My Story - Part 7

February, 1995

Eighteen months after nearly I nearly died, staying clean had still not become any easier. Every day was a struggle - fighting off panic attacks; struggling to sleep; waking up, reeling from nightmares. I was moody and irritable, and often aggressive. Nothing could fill the emptiness. The Suboxone only partially managed my cravings, and I made those around me pay the price.

I was physically clean, but nothing in my life had changed. I was as addicted as I had ever been and having re-immersed myself in the world of drugs by working for the dealer, the writing was on the wall. One unremarkable day I ran out of resolve and out of hope. I shot up, knowing, even as I was drawing the cloudy liquid into the syringe, that I would regret it later.

My life quickly spiraled even further out of control from there. Soon, my money wasn't enough any more and I started stealing from my brother and his girlfriend. When I got caught, the look to disappointment and despair in my brother's face was enough to make me pack my backpack and leave the house.

Once again, I was out on the streets, living in dumps, drug-dens and bus shelters. I did not even call Louise, I knew she wouldn't want to see me. I left her to hear about my relapse from my brother.

When I walked out of my brother's house that day, I accepted that I would never be anything other than a junkie. I believed that I had tried my best, and still failed. I had lost all hope of ever being able to live without drugs. I was committed to dying on a cold, unfeeling pavement somewhere - just another nameless junkie.

May 19, 1995

I was standing on a street corner, waiting for a buyer who were supposed to meet me there when the cop approached me. Seeing the blue cap, I started walking. As I approached the next corner, another cop came around it. I crossed the street. Suddenly, both cops were running towards me, boxing me in. In a panic, I tried to get rid of the drugs in my pocked, but only succeeding in confirming their suspicions. Minutes later, I was cuffed and on my way to the nearest police station.

I was charged with drug possession, as well as trafficking. I was allowed to call my brother, but having been arrested on a Friday night, I had to wait until Monday to apply for bail. However, while in the past I had used mainly heroin, this time I was detoxing off an insane cocktail of drugs, including Benzodiazepine - one of the few drugs with acute withdrawal symptoms that can be fatal. I started convulsing, and had to be admitted to hospital and medicated before I had time to appear in court. The hospital put me through a dizzyingly fast detox, only medicating me enough to prevent seizures.

Those two weeks was an eternity of pure hell.

When I was finally able to stand on my feet again, I was given bail and sent home to stay with my brother while awaiting trial.

When my brother's girlfriend heard that I was moving back in with them, she took their baby boy and moved in with her parents. She refused to allow her baby to grow up in the same house as a violent drug addict.

June 5, 1995

I arrived at my brother's house in a deeper depression than I had ever experienced before. I have a memory of sitting outside under a tree, pondering my life. I realized that I had a few choices:

1. I could go back to doing heroin and be the addict brother until the drugs finally killed me. I looked up at the sky, accepting that this choice would place an unbearable burden on those who cared about me, and would spend weeks, months, perhaps even years worrying about me before I would die.
2. I could get clean, stay clean, a live the life everyone wanted me to live. I could feel my chest constricting with fear when I thought about life without heroin. I couldn't!
3. I could put all of us out of our misery and just die, as soon as possible.

Option 3 seemed to be the only feasible solution. There was only one problem with option 3 - my twin's uncanny ability to sense when my life was in danger, and rush to save me. Cutting my wrists again would probably fail again. I had to find a way that was quick and definite. An OD, while certainly attractive, would be much too slow. I considered jumping off a high bridge or building, or driving a car into something, but I didn't have a car and I was afraid that a fall would leave me mutilated but alive. I finally settled on shooting myself, and started plotting how I would get my hands on a gun.

While I was sitting there, staring at nothing in particular, a little gecko made its way up the wall next to me, showing off a tiny stump where its tail should be. It sat there, looking defiantly back at me as if asking well? What do you think about that?

A thought occurred to me: why on earth would he sacrifice his tail, merely to stay alive? What would make a little gecko think that life was not only worth living, but also worth sacrificing a significant part of yourself for?

Another question occurred to me: How could there be millions and millions of people who enjoy life? What IS it about life that is so attractive to other people?

From there, it was a short step to my third and forth questions:

• Could I, perhaps, also find something, somewhere that would make life worth living? and,
• Should I not maybe give it a go, try one more time, before I completely give up?

To this day, I credit that courageous little stump-tailed gecko with saving my life.

June 23, 1995

A new idea had been forming in my head. If I could somehow stay away from drugs long enough to make some sense of the chaos in my head, I might have a shot. But I would only have one shot. I could not survive on drugs for much longer. And I had no faith in my ability to stay away from drugs. I needed help with that.

I was facing jail time - could this be my last chance?

When I saw my lawyer again, I asked him how long he thought I would have to do. He told me 6 months if we're lucky, or up to 3-5 years. Standing in front of the window with my back to the room, I told him 6 months is not enough. I need to do more time than that. Confused, he asked me what I meant.

Scared that I'd run out of courage before I could complete my explanation, I rushed my words and paced around the room as I told him that I had to be physically prevented from doing drugs. It was my last chance. If I relapsed again, I would never make it back. All would be lost. I would die. I had only this one chance at staying clean, and having exhausted all other options, I was willing to do jail-time, if that was what it took to stay alive.

By the end of that speech, tears of desperation were running down my face. He stared at me, seemingly unable to find words. Feeling the cold wall behind my back, I slid down it onto the floor and sat there, sobbing, resting my forehead on my knees.

I heard my lawyer say my name, and looked up. Our eyes met. Finally, there was some understanding in his eyes. Perhaps he saw the desperation in mine. My lips formed a final plea - Please help me!

He set up a meeting with the prosecutor, and quickly agreed on 3 years, with psychiatric evaluation in jail. The judge was happy to accept it. I left the court room in cuffs, after a brief opportunity to say goodbye to my brother and kiss my grandma and Louise. I would be moved to another city the next day, where I would spend the next 3 years.

The prospect of jail time terrified me, but the prospect of going home and having to face reality while surrounded by drugs terrified me more. I had proved that I could not be trusted to make decisions, so I made one final decision instead - to give up my decision-making powers.

It was my last chance.

I am still not sure why I couldn't serve my sentence in my home town, but I like to think it was fate, or perhaps even divine intervention.

Part 8: Diagnosis and recovery