Crystal Clean (8 page)

“So...what are the lizards doing?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but I couldn’t help myself. You know, the train wreck thing.

“Same as always. Hopping from truck to truck.”

Holy mother of
God
! Those monsters must be rabid!

“What?”

“Well, that’s what they do. It’s not like they spend the night or anything. When they’re done, they move on to the next trucker who’ll take them.”

“Allan, what are you talking about?” I felt like I sometimes did in social situations where everyone else knows each other and the conversation may as well be in a foreign language because I had no reference point.

“Lot lizards. You know, hookers.”

“Ohhhh. I get it now.” I felt like such an idiot.

“What did you think I was talking about? Actual lizards?” He was laughing, but I didn’t get the feeling it was at my expense. It felt more like the way old friends laugh at some silly misunderstanding.

“No, of course n...well, okay, yeah. I did. I’ve never heard that term before.” I was laughing a little now too, and it felt good. It was as if a valve were being turned just a smidgen to the left, letting out a bit of pressure and making it easier for me to breathe.

We talked for almost an hour about nothing in particular. His enthusiasm for everything was contagious, whether he was talking about cars, skiing, music, or lot lizards. He’d been that way since I remembered him in high school. Allan was by nature an extremely friendly, outgoing person. Sitting there, alone in my van, I felt better than I had in a long time
-
a little normal. Allan said he’d be back in Boise in four days and asked if he could take me to dinner. At thirty-three years old, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d been asked for a date. Of course, he could take
me to dinner. That meant he wanted to spend time with me. He wanted to see me and talk to me and it wasn’t all just a façade for getting drugs. Someone was interested in
me
.

That’s where the problem started. Not my addiction, but the beginning of what turned into years of a relationship that never should have happened. I see that now, but I certainly didn’t see it then. I took what was a normal, friendly catching-up-with-an-old-friend conversation, and turned it into the cornerstone upon which to hang my salvation. I was at the lowest point in my life, and Allan was a beacon in the distance. I scraped together the few remaining shreds of hope I had left and stuck them, like Velcro, onto Allan and our brief conversation because I wanted it all to mean more than it did. Much more. I wanted it to mean a new beginning for me. I wanted someone to care about me for more than just meth. I wanted the words between the lines of our dialogue to mean that he was genuinely interested and couldn’t wait to see me. If Allan had known what I was thinking, he probably wouldn’t have wanted to see me. If I had
been in my right mind
, I wouldn’t have wanted him to see me either. I would have told him to run as fast as he could in the other direction of that woman he’d been speaking with because yikes! Men should stay away from psycho women like that. Hell,
women
should stay away from psycho women like that. But I didn’t realize how warped my mindset was. Nor did I realize how skewed
his
mindset was. On whatever level he was attracted to me, or whether he had other intentions from the beginning, all I saw was what I wanted to see rather than any warning signs of what might be to come.

If I had the clarity then that I have now, I probably wouldn’t be an addict.

I cried myself to sleep that night, huddled in the warmth of that dingy comforter, feeling more like a real person. I was so lost, so removed from even myself, that simply talking to another human being, such a tiny slice of humanity, was all it took to nourish me. I hadn’t told Allan I was living in my van or that I had abandoned my son. I didn’t know what I was going to say when he asked about Andy. All I knew was that I had something to look forward to and, even if only for a few hours, I wasn’t going to be alone. Four days. It seemed like forever. I felt like I did when I was a little girl waiting for Christmas to come.

The next morning I drove to the Ameritel Inn, a decent place where I rented a room for a week. I took a long, hot bubble
bath. Sinking into the masses of bubbles that overflowed to the linoleum floor was like going back to the womb and I stayed there until the water turned frigid. I watched some T.V. and a little later, I went to the store for Diet Coke, soup, crackers, ice cream...just a few things so I would have something to put in the cupboards and refrigerator. I felt uplifted, hopeful and normal. I had a little home with a kitchenette, sofa, coffee table and sleeping area. I made a few deliveries then called Garnett and arranged to see him later that night.

I curled up on the queen-sized bed and turned one the T.V. with the sound down low, not really watching, just for background noise. I got out my journal and began to write. I wrote whatever came into my head: where I was, what I was doing and how I felt. Mostly I wrote about my desire to get myself out of my current situation. For the next couple of hours I filled page after page as I smoked meth and cigarettes and drank Diet Coke.

Garnett came by and dropped off a couple of ounces and we passed time, getting high and chitchatting for an hour or so. I told him about Allan and he said he was happy for me, though his tone and expression didn’t match his words. I didn’t think much about it at the time.

When he was gone, I wrote some more, finished what was in the pipe, and then went to sleep. Meth was so much a part of my daily diet, and had been for so long, that I could easily fall asleep after getting high. The room was warm and the bed and pillows felt so nice. It was a safe cocoon. I slept for seven hours that night. It was the most uninterrupted sleep I’d enjoyed in weeks and I felt like a new person in the morning. Within an hour of waking, I was getting high again.

I felt so good, I decided to call my parents. I hadn’t spoken to them since the night before I left and I was nervous. I didn’t know if they would even talk to me, but I needed to find out how Andy was doing. It was worth risking their wrath and hatred if I could just talk to him for a minute, or at least find out how he was doing. When I heard my mother’s voice on the phone, my throat tightened and I couldn’t talk for a few seconds. I squeezed my eyes shut to keep the tears from flowing.

“Mom, it’s me.”

“Oh, Kimbo! Where are you?”

“I’m in a hotel right now.”

“Are you okay? We’ve been so worried. Why did you leave? Where have you been?” Her voice was so warm, it instantly brought home the shame I felt for what I’d done to my parents, my son and myself.

“I’m okay, Mom. How’s my baby?”

“He’s fine, Kimbo. How’s
my
baby?” That did it. I started crying, my tears running down my cheeks and my voice breaking.

“I’m okay, I’m fine. I’ve been job hunting.” This wasn’t a complete lie, but it wasn’t the complete truth either. “I think I should have one here pretty soon. So I can get an apartment for Andy and me. How is he? Is he there? I miss him so much.”

“He’s not here. He’s still at therapy. He misses you too. He’s always asking where Mom is. I don’t know what to tell him so I’ve just been saying you’ll be home soon. Will you be home soon?”

“Like I said, I’ll be getting a job soon and an apartment for us.”

“Kim, just come home.”

“I can’t, Mom.” Jesus, it was so hard talking to her. I wanted to go back. I wanted my momma to wrap her arms around me and rock me on her lap telling me everything would be okay. But even in an ideal situation that would never happen. I’m too emotional, too needy, “too huggy,” as my mother once told me. I’ve always needed reassurance of love and physical affection. I think some people are just born that way. My brother was never like that, but I always have been. I need to be hugged and reminded that I’m loved, but I’ve always been told that this is unacceptable.
Too huggy
. What I want is not okay. I’m not like other people. I need to be strong. I need to learn to take care of myself because it’s not okay to ask for what I need. To do so is weak.

But right then, in that hotel room, talking on the phone, I wanted my mom and dad and I needed my son. I wanted everything to be different but I couldn’t see how to make that happen. As much as I wanted to be with my family, I also wanted meth, and I knew I couldn’t have both. Meth didn’t judge me regardless of how much I needed it. Meth was always there and it always made me feel good. Meth won.

“There was just too much tension between us, Mom. Especially with Dad and me. If we want to be okay, if we still want to be a family again in the future, I can’t be there right now. I’m sorry. I’m all right, though. Everything will be okay soon.”

“Where are you getting the money for a hotel?”

“I got my taxes back.”
God
damn it. I wanted her to quit asking me questions so I wouldn’t have to lie to her. I hated lying.

“Tell Andy I love him if you don’t think it will make him feel worse about me not being there. And Mom, thank you for taking care of him.”

“You can come see him, you know.”

“Really?”  In my mind, leaving Andy with them and sneaking off in the middle of the night was unforgivable, and I assumed they felt the same way. It hadn’t occurred to me that they would ever let me back in the house. I still couldn’t believe my mother was talking to me, saying she missed me. I couldn’t believe she didn’t hate me. I hated me. I assumed everyone else did too.

“Of course, Kimbo. He needs to see you.”

“Okay. Let me figure something out and I’ll call you. I love you, Mom. Thanks for not hanging up on me.” I was crying again and so was she

“Why would I hang up on you?”

“I thought you guys would hate me and never want to see me again.”

“Sweetheart, I could never hate you. You’re my baby, and I love you. I just want everything to be okay. I’m worried about you and I want you to be safe. Are you taking your depression medication?” Shit. Again with the questions.

“I’m taking them, but I’m almost out.” I hadn’t taken my meds in at least two months. My prescriptions ran out. But I was self-medicating as usual. Meth was all I needed.

“You know your father and I told you if you ever need your medication, we’ll pay for it.”

“I know, Mom.” That’s the one thing they would always help me with, but I couldn’t ask for help. If I were drowning, I wouldn’t take a hand offered to me. I’d just keep saying, “I got it. It’s okay. I can do this,” and I would go under, gurgling the words as my lungs filled with water.

“I love you, Mom. I’ll call in a couple of days.”

“I love you too, Kimbo. You take care of yourself.”

The first thing I did when I hung up was get high, smoking furiously until I was numb. I did little else but stay on that bed smoking meth for the next three days. It didn’t occur to me, then and for a very long time, that I was an addict. On some level, I think I knew that meth had a hand in my circumstances, but I was in such denial that I never allowed those thoughts to surface. I
convinced myself that all my problems were the result of a string of unfortunate circumstances, and the more meth I smoked, the easier it became to believe my own rationalizations.

I truly thought that if I ever wanted to stop using, I would be able to. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. But I saw no reason to quit. I loved doing drugs and the main fringe benefit of dealing was the never-ending supply. I had all I wanted of the best stuff around. I figured the people who had meth induced psychotic breaks either had inferior product or couldn’t handle their high. I thought I was different. I thought I was safe. I didn’t shoot up, I took care of my teeth, I ate, although infrequently, but I certainly wasn’t emaciated, and I slept almost every day, at least for a couple of hours. I could handle my high because for me, it was my typical state of being. I wasn’t like other people. I used meth as medicine so I could feel normal. I didn’t see myself as having a drug problem. My problem was depression and always had been. That was my battle. I was just lucky enough to have fallen in with the right people at the right time and I loved getting high.

(There’s a term for this in recovery: terminal uniqueness.
All my problems are so much worse than
- or not as bad as -
anyone else’s, and it’s because of this that no one will ever understand what it’s like to be me.
Dramatic sigh.)

I didn’t want to think about any of that. I didn’t want to think about the last two jobs I’d been fired from, or the car I’d totaled, or my parents or the fact that I wasn’t with my son. Instead, I smoked the bad thoughts away and daydreamed of seeing Allan again. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, Allan stepped back into my life at exactly the right time. I needed more distraction than meth could provide.

Distraction from life. Distraction from having to look at what I was doing to my family and myself. The phone call on lizard night was the beginning of three years of the biggest distraction any self-loathing addict could hope for.

Allan called the day he was to take me to dinner to say he would pick me up at the hotel at seven. I was excited and nervous the whole day. I took a long, leisurely bath around noon and spent the rest of the day pampering myself and smoking meth. For the first date I’d had in years, I wanted to spend time doing the “girly thing.” I did my hair, painted my nails and applied makeup
-
something I rarely did. We hadn’t seen each other in such a long time, and I was nervous about how the evening would go.