A Listerine Lush

A Listerine Lush.

Tranquilized and Certified

On the cold tiles of my bathroom floor I lay covered in my own blood. My husband Charlie has just called 911. I am beyond intoxicated and have self mutilated every limb with hundreds of little cuts made from a slightly rusty razor blade I have saved and used over the years. I begin to mumble something to Charlie who’s waiting by the front door for the EMT’s. But with his bad hearing and my inability to form sentences, my words get lost in translation. I attempt to say something along the lines of not wanting to go to the hospital. Maybe I should have thought of that before I started drinking.

I hear some commotion by the entrance of my house. The ambulance has arrived. Charlie leads two very strong looking EMT’s into the bathroom. One of the men gets down to my level. “What seems to be going on tonight?” He asks me. With a very slurred spoken tongue I answer, “I think I drank too much” and admit, “I’m a stupid alcoholic too!”. The one thing I have learned: never admit anything to someone unless you are prepared for the consequences. From my experience, sometimes, but not all the time, telling someone you’re an alcoholic whose in the medical field will make them possibly assume you’re hard to handle and will treat you as such. Though, their judgment may be clear and sometimes a boozer does need a stern person to keep everyone safe. Without order chaos ensues.

Meanwhile, the EMT’s gather me up and put me on a stretcher. As I am wheeled out of the bathroom I look at Charlie and say tearfully, “I’m so sorry honey. I’m sorry.” Charlie, with his eyes slightly watering mouths quietly, “its okay. It’s okay.” I’m in the ambulance and the EMT’s are working hard to get things situated. As I’m getting my I.V. in my arm, the EMT named Mike starts talking to me. “Why did you do this to yourself?” He questions. I sobered up a little and respond, “I’m just so sad. My mind, it always thinks of the terrible things I’ve done in my life. I can’t shut it off…I can’t control my brain. So I cut because I’m bad, I cut because I want to feel something other than what my heads making me feel.” Mike nods, “you know what Kara? That makes complete sense. I never understood why people cut themselves. But …I wish you didn’t. You seem to be a very nice person. “I give a quick thank you and lay my head back down on the gurney.

I must’ve fallen asleep because I awake to find a nurse standing next to me. “Hi I’m Julie. I’ll be your nurse. We have to move you onto a different stretcher that’s padded. You told the EMT’s you have epilepsy so, we want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself.” Great, instead of a padded room I get a padded stretcher. I am left in the hall because there are no rooms available. This does not make me happy.

Two hours go by and I’m still in the hallway of the hospital. I have not seen a doctor and just saw my nurse Julie once. The rage is filtering inside of me. “Hello! Anybody? I want to call my husband” I yell as it echoes down the hall. A security guard comes over, “you better settle down. I’ll find your nurse. Just be a good girl.” A good girl? You just sparked the bomb in me buddy. Instead of finding my nurse, the security guard goes and flirts with a different nurse by the front desk. The two look in my direction and laugh. Are they laughing at me? All hell then breaks loose. “Keep laughing motherfucker! Get my husband on the phone. I want my husband!” I scream. The security guard and nurse walk towards me. With unbounded rage I ask them “You want something to laugh at? I’ll give you something to laugh at” and without a second thought I rip my I.V straight out of my left arm. Bad move Kara.

Five nurses come charging at me. Two have needles in their hands. “Calm down Kara” they insist. I thrash around, fighting off their grasps. They finally get a hold of me, pull my pants down and give me shots in both my thighs. I feel like an animal that’s had a tranquilizer. I pass right out. And awake the next day. I’m in a room now alone with a security guard watching me sitting by the door. Out of my haze of being drugged up, I ask the guard, “Can I go home?” Reluctantly the guard confirms I have been certified to stay in the hospital involuntarily. Now I can’t leave. I just hope I can talk to Charlie…I need him now.

 

RELAPSE

RELAPSE.

Crucify Myself Everyday

Back in the “Relaxation Room,” I sit across from my new founded psychiatrist. I have been diagnosed with “Daddy Issues.” I ask myself, “is that even a medical term?” I must’ve been really conked out when I enrolled myself in Camp Detox. I cannot believe I even mentioned my father to the mousy doctor downstairs in admissions. Once my psychiatrist mentions the name Daddy I am transported back in time. I am that little girl again on the futon coddled up with my legs pressed against my chest waiting, waiting for inevitable to happen. As my thoughts wander, I can feel the tension seeping throughout my body. My posture becomes distorted. As in my past, I wrap my arms around my legs and press them tightly to me as I begin to rock slowly back and forth. Flash backs are rapidly playing over and over again in my mind akin to an infinite movie reel. This is no Oscar worthy motion picture.

My Doctor, Dr. G, takes notice of my actions. Watching patiently, he addresses me, “What are you experiencing now?” he inquires. I run my fingernails through my hair. I scrap my skull hard with my nails. As though, when I induce pain upon myself, it brings me back to reality. I need to feel something other than the torture my memories are doing to my brain. How I wish to describe to my doctor what I am feeling. How I wish I could say that I believe I am dirty all the time. Or that my body feels covered in blood which no shower can rise off. Maybe give great detail to the doctor about those nights I relive my past in my dreams. I awake in the early hours of the morning to take a shower, scrubbing the finger prints away, crying as I pray to god to make me better, make me normal “please god! Please, I beg you. What did I do? What did I do to deserve this?” I do not say these things yet to my doctor. Trust needs to be established. For, right now, in this moment, it is none of his god damn business.

Back to the present, I answer Dr. G’s question, “I experience a wee bit of anxiety when my father is brought up.” Dr. G. nods his head and says a few “mm hmm[s].” He rubs his chin; he seems hesitant to ask me something. “Now Kara, you seem to have a pattern with older men.” I know what he’s getting at. Now I am pissed off. I exhale loudly, “yes, I understand what you are saying. It is not as though I am not educated in psychology. I am not unaware of my patterns. You know, as I know, our childhood, especially in our very primitive years we learn the most. I was taught to behave a certain way and it has transcended into my adult relationships.” Dr. G appears to be processing what I have said. He adjusts himself in his seat and straightens his body.”Well Kara, I can see you are an intelligent young woman. Now we must use your intelligence in your recovery. I want you stay another day. You have not had your Adavan cut down and we need to make sure you are no longer withdrawing once we decrease your Adavan intake. I am also recommending you attend my Alcohol Dependency Program (also called ADP) as an outpatient for a week.” Shit.

I agree to adhere to the doctors instructions. I am unfortunately very obedient to men especially those 40 and over. I wonder where I got that from. Disappointed, I head back to my room. I plop on my bed and talk with Tracy. She is writing again at the desk. “What’s wrong Kara?” Tracy asks. “I’m not going home today. I’m pretty bummed” I reply. Tracy seems curious. “Why would you want to leave? It’s safe here. No one can upset you here and you can’t hurt yourself. This place keeps me from harming my family with my actions. I’m saving them from me.” Wow. That makes sense to me. I am saving my family by being here. Yet, wouldn’t life be better for my family if I go away permanently? Life would be so much easier if I just ended it. No more of the drunken terror I bestow upon my dearest loves. I reach over and open the top draw to my night stand next to my bed. I take out my IPod and put my head phones on. Maybe music will drown out my sorrows for a brief time. The music is on shuffle. The first song to come on is Tori Amos’s song “Crucify.” She sings, “Why do we crucify ourselves? Everyday / Crucify myself. Everyday / Nothing I do is good enough for you / I crucify myself.” As my eye lids become heavy and I begin to fall asleep, I have no other thought than to; “crucify myself.”

Dreams can be scary.Especially when translated with crayons and paper.

Daddy Issues

Kara’s Journal Age 8:

Finish the Sentence: “I don’t like…”

“I don’t like when people yell at me because it hurts my feelings. That is what I don’t like. Do you hate that too? I have more things I don’t like but I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

 

I have just been told I cannot leave detox until 24 hours have gone by. I impatiently wait by the front desk to sign my release form which my nurse Doris has been trying to locate. Doris recovers the buried treasure. She begins to review what the paper says to me.”Okay Kara. Here is the release form. All you have to do is sign the bottom and you will be discharged after 24 hours if you so choose to leave after you meet with the doctor. Remember, you can change your mind anytime.” I smile, for the first time in days; I have a sick grin on my face. My hands trembling from the potluck of medication I have been given, I frantically sign my illegible autograph. Excited, I take a look at the clock hanging on the wall by the front entrance. 23 hours and 15 minutes. The countdown has begun.

Eagerly, I head over to the other side of the desk where the phone is located. I call Charlie. He answers. “Hello?” I hesitate for a moment because we just had a major fight and I do not know whether to apologize or not. I ask myself, “if I was speaking the truth about how I feel about Charlie, why should I apologize?” I suppose I can ask for forgiveness as it pertains to my raving madcap behavior…but that’s all he’s getting from me. I swallow my pride. “Hi it’s me” I say timidly. “Oh, what’s going on?” Charlie sounds sterile and indifferent. I feel detached from him. Where did my loving husband go? Maybe it’s my fault. I am the “sick one” just like he said. I’m the one in here. I begin to grind my teeth to the point where my jaw begins to throb with pain. “Charlie, I just wanted to apologize. I’m sorry I acted the way I did. I suppose I’m a bit edgy. Um, I just wanted to tell you I signed my discharge papers. I want to come home. It is a joke here.” Absolute quiet. “Charlie?” He answers, “I’m here.” That’s all he has to say? “Well what do you think Charlie?” I am getting annoyed. I can hear a loud sigh coming from his end. “I don’t know Ka. Don’t you think you should wait? See the doctor first and see what they have to say.” My mind becomes queasy as I digest his last sentiment. Things I do not want to hear make me sick.

I’m fatigued and have no strength left to quarrel with Charlie. I agree I will speak with the doctor tomorrow and possibly reconsider my decision. Nonetheless, all I can hear is tick tock. The countdown remaining: 21 hours and 32 minutes. I get my benzo bounty for the night and fall asleep to the blissful sound of a ticking clock. Every tick, every tock, which passes is another second closer to accomplishing my mission of sprinting away from this hell hole. The morning arrives on the double. I follow the usual routine of the day and await my time to speak with the doctor. 10:30 a.m. and whose up first to see the doctor? A tall gentleman with the appearance of Vincent Price in his later years calls out with a slight South African accent, “Kara. Is Kara here?” My chest swells with enthusiasm. “Yup, I’m here!” The good doctor escorts me to the “Relaxation Room,” we sit and he glances over my chart. He looks up a few times from his reading and gives very noticeable judgmental peeks at me. He clears his throat, “So, Kara it appears you have some daddy issues.” This one’s a smarty.

 

Check Please!

Before the story continues, below is a narrative I wrote when I was eight years old entitled “The Story of Kara.” Could this be Warning signs of an undiagnosed Bipolar? :

 

Their (there) once was a girl named Kara and she move[d] to a new city. She did not like it because she missed her friends in Seekonk. She missed Peter and Ashley her best friend. Kara said I wish I can go back to Seekonk and she wish[ed] she didn’t have a mean teacher. She gave lots of homework. Everyday homework. Kara headed [hated] her. Kara said she headed [hated] that school so much. She can kill herself.

 

Thump, thump, thump. Every step closer my mother makes towards me my heart beats faster. I just had a major no holds barred blow up with my husband Charlie only seconds prior. Thump, thump, thump. I cannot breathe. The rage fueling inside me towards Charlie coincides with the utter grief and humiliation I feel by my mom seeing me here. Thump, thump, thump. I rise from the couch I am sitting on. My lips quivering, I embrace my mother and give a quick hug and kiss to my stepfather. The hugs are cold. I feel as if I have the flu and that I am contagious. No one wants to get too close. Now I know what lepers must experience. I sit down with my mother. She has goodies in tow. Chocolates, gummies, magazines etc. My mother is a master at little gifts. When I was younger she and I would argue. However, when the flames cooled from our fights, she would usually place a card on my bed the next day. Sometimes, it is difficult to say what we truly mean verbally. Mom had a way of getting her point across through the written word and I always appreciated that. Those cards are still resided in my attic. I have never had the heart to part with her cards. As if, in throwing them away, I would be destroying some part of my mother.

The tension in the air begins to suffocate me. I can tell my mother knows something is wrong beyond my stay here. She has a sixth sense when it comes to her children being in distress. Kind of like a superpower. I can no longer contain my angst. Tears are streaming ceaselessly down my cheeks. My psyche runs for the hills. I am left with a bitter, hopeless shell of myself. “What’s going on Ka?” my mother questions. Here comes my big mouth again. I begin ranting off about Charlie, being a terrible mother, my intense craving for alcohol and basically how I just wanted to get the fuck out of here. My mother listens. I believe that’s all anybody could do for me at this time. They just listen because, possibly, they really do not know what to say to me. I most likely would not know what to say to myself either. But I am yearning for answers. My mother attempts to understand. Yet, she too is sad. What mother would enjoy seeing their child in a facility for those struggling with mental issues and addiction? No mother would.

The visit is short lived. Charlie sat the entire time with his arms crossed during my parents visit. What a dink. I was relieved when my family left. I love them but clearly, I am not ready for visitors. Now I am on a mission. The mission being: Get the hell out of here anyway possible. Furiously, I tread heavily to the front desk. My nurse Doris is the first person I see. “Hi Kara. Do you need something?” I am twisting the bottom of my shirt in my hands like a child about to pee their pants. “Yes Doris. I’d like to leave. Can I leave now? I’m really having a hard time adjusting here. This is really not for me.” Doris looks concerned. “Well Kara, the only way you can leave is to sign a release but, you will not be discharged until 24 hours have passed.” Wrong thing to tell me…very wrong. I am revved up again. The bitch has been released from her cage and no one’s safe.

You too may appear like this when imprisoned in detox.

The Visiting Horror: Part Two

My Mother and Stepfather have arrived for visiting hours and unbeknownst to them, they have entered into a war zone. They have not approached Charlie and I yet. He and I are still in the corner of the unit talking. Well, not talking. We are verbally abusing one another. I know Charlie’s patterns, when we fight; he generally likes to keep his mouth shut as I uncontrollably spew insulting venom from my chops. I am squeezing my hands into fists; my fingernails engrave their imprints into my palms making them bleed. Sickly, I am pleased I have discovered a new way to hurt myself. However, it does not ease my anger or the tumultuous anxiety flooding throughout my chest. My eyes are focusing on the floor, trying to think of something, anything that would cause my drinking. Charlie wants me to figure out “the reason behind my drinking. “Of course my father and what he had done to me as a child. But, my father’s not here. Another reason, as I said before, I’m looking at it. Charlie.

I spoke the truth to Charlie when we started our battle. Let’s take a gander shall we? Charlie is exceedingly older than myself, I became a housewife at 18 and lost those precious years of entering womanhood to figure out who am I, I was pregnant at nineteen (planned) walking around college being called a “whore,” I could not go out and when I did he did not like it. Prisoner is the word. As Tom Petty would say, I was “living like a Refugee.” My eyes shoot up to his pale green eyes. I am staring Charlie down. The fire within erupts and I begin to attack once more. “You never wanted a family? Is that right Charlie? I see now, all YOU wanted was a young girl to keep. A trophy wife, your little rag doll. No wonder I fucking drink. I am living with an old man, who goes to bed at eight every night. We do NOTHING! You did not even help me when Jonah was a baby. You’re a pedophile who had no consideration of what impact you would have on my life. You only thought of yourself. Asshole.” Oh Boy, I just pushed some major buttons. He says nothing. Now whose the asshole. Me.

Charlie takes off his glasses and rubs his tired, bloodshot eyes. “Listen Ka, you are right about me being old. You did bear the brunt of caring for Jonah when he was a baby. I’m just not good at that stuff.” Are you freaking kidding me, that’s the worst excuse I have ever heard. Charlie proceeds talking. “Yes, you are young, beautiful, charming, and funny and the love of my life. Kara, age doesn’t matter. You’ve been told you are an old soul, wise beyond your years. I guess I just didn’t put our age difference in perspective.” If he thought that would decrease my resentment, he was absolutely incorrect with his approach. If my eyes were laser beams he would be ashes. “So Charlie, you have solidified my answer to why I was drinking…you really fucked me over good.” Charlie sighs and bows his head down. I turn my head and watch as my mom and stepdad approach me. My severe rage drifts away the moment I catch my mother’s eye. I feel like a child again in need of my mommy. I yearn for the times again when she would carry me up the stairs and put me to bed. I ache for her to slowly run her fingers through my hair and around my ears to ease my little body to sleep. The tears flood. As long as I’m living her baby I will be and I wish, for right now, in my current state, to be the swaddled baby once again. Because for as long as I’m living my mommy she will be…

This is what happens when you hold in anger. It distorts your face in ways unimaginable. Let it out so you do not look like this.

Pass the Tequila Please

Pass the Tequila Please.

AA = one Anxious Alcoholic

After the embarrassing situation of me lying on my bed getting a needle stuck in my butt cheek, (there’s a joke in there somewhere) I was told it is time to join the morning meeting. There is only a few of us at the meeting. Some are still in their rooms, withdrawing a great deal worse than myself, from much harder drugs. Others are either: 1) Searching out others to score meds and exchange numbers for out in the “real world” 2) Young people. Teenagers. Who gather around other teenagers because their, “stupid parents “made them come to this “coo coo clinic”. Also, after every word these teenagers say a “like” comes after it. Like gag me with a spoon. 3) The severely mentally ill and 4) People who lie to get into detox so they will have somewhere warm to sleep. I don’t judge. I mean god, how the hell did I end up here?

The meeting mainly consisted of telling us about the days schedule and what groups or meetings are optional for us to attend. Groups or meetings meaning: AA for us boozers and users and Arts and Crafts for everybody else. Looks like my days filled. As a special treat, there will be an aromatherapy instructor coming in later. I am pretty stoked about it actually. I am not the “I’m too cool for that” kind of lady; I’ll give anything a try. I mean come on, I am an addict, and I’ll do anything at least once. I attend my first AA meeting and I am utterly uncomfortable. My neck breaks out in red blotches which occur whenever I’m nervous. I know this, and only this about AA; they introduce themselves by their first name and after as an alcoholic. Nope. There is no way in god greenest of valleys will I introduce myself to these people. I only just admitted my alcoholism to my doctor and now I have to in front of strangers?

The meeting begins and it’s my turn to say my name as we went around the group. I am stricken with fear and my chest, filled with anxiety, is about to make my heart pop. Just do it Kara. “Hi. My names it…not “names” it…sorry, um, my name is Kara and I think I am an alcoholic.” Damnit. Way to start sobriety. I sound more drunk sober than not. I could not even say it right. I stay for the whole meeting and listen. I related but, I am becoming more and more anxious. Charlie, my mom and my stepfather are visiting tonight. My embarrassment, shame and guilt flood into my psyche once again. I never wanted my mother to see me like this. My mother wears a certain perfume she has worn as long as I can remember. I would sometimes, when I was little, sleep with one of her shirts or sweatshirts with her scent on it just to soothe me to sleep. I hope, by hugging her tonight there will be a faint scent of her perfume on me. Maybe I’ll sleep better tonight…

Detox Day One: On the cranky train to nowhere.

I am in Nirvana. The combination of Adavan and Klonipin has released me off all my pain. My withdrawals gone. My mental anguish drifts away and I am sinking into my bed. Gravity is pushing down on me. The pressure comforts me. It holds everlastingly. I dissolve into the bed. I sleep once again.
8:00 a.m. There’s a knock on the door. “Hey, you two, time for vitals. Kara, you need to get blood work first. “. I awake from my blissful rest and the world around me is spinning. Fuck. I feel hung-over. Thank god I am not nauseous. I walk out of my room. I glance quickly into the other rooms as I walked down the hall. In one particular room, there is a woman doing jumping jacks. Some patients will do that in order to get their vitals up. Higher vitals equal more drugs, therefore, not all the people here are really attempting to get better. At the end of the hall is the community area. On the right side I have my blood taken. I enjoy needles, if I enjoy cutting myself, needles are a little freeing. I then walk over to the left side of the room to get my vitals done.
I sit down and they strap me up to the blood pressure machine. “Hi Kara how you feeling today?” asks a petite blonde, just out of college staff member of the unit. “I feel like shit.” She sticks a thermometer under my tongue. “Hmm…102.1 A bit high don’t you think Hun?” did she just call me Hun? That’s a no, no. “Your blood pressure is also pretty high. We’ll take care of you.” I give her a little wink. “Okay sweetheart.” A person younger than yourself should never call you “Hun.” I’m clearly very pissy this morning.
Now we wait for the medicine window to open up. Once it does a line forms immediately. You can feel the tension in the air as the patients eagerly await their remedies. I decide to go get myself some coffee and go back to the line later. At 9 breakfasts comes. The medicine line dwindles down. I approach the medicine window. I take my pills in front of the nurse and she has me open my mouth to see if I swallowed them. After, I grab my breakfast and take a seat at one of the long tables in the eating area. I am, as I call it, am on the “cranky train to nowhere” but I am feeling optimistic about the day. Across from me sits an older man, looks kind of like a very sick version of Robert DeNiro who clearly is suffering from some sort of paranoia and is mumbling to himself. Nobody is really talking when, the DeNiro look alike screamed out, “I am going to eat every single napkin in this place until I fucking die. I just want to die! You hear that mom, you hear me!” Well, that optimism I was feeling…it’s vanished. A nurse then approaches me, “Kara I need to give you a shot in the bum. You are really low on vitamin B.” Once again, optimism gone…