Running to Recovery

 

I am suffering. The withdrawals from drinking listerine are excruciating. My blood pressure dropped to the lowest it has been and my breaths are short as well as rapid. I can’t breathe. The stomach pains weaken me to the point of moving around becomes almost impossible. I awake throughout the night. Nurses come and go keeping an eye on me. Occasionally I crawl to the bathroom to find my porcelain friend and throw up some more. The pain…unbearable. I lay on the cold tiles of the bathroom and grasp onto the shower curtain in an attempt to get warm. I weep. “Meds!” I yell. My roommate Joyce who is withdrawing from coke understands my torment and rushes into the bathroom. “Hey, you alright in there?” She asks. “Help…I need meds” I whimper. “I’ll go get a nurse…I need to get me some meds too”  Joyce replies with her thick Rhode Island accent.

As she leaves I keep whispering to myself my son’s name over and over again. I wonder, in that moment, what kind of mother does Jonah think I am. I am going against everything I believed a good mother should be. I wanted to be that role model mother. Show him to right way and set a good example but, alas, I am failing. I hope someday  he will understand why mommy was sick. I pray that he’ll comprehend that I have a disease. And this disease, this alcoholism, it’s killing me. A thought crosses my mind…maybe Jonah will be better off. But no…not this time. No pity party. Time to tighten my boot straps and walk into recovery. For Jonah.

A nurse returns. She helps me off the bathroom floor and gets me back into bed. Of course I am given my withdrawal medicine and the pain dissipates. I thank her repeatedly. As I drift off to sleep I am filled with motivation. I’m going to get better this time…Right?

A Listerine Lush

A Listerine Lush.

A Listerine Lush

A Listerine Lush.

A Listerine Lush

Soon after my last alcohol dependency program ended; I begin drinking again. Only this time my drink of choice is listerine. Charlie has been checking where I spend our money on his online bank account and he knows when I spend and where I spend the money. Therefore, going to liquor stores is out of the question. Charlie also can smell alcohol on my breath a mile away so, buying nips is no longer an option unless I’m away from him.

I now go to the pharmacy or grocery store and pick up their largest mouth wash bottle. Once bought and back to my car I begin chugging the harsh menthol liquid down my throat. When the bottle is half gone I begin to feel the soothing effects of a nice buzz. However, my stomach has sharp shooting pains and my mouth feels numb. The minty taste is beginning to make me nauseous.Yet, I keep on drinking. I keep drinking to not feel, make the pain go away physically and mentally. I also pound my pills: Gabapentin and Klonopin. I’m really messed up now.

I continue to exist like this for a few weeks. I still attend drum circle every friday. No matter what I need to go to drum circle…I need to see Brad. I hate being drunk and attend drum circle. My beats are off and I’m paranoid that everyone knows my secret. The breaking point was one Friday night when I made it to drum circle. I had been drinking listerine all day, had a fight with Charlie and sliced my hand up pretty good when I cut myself purposely using my lucky razor blade. I wrapped my hand up, grabbed my drum and headed out to attend drum circle.

I know I won’t see Charlie for awhile so I stop and pick up two grapefruit nips with my two bucks in change. It’s a snowy night and the roads are slippy. I make it to the hospital. When I walk into the room only two people are there: Brad and the drumming instructor. They immediately notice my hand. Brad asks,”What happened?”. Of course I make up some lie about using a sander. I can see Brads concern on his face. We begin drumming. My rhythm is completely off. My hand is bleeding through the gauze. I pause. With tears swelling I speak, “I’m sorry. I think I need to go. My rhythm is all off. I just gotta go.” The two try to convince me otherwise but I gather up my drum and give my apologies once more.

Leaving, I catch Brads eye. I want to tell him how I’m suffering. It is as though when our eyes met he knew what was going on. I know now I had to get better. I want what Brad has…soberity. I wish he could whisk me away from all this. The moment our eyes caught seemed to last forever. I leave and make it back to my car.

In my car I begin to sob. I grab a bottle of Gabapentin out of my glove compartment and throw a handful of pills in my mouth. I wash it down with the nasty listerine I saved in my car. Will this ever end? I think to myself. Maybe it won’t….but maybe..just maybe I could end it all…with just two quick slices to the wrist…

I’ll see what the rest of the week brings. ..

RELAPSE

RELAPSE.

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.

The Visiting Horror

Visiting hours have arrived. And I am withdrawing again. I am lying in my bed. My muscles are clenching to the point in which cannot move. A nurse enters my room. “Kara? Hi, I’m Doris and I’ll be your nurse tonight. I understand you are not well. Here is some Gabapentin and Adavan as well as a Klonopin.” Bring on the Benzos. Unbeknownst to her, these medications will be added to my list of “What Kara is Addicted To.” However, for now, they are my saviour. An hour passes. As I lay in my bed I feel like I’m sinking in a bath of warm pudding. My body is weightless. Euphoria.

The door bell rings. Visitors are starting to arrive. I slowly move off my bed and head over to the bathroom. I am standing in front of the sink. I turn on the cold water and rinse off my face. As I begin to dry my face, I catch my reflection in the hazy plastic mirror. (There is no glass allowed in detox. It is tempting to use pieces of glass to those who are suicidal). My face is an inch away from the mirror. Tears begin to flow rapidly down my face. “What are you doing here?” I say to myself. “Why are you such a screw up? Why couldn’t you just stop.” I am furious with myself. And when I am enraged with myself, I tend to blame others. I point fingers. I displace my shame, guilt and embarrassment on my loved ones unfortunately. Bluntly, I can be an out of control bitch.

A next door bell rings. It is Charlie, my husband. I wait by the door until he enters. I have that kind of lump in my throat reminiscent of a child attempting to hold back their tears. Especially when watching “Bambi.” Charlie enters. Awkward is an understatement. We uncomfortably hug because I think we both do not know if there can be any physical contact. I bring him to a corner in the back of the unit. We sit down. Charlie looks out of place and overwhelmed. He grips my hand as we sit on one of the couches. “So Ka, How’s it going?” For some reason my fury begins to intensify. “How’s it going?” I say sarcastically. “How the hell do you think it is going? I want to get out of here! I want a fucking drink Charlie. You don’t get it. You never will.” I am a total beast. “What do you want me to do Kara? I just came here to see you. You are doing the right thing. I love you. Jonah loves you. Can’t you just see this through? They will help you figure out the reason behind your drinking. Give it some time.”

 I feel as though I am having an outer body experience. The flesh and body Kara is about to have an explosion of anger while my subconscious floats away. “The reason Charlie? I’m looking at it!” as I hatefully glare at Charlie. He appears shocked and says, “I’m the reason! Why?” If my anger could be measured in degrees, a thermometer would explode. “Why Charlie? Are you serious? Look at you! You are so much older than me. You took advantage. You took years away from me! At 18 I became your little house wife. At 19 I’m walking around my college pregnant. All for you! I will never regret Jonah. He is my world but you stole precious years from me! You’re sick! Not me!” Charlie is pissed off (I do not blame him). “What the hell Kara! You were the one who came after me. You’re the one who wanted to start a family. Yes, I’m older Kara, but you knew that coming into this relationship. I’m sick? Look it where you are!” I really wish they did have some sort of glass here. Because right now all I want to do is cut up my body. The door bell rings again. My Mom and Stepdad arrive.  Saved by the bell.

Here I am. 4 years ago. Drunk and 60 pounds overweight. Drinking makes you fat when you digest gallons of it. You have been warned.

Pass the Tequila Please

Pass the Tequila Please.