worried. I just woke my 80 year old grandma who just lost her husband in the middle of the night and asked her if I can hide out at her place until my dad gets me in the morning.
She says yes. I knew she would. I really didn’t want to have to go there, she is my last resort. No one would ever think I would go there. Not even my dad. I have to call him and tell him that’s where I will be when he picks me up.
My grandma lives in Spruce, which is about 50 miles north of the Rehab. Its two counties away, which is good. Pete has just enough gas to get me there, and get himself home. After I know for sure that I have a place to stay for the night that is semi safe, and I know my dad will be there as soon as he can, I feel a little bit better. Still, every cop we pass on the way to my Grandma’s house my heart jumps into my throat. I keep telling Pete, “make sure your not speeding, that’s the last thing I need right now.” He does 55 all the way there. Even on the freeway where the speed limit is 65.
I had been so worried I hadn’t even noticed Eleanor in the car. I have my baby back. We will be sleeping together at my grandmas house tonight. By tomorrow I will be in Michigan with my dad. I will have an unlimited supply of morphine, as long as I can find it. I know he will be watching me closely so I have to be sneaky when I look for it.
Pete pulls in my grandmas driveway. I look at him, and he looks at me. Then in the most sincere voice I ever herd Pete use, he says, “Anna I love you. Call me when your settled”. I tell him I love him, and then I grab my bag, and Eleanor, and get out. I walk up to the door. All the lights are on in the house. Grandma is up. Its 12:30am, and her outlaw grand daughter is coming to hide out.
I knock, and she comes to the door. Pete pulls out of the driveway when he sees me go inside. I wave and blow a kiss. I walk inside, and immediately I feel uncomfortable. What am I going to say? How am I going to explain this? Thank God for Eleanor. I have to take her outside to go to the bathroom. I use this as an excuse to not have to tell her the whole story.
I take Eleanor out, and I then I sit with Grandma. She doesn’t ask too much. She just asks about my mom. She has been worried about my her. She has herd about the split with my dad. My mom doesn’t talk to grandma very often. I’m not sure why that is, but I think its because my grandma is a quiet person. I answer grandma’s questions, and she tells me she has herd about my problems too, and that she has been very worried about me. I feel so bad. How could I do this to my sweet grandma. I love her, and have always wished we had a closer relationship. The whole while I’m talking with grandma I keep hating myself more and more for dragging her into this. I leave out the fact that I’m wanted by the police, and I could possibly be picked by the cops at any moment and brought to jail. If that happened in front of her, it would kill her. I have to be careful. I ask grandma if I can use her phone. My dad told me to call him, as soon as I got into grandma’s house. He wants to make sure I’m safe. He is still digesting all this. I call, and he says he should be there by noon tomorrow. He is going to go back to bed, and he will leave in the early morning. it’s a four hour drive, so he should sleep.
After I get off the phone with my dad, Grandma says she is tired, and is going to bed. I say goodnight. I take Eleanor and go upstairs to my moms old room. When me and my sister slept when we were little. We used to be so very scared of the upstairs. My mom used to tell us it was haunted. Tonight though, I could care less if its haunted up there. I’m just glad to be out of rehab. As soon as I lay my head down me and Eleanor are asleep. The next morning I wake early. There is no clock, I can only tell its early by the sky. Pink and blue, and white. I go to look out the bedroom window, to think thru what went on last night, what my future may hold.
I can hear my grandma rustling down stairs, putting on coffee. Ever since I can remember my grandma’s gotten up early. I don’t want to go down there, and face her, I don’t want to go down to reality yet. I want to stay up here in my mothers childhood bedroom, and make believe that my sister is still alive, and that my parents are sleeping in the other room because we are all visiting Grandma for a vacation. Eleanor, lays on my lap, and suddenly I’m brought back to reality. I’m a fugitive, and I’ve brought my unwitting grandmother into the situation. I begin to cry. I love my dog so much, and without her I would have ended this life of mine long ago, with just one bullet to my drug addled brain.
I know Eleanor has to go outside to go potty, so I take her. I slide out the door, before my grandma could notice I was even downstairs. My grandma lives in the country. There is pond in the front yard, with a sun house next to it. There drive way is long, and wide. The house is brick, and looks exactly as I remember it from childhood. Even the smell, its early spring, and it’s a warm day. The odor of the ground thawing is overwhelming. I watch as Eleanor goes over to the back yard, near the path to the woods, to go potty. I follow her over there, as she smells, and runs.
I want to be lost in my head. Every time I’ve been put in mental hospitals for suicidal behavior, I’ve always used my grandmas house as my mental escape. Its beautiful here. Its quiet, and private. Good memories everywhere I look. Mostly memories of my sister and I as children. Playing house in the woods, by the stream. Jumping over the stream and missing the landing, and walking back to the house soaking wet from falling into the stream. Grandma scolding us, but making hot chocolate, and giving us warm towels to dry us off. Grandpa always outside fixing something. Always when I escape into my head to my grandmas house, the song “Strawberry Fields” by the Beatles is playing. For whatever reason I associate that song with happiness.
I know I have to go into the house and explain to my grandmother what’s going on. How can I do with this without my helper heroin. I take Eleanor inside, and grandma has made up some meat for Eleanor for breakfast. She has coffee and penutbutter toast made for me.
She says,” I thought you’d sleep in today, after the night you had last night”.
I say, “oh no, I can’t sleep in anymore, in rehab we had to be up at 6am, and well now its just second nature to me”.
She looks at me concern in her eyes, and I can tell I need to tell something, but I can’t possible tell her the truth. It would break her fragile heart. Her grand daughter, is a drug addict who just snuck of rehab and is now wanted by the police because of it. No, no way I can tell the truth.
Instead, “I tell her, Last night I left my light on past 11pm and since it was my third strike I was kicked out“.
She asks, “So what are your plans now”?
I explain, “well, my dad said he’d be here around noon to pick me up, and I’m going to go stay by him for a while, until I can get a ticket to Hawaii to stay with my mom, and get away from the drugs”.
She says, “Well, I hope it all works out, but I have to run into town and get some face cream, and groceries, would you mind coming with me, and we’ll have lunch at the diner, and I’ll have you back before noon.”
“That sounds like a great morning grandma, I’ll just go and get dressed and we can be on our way”.
I go back upstairs, I rummage thru the one duffel bag I took in my rehab breakout, to find something to wear. This is when I realize how much I accurately left behind. I only have like ten things in this duffel bag, and I had about 30 things at rehab. I don’t mind, its just stuff, if I would have taken the time to pack all of it, I wouldn’t get to see it or use anyway, because I’d be in jail.
I find a suitable outfit, and me and Eleanor go downstairs. I put Eleanor in her bag, and we are off to town.
While in town, my hometown, we drive past everything that seems like home to me. There’s the beach, there’s the bank, and the gas station. I want to ask her to drive past our old house, the one we lived in before Angie died, but I don’t. Grandma runs her errands, and I sit around and watch, playing with Eleanor, just happy to be free.
When we get back we have a half hour before my dad gets there. I remember that my grandma had breast cancer, and she had surgery for it. Which mean she probably has pain pills. I remember where grandma keeps her pills. So when grandma goes to use the bathroom, I go into the kitchen and look in the cupboard, and sure enough a bottle of Percocets. I take a handful, and eat two then and there, put the rest in my pocket.
I know as soon as I leave my grandma will check her cupboard where she keeps her pills, and find that I took some of her pain pills, and she will be disappointed, but she will never call me out or tell anyone.
Ten minutes after I take the two Pecocets, I begin to feel a lot better. Actually I feel much less depressed. I strike up a conversation with my grandma, whom is one of the quietest people I know. I ask about our ancestry, and about Ireland. She answers me best she can, and suddenly my dad pulls in the drive way.
My dad won’t come into my grandmas house, because since the split between my parents my dad doesn’t like my grandma, so I had my stuff already downstairs and ready to go. I just grab up Eleanor, and give grandma a hug bye, and say thank you, and I love you, and I’m off.
With the Pecocets running thru my blood steam I’m comfortable for the first time in over a month. Sure I used in rehab, but I was always nervous I’d be found out, and hauled off to jail. This time I can just relax and let the effects of euphoria take over.
I jump in the jeep, and say, “hello to dad”. Right away, even before we’ve pulled out of the driveway, I’m spilling my guts to him, about why I’m not in rehab. , telling him half truths. Leaving out the parts that make me look like I’m still a full blown addict. I’ve hurt my dad in so many ways, I can only tell him cretin parts of why I left rehab, and risked going back to jail for 7 months. I can’t tell him that I want to stay on opiates for the rest of my life. That the only peace I find comes from a poppy plant.
It feels so good to see my fathers face, and smell his smell. Eleanor is jumping all over him, licking his face. She loves my dad just as much as she loves me. Ever since I’ve been stealing my dads Morphine, and bringing Elle up to Michigan with me, she has fallen in love with my dad. My dad loves her back just as much. I have the Percocets with me, and knowing those pills are in my pocket gives me a feeling of confidence and security. We have a 4 and a half hour drive ahead of us, but I’m on my way to freedom, and 4 hours doesn’t seem like long to wait, when I’ve been waiting for a month or so.
The first halves of the drive up to Michigan we talk non stop, filling each other in on what is new in our lives. The last half of the drive we sit comfortably silent. I can tell he is just relived to have me with him, so he can protect me. He won’t have to worry about getting that knock on the door, the knock on the door he’s already been thru.
We stop at a gas station on the way up, I ask dad to get me water, and I go into the bathroom. I take out the rest of the Percocets I took from my grandma, there is four left. I get greedy and take all of them. I want to take all the anxiety, pain, and fear I have from being on the run away. I know my dad has his Morphine at home in Michigan. I’m sure he hid it, but I always find it. He used to put it in a safe, but I figured out the combination. We are only an hour away from home now; these four pills should tie me over until I can find his stash.
When I get back out to the truck, my dad says, “Your phone rang, while you were in the bathroom“.
I ask, “Did you answer it?”
He says, “No, should I have?”
“Absolutely not”, I say.
I look at my caller ID, and it says private caller. I know exactly who that is. Nobody else I know uses private caller when calling besides him. My probation officer. Its almost 3pm, I’ve been gone from the Jackie Nitchke center rehab program for 11 or so hours know, and he’s just now trying to get in touch with me. I figure this means that the staff at the rehab didn’t notice I was gone until morning group. I wonder if my probation officer thinks I’m stupid enough to answer a private number. I wonder if he thinks I’m stupid enough to stay in the state. He knows both my parents live out of the state, so he’s probably smart enough to realize that I’m long gone by now. He can’t put out a felony warrant against me, because my lawyer made sure I pled out to a misdemeanor possession. This means he can’t cross state lines to find me. Even so, Michigan isn’t far enough away from Wisconsin. I have to get down to Hawaii.
Then I remember I don’t have an ID. My probation officer kept it until I was done with rehab. I can’t get a plane ticket without an ID. I’m going to have to go to the DMV in Michigan and get a Michigan ID. That’s going to take time; I have to send in my birth certificate, and then wait up to two weeks before I can get my official Michigan ID card, which I need to book my flight.
I have so much running thru my mind. Not even the four Percocets I took are keeping me from spinning around in my head. My biggest fear is going back to jail. My mind isn’t strong enough to spend 7 months in a County jail.
After 4 hours, we pull into the driveway of my parent’s log cabin home. They just built this place less than two years ago. IIt is a huge and right on the shore of Lake Gogebic. My dad retired early from his job at Georgia Pacific Paper Mill, due to a sever back injury he received during hand to hand combat in the military. His back was broken. Now he gets 100% disability from the veterans, and social security.
Oh yes, and today is my dads 50th birthday. It’s probably his worst birthday in his entire 50 years. His daughter just escaped a rehab and is addicted to Heroin and opiate pills. His wife of 25 years is living in Hawaii, fooling around on him. His other daughter is dead. Since I’ve been gone, and my mom has been gone, my dad lives in this huge log cabin all by himself. The cabin is so big, and there is so many windows over looking the lake, that house is hard to heat. They have some kind of under the floor heating, but after they lay down the hard wood flooring the floor heating didn’t work so well, so he mostly uses the fire place, and space heaters. The lake my dad cabin is on is very remote. Not many people live there year round. There is a bar up the road a mile or two. In the winter the bar is full of mostly tourist, up in the North woods for snowmobiling, once the snow melts though, there is no-one around for miles.
To keep my dad company up there in the woods, he has two dogs. Both the dogs used to be mine. They are both mutts. Shawnee I got when I was in 8th grade, and Shasta I got when I was 18, and living with my high school sweet heart. He also has two Horses that he loves dearly. They are pulling horses.
I remember when I and Angie were still in middle school. Every summer just before school started there was the Gillett Fair, and every year at the Gillett fair there was the horse pulls. Every year he would take me and my sister. I remember feeling bad for those horses being made to pull all that weight. Still I went every year because it made my father happy. Ever since Angie died, we haven’t gone to watch the horse pulls at the Gillett fair. In fact ever since Angie died, my parents rarely go back to our home town. They sold the house we grew up in. Said they couldn’t bear to live in the home Angie was raised in. The city she was raised. Too many reminders of Angie, and her tragic death everywhere they looked. Also my dad blamed the Oconto Falls paramedics for my sister’s death. We all had to find someone, or something to blame it on.
I blamed it on myself. If only I had stayed home that night, instead of driving up to Michigan to steal some of my dads pills. Angie and I were supposed to drive up to see my parents the next day, but I had to go that day, because I wanted to get my hands on those pills. At that point I don’t think I realized I was hooked.
IF only I would have stayed home, she wouldn’t have had the party at the house, and she never would have driven drunk down County Road I. I could have saved her. After Angie died, and my parents had used up my dads retirement fund from Georgia Pacific to build this beautiful log cabin. My parents dream home. That cabin broke them, money was short, and my mom needed to go back to work to make ends meet.
Then my mom went to Hawaii as a traveling nurse, to make some extra money to help pay the mortgage. Instead she started drinking ever night, and sleeping around with men from the bar she frequented. So my dad was left to deal with me. , his only living child. The child, that is slowly killing herself as he stands by and watches. Helpless do anything. I can tell I’m killing him little by little with my addiction.
What I can’t understand, is my dad has a valid reason to get fucked up everyday on pain pills. He has every reason in the world to get high off those pills, but he doesn’t. He only takes them when he needs them. So he always has lots of pills. The doctor over prescribed, and he had so many pills he never noticed if I’d take 50 or 60 of them at one time.
When we walk in the house, we are greeted by Shawnee and Shasta. Eleanor clings to me. She doesn’t like big dogs. She’s been up here before with Shawnee and Shasta, and it always takes a day or two before she is comfortable with them. I carry her around with me. My dad lights a fire right away. Its already 5pm, and just getting dark. It’s cold in this big house especially at night.
My bed room is upstairs. it’s a huge loft, half the size of the house. On one side of the loft is Angie’s old bedroom set, and on the other side is my bedroom set. In the middle of the loft there is a couch. When you sit on that couch, you look straight out a giant picture window, overlooking the lake. Its beautiful to watch the sun go down up in this loft bedroom.
As soon as I have all my shit in the house, and have Eleanor settled down, I begin to think of where I should start to look for my dads stash of Morphine. They are probably in his room. Me and dad sit down to watch TV, but the entire time we are in the living room, instead of watching the show, I’m contemplating on how I’m going to get my hands on enough morphine to keep balanced, until I can make it to Hawaii, and get back on Methadone treatment.
My dad stands up and goes into the bathroom, I’m hoping this is my moment. I hope he has to take a shit. As soon as he shuts the door to the bathroom I jump up and run into his room on my tip toes. There they are. Huge bottles of Morphine. All I can find is the 15mg bottles. I want the 30mg, but beggars can’t be choosers. So as fast as I can I open the bottle, and pour out a handful of pills. I have no place to hide them, so I have my fist clenched. I hear my dad flush. I have to hurry. I hear the door open, and as he walks out of the bathroom, he sees me running out of his room. Right away he asks, “what’s in your hands”?
I say, “nothing”, scared shitless.
I can see his face contort the way it does when he is really fucking pissed off. He tears my hands open and a bunch of blue pills fall all over the floors. I bend down to pick them up, so the dogs doesn’t get to them. I hear my dad screaming at me.
He screams, “you worthless piece of shit, you can’t even go one fucking day without putting that shit in your veins”.
By now I’m crying, and saying, “sorry dad, I’m so sorry dad, I know I’m worthless.”
Then he says, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. You need to be in that rehab. I’m calling the police and telling them where you are.”
I scream, No dad, they’re not going to put me back in rehab they are going to put me back in jail. Please dad, don’t call the cops”.
I pick up all the pills I see and hand them over to my dad, he tears them out of my hands, and storms off into his room with the phone.
I had managed to keep three 15mg Morphine pills without him noticing. I go up to the loft, and pull out my works. I always have a works kit stuffed someplace no-one would ever look in my room. As fast as I can, I cook up those three Morphine pills, and put them in my syringe, and inject them. I feel the initial high. It feels good. Then I lay down and listen to my dad on the phone. He’s talking about cops to someone.
Now that I have the opiates in my bloodstream, I have calmed down. I know what I have to do. I bring Eleanor up in the bed with me. I grab a pen and paper. I go down stairs, and grab a bottle of 500 Aspirin 325mgs, in the fridge I find a bottle of wine. I go back up stairs, and begin taking handful after handful of the Aspirin, swallowing them down with my wine chaser. As I write the note, I am calm. I feel like I can finally think clearly. I know this is what I need to do. I can’t put my father thru this shit anymore. I am worthless, junky, whore. I can’t live without opiates, or really I don’t want to live without opiates. I can’t go back to jail. I can’t. I write out three different notes. One to my dad, one to my mom, and one to Peter.
By the time I was done writing the notes, I had taken the entire bottle of aspirin. Its been a hour, and my dad comes up to see if I am high. I just lay there in my bed, with Eleanor, and don’t say a word to him. He can read it all when I’m gone, but he keeps prodding me about how I’m doing. I just tell him, I’m sorry, and that I’m tired from the past two days events. I just want to sleep. He goes back down to his room. I didn’t even bother to ask if he really did call the police on me. I just laid down, petted Eleanor, and kept telling her I’m sorry, but my dad can take better care of you than I can. I cried to Eleanor until I fell asleep.
The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital. Everything floods back, and remember why I’m here. I’m irate. I wanted to die. I want to be dead, why am I alive. I call the nurse and tell her I’m sore, and I need something take the pain away. She gives me some IV Demerol. I ask her what happened, and where is my dad. She says to me, “wait a minutes, I’ll go get the doctor and he can tell you.” Then I notice that there is some women sitting in my room. I ask her why she is in my room, and she answers back, “to make sure you don’t try to kill yourself again.”
A hour passes, and finally the doctor comes in my room. My ears are ringing, and I’m too weak to stand. The doctor starts to tell me that I was found by my father unresponsive in my bed. He called 911, and by the time we got there you no longer had a pulse. The EMTs administered CPR and got a pulse. You were airlifted by helicopter to Marquette Michigan hospital. When you got here, your kidneys were failing, and your heart was beating erratically. We had to give you dialysis to get the aspirin out of your body, and try to stabilize you.
I asked, “where is my dad”? He is still in Iron Wood Michigan. I began to cry, at the thought of my dad finding me almost lifeless, waiting for an ambulance to come get me. All of this on his 50th birthday. Just thinking about how selfish I had been and am, made me want to die even more.
The doctor then gives me some papers to sign for more dialysis treatments. I refuse to. He informs me that if I don’t get my blood cleared of all the aspirin in it, I will die. I said good, and threw the papers on the floor as hard as I could, but I was so weak, I couldn’t even pick up my arm so I had to push them off my bed. I told the doctor to fuck off and let me die. After I said that, the doctor put something into my IV, and it made fall asleep. A few hours later I wake up and I’m hooked up to a dialysis machine. I later found out that I was deemed to depressed and not in my right mind at the time, and therefore the doctors were able to give me the treatment I needed to stay alive.
I was in the ICU for 4 days. Both my mom and dad called, but I was too weak to talk. I just slept. Finally the ringing in my ears stopped. When I told the nurse this she told me that it was a good sign. Aspirin in large doses makes your ears ring, and that meant that the Aspirin was out of my blood steam. I had blood taken ever three or four hours when I was in ICU, so I never got a restful sleep.
On the 5th day I was moved to a different part of the hospital, until physiologist came down to see me. Everyday I was in that hospital, the doctor would come in and ask, “do you feel like killing yourself right now, and do you have a plan.”
I always answer, “doesn’t everyone think about killing themselves at some point or another? Yes, I have a plan to kill myself, but no I’m not going to act on it anytime soon.”
On my sixth day I was transferred from the regular hospital to mental ward. Everyday my dad called, and my mom called once or twice. I didn’t have insurance, so they could only hold me for 72 hours. I had been diagnosed bi polar three years earlier, but I didn’t mention that to the physiologist doctors. I figured they would come up something totally different. I never admitted to being an addict. Which was hard because I had track marks up and down my arms. I just blamed them on the doctors while I was in ICU. While in the physiologist ward, I called the methadone clinics in Hawaii, on the island of Oahu, where my mom lived. I got their phone numbers and addresses. I told my dad on the phone that as soon as I got out of here, we were going to get my Michigan ID, and then buy a plane ticket from Minnesota to Hawaii. He agreed. At this point I hated my mother. Mainly for leaving my father alone in the middle of nowhere, with one daughter dead only 3 years, and the other daughter in the midst of a drug addiction, and suicide attempt. I really do doubt that if I had died my mom would not have came home for the funeral. Now, I was going to live with her.
After my 72 hour hold was up, my dad drove the 3 hours across upper Michigan to pick me up. He brought Eleanor. When he picked me up, we acted as if nothing had happened. All I said was I’m sorry dad. We haven’t spoken about it since. Still every time I think about my dad, I think about how, he found his father dead of a suicide in our garage, and he found his only living daughter almost dead in her bed upstairs in the loft.
I didn’t get sent home with any good drugs. Not even Valium. I did have an appointment with a doctor in Ironwood the next day, for x-rays of my kidneys. My dad drove me to that appointment, to make sure I didn’t get any drugs. The mistake my dad made was waiting in the waiting room for me. I gave the doctor my usual speal of HIV, and pain, and he wrote me out a script to Methadone 60mgs a day, and a script to Valium 5mgs twice daily. I knew I couldn’t get these scripts filled with my dad around, so I went to the hospital pharmacy and filled them, and charged it to my hospital bill.
It had been over a month now since I had used methadone. My tolerance was low. All I need was 30mgs of Methadone, and 10mgs of Valium and I was as I high as I ever was injecting dilauded. Plus I had enough Methadone and Valium to last me until I flew to Hawaii. In my Michigan state ID, you can tell that I’m stoned, and just woke up out of a nod. I still have that ID