Dying to Survive (21 page)

So that was the end of myself and Big Mick. Like everything else in my life, it had ended badly. All I knew was that I had to leave the man alone. I knew that his family were there to support him and that the further he was away from me, the better it was for him. My family had no idea that I was in a mental institution. They really didn’t need to know. I just needed to be left alone, locked up into a safe place, where I couldn’t hurt myself or anyone else.

For the first few days I was heavily medicated, spending most of my time in bed and slipping in and out of consciousness. In my mind I was in the right place. Amongst my own people. I found great freedom in this. I was a nut-case and now nothing was expected of me.

Sometimes during the night the woman in the cubicle next to me would sneak into my cubicle. I had vaguely overheard the nurses calling the woman by the name of Theresa. She was an old woman from Mullingar and I had the feeling that she was harmless. She would sit by my bed and she would mumble prayers over my head. She must have known that I badly needed them. But I hardly even acknowledged the woman. I was too afraid to look at her and most times I would just pretend that I was asleep. She would stay there until the nurses came to take her away to give her her medication or her electric shock treatment. I always knew when Theresa got her electric shock treatment. She would seem brain-dead as she shuffled aimlessly around the ward, speaking incoherently to herself. I felt sorry for her and I wondered where her family were and what had happened to her that she had ended up in a place like this.

After a few days in hospital, I began to come back to my senses. The institution was exactly as I had imagined it to be. It had dreary green walls with bars on the windows and not one person seemed to have a light on in their heads. Maybe I looked the same to them. But deep down in my heart I knew that I wasn’t cut out for a place like this.
I
wasn’t mentally disturbed: I was just having a breakdown brought on by the stress of coping with my addiction. But I had no-one else to turn to and nowhere else to go. Experience had taught me that no matter where I went, nothing would change. Any place that I ran to, or any situation that I got myself into, always ended in a shambles, with others being hurt in the process. There was no way out for me. No matter what I tried, my addiction always got the better of me.

So I decided to stay put in the laughter academy. I practically lived in the smoking room, becoming familiar to most of the patients who came in to top up on their daily intake of nicotine. Most of them seemed surprisingly normal and even intelligent at times. I was beginning to think that half of them were only pretending to be mad. Maybe they were just like myself, looking for a break from the real world, having a rest and gathering some ground until they found the strength to face reality again.

This wasn’t the case for Rosemary. She was a regular in the smoking room. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. The first time I met her she came stumbling over to the bench beside me and introduced herself. ‘Heya, what’s your name?’ she asked me as she took a seat.

‘Rachael,’ I told her.

‘My name is Rosemary. Very pleased to meet you,’ she said with a blank look in her eyes, medicated up to the hilt. Then Rosemary proceeded to tell me her whole life story. She told me that she was an only child from a family in the midlands. Her mother had died when she was only a child and her father was left to raise her on his own. He couldn’t cope with the death of his wife and he took heavily to the drink. Rosemary told me that her father had taken his wife’s death out on her: he had sexually abused her on a regular basis and he beat her up for no apparent reason. Then, when he couldn’t take it any more, he signed Rosemary into a mental institution. ‘He somehow managed to convince the doctors that
I
was the one who was mad,’ she said. ‘I ended up going mad in the end. This place would do that to anyone. I’ve been here since I was sixteen,’ she continued. ‘And since then, they just keep giving me medication. I’m doing much better now, though. They let me out a few times a week to do my course in art.’

I felt sad listening to Rosemary’s story. I wasn’t even sure if she was telling the truth, but she had opened my eyes to something. Whatever had happened to Rosemary had been so traumatic that she had no choice but to stay in a mental institution possibly for the rest of her life. But I did have a choice. I always had a choice. It didn’t feel like I had a choice when I was actively using drugs, but once I got clean I had the freedom to choose whether I used or not. I remembered what somebody once told me in Narcotics Anonymous. ‘A relapse happens long before the addict picks up the drug. It happens first in your mind, then in your behaviours. In order to get fucked, you have to get into the right position.’ This saying made so much sense to me now.

I had certainly gotten myself into the right position. I had moved from Ballymun into a house in the middle of nowhere. The only support I had was from Big Mick who was in recovery himself and with no supports of his own. I had no means or tools to tackle my addiction. I had allowed my own negative thoughts to totally control my life. No wonder I had gone back using drugs. I didn’t belong in a mental institution: I just needed treatment for my addiction.

After the first time I spoke to Rosemary, I began to write in my diary again. Writing always seemed to help me. Once I had all my thoughts out in the open and down on paper, I could see things much more clearly. In the end I came to the conclusion that I needed to go back into treatment.

Chapter
13

    MY LAST CHANCE

H
ere I was once again, standing at the gates of the Rutland Centre and, for the first time in my life, I was going into treatment
for myself
. I wasn’t going in order to get my family off my back, or to have a little break from drugs. This time I was on my own and I genuinely wanted to learn how to live my life drug-free.

My heart was in my mouth as I dragged my suitcases up the long driveway. ‘This is it now, Rachael,’ I told myself with determination. ‘It’s time to lay all your shit out on the table and get really honest with yourself.’ I knew what to expect from the Rutland Centre. It would be as tough as I made it: this was the last time I would do this and I wasn’t going to hold back on anything. It was really make or break for me.

It was 2002 and it had been six years since I had last been in the Ruts. I was nothing but a child the last time I had been here and I really thought that I knew it all. This time round, all I knew was that I knew nothing. Nothing of any value, anyway.

The Rutland hadn’t changed one bit. Everything still looked the same. Most of the old staff were still there, except for my counsellors, Jimmy and Marie. Even ‘Supergran’ was still there, one of the nurses, who had always been my favourite. Her face lit up when she saw me. ‘Ah, would ye look who’s back, it’s Trouble,’ she said as she gave me a big hug. Supergran introduced me to all of the clients. They were of all ages, from all backgrounds. Many of them were very well-to-do men and women who had problems with either alcohol or gambling. I spent the rest of my first day casually getting to know the other clients, but the next day I was thrown into the deep end and was placed into my first group session, in a large room that had once been a ballroom.

I could feel my heart thumping in my chest as I took my seat in the circle. I was relieved to find that I wasn’t the only woman there. There was another young girl named Siobhán in the group. She looked so beautiful with her glossy blonde hair and clear skin. I wondered what she was in for. It couldn’t have been the heroin. She just didn’t have that look. The rest of the group were all men. I was so nervous now that I couldn’t look any of them in the eye.

The two counsellors took their seats and they introduced themselves as Ann and Ultan. ‘Ok, let’s get started,’ said Ultan with a grin on his face. ‘We have a new addition to our group today. Rachael, you’re very welcome! Now the group are going to take turns to introduce themselves to you.’

‘I’ll go first,’ said one of the men. ‘Hi, Rachael, my name is Timmy. You’re very welcome to the group. All I can say is that this is a really good group. I’ve personally got so much out of it. You’ll get back what you put in. I’m in here for the drink and I only have a few weeks left. But as I said, you’re very welcome.’ Timmy was a nervous kind of fella, built like an ox. He reminded me of a child in a man’s body.

‘Thanks, Timmy,’ I told him.

‘Hi, Rachael. My name is Siobhán. You’re very welcome. I’m also here for my alcohol addiction and I have to say, this group is amazing. I’ve got a great sense of camaraderie here and I’ve made some really good friends as well. So don’t be afraid to open up.’ Siobhán was so cool. She spoke to me with such ease and confidence. ‘Thanks, Siobhán.’

‘How’s it going, Rachael? I’m Dan and I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict. I’m only new here myself, but you’re very welcome.’ I liked Dan straight away. He seemed totally down to earth, somebody I could talk to. I knew that he was an alcoholic before he had even told me: he had a big red nose with broken veins on his face and he looked as though he was still suffering from the
DTS
. ‘Thanks, Dan.’

‘How’ya, Rachael, I’m Sam and I’m a compulsive gambler. You’re very welcome.’ Sam wasn’t a bad-looking fella. He reminded me of my uncle Jonathon. He was around the same age as me, placid-looking and well-mannered.

‘Emm, my name is Jim. You’re very welcome. I’m actually cross-addicted. Drink, drugs, gambling. I’m here for them all.’ Jim appeared to be in his early twenties and he was very well spoken, but he had a mischievous look in his eyes that told me he was only getting started in his addiction. There and then I made a mental note to watch out for Jim. Regardless of what Siobhán had said, I wasn’t here to make friends: I was here to get myself well, and nobody was going to drag me down.

‘Ok, Rachael, do you want to say a bit about yourself before we start the group?’ Ultan offered.

Jaysus, I thought, I was knackered already after that introduction and I wasn’t about to waffle on. ‘Well, this is my second time in here. I’m a bit of a sucker for punishment as you can tell, but I plan on making this my last time here.’

‘So what’s so different this time round? What has changed?’ asked Ann, the other counsellor. A glamorous woman, possibly in her mid-forties, I immediately knew by Ann’s soft, soothing voice that she was the good cop.

‘
I’ve
changed,’ I told her. ‘A lot has happened since the last time that I was here and I’ve definitely hit rock bottom.’

Ann accepted what I said with a nod and she left it at that. ‘Ok, thanks, Rachael.’ ‘Thanks, Rachael,’ the group echoed her. Ultan then moved the group onto Dan and he began to question him about all the moving he’d done from country to country in an attempt to escape his addiction. That’s me all over, I thought to myself as I listened to Dan go on about his escapes. Even though I’d been helped by my family, I had eagerly kept moving to avoid coming to terms with my real problems. I knew there and then that I was definitely in the right place.

The group continued for another two hours—enough to drain the life out of anyone. I was grateful that I had been given a methadone crash course in the mental institution. Even though I was still a little bit ‘ropey’, my withdrawal symptoms weren’t half as bad as they had been in Community Cenacolo. I just felt like I had a little bit of a flu. That’s what I told myself anyway. Another week or so and I would be brand new.

After the group it was time for dinner. Jack, the elusive chef, was still working in the kitchen. Jack was renowned for his hearty home-made meals, but I had yet to meet the man. He would do his job and quickly disappear. I knew that for a lot of the clients, when all else failed, their main incentive to stay in the Rutland was Jack’s divine cooking creations. I had always been amazed at how thirty-odd people could fit into such a small dining area. Once the scramble for the food was over and somebody had said grace, the only sound that could be heard was people munching on their food.

If anything worked up an appetite, it was group therapy. ‘Stuffing the feelings’ we called it. We would all stuff our feelings, except for the people who had eating disorders. Jack would cook them their own special meal, depending on their specific needs. My heart would go out to them as they sat with one of the nurses who would closely monitor every spoonful they ate. I was baffled at how those people could cope with such a disorder: it would be like me trying to monitor and ‘control’ my drug use. I knew that, no matter how much awareness or information I had about my addiction, that would be impossible. When dinner was over we were allowed to take a break until two o’clock. Then we were back into our groups for another session.

The regime in Rutland was in many ways strict and relentless. I was told in advance exactly what type of clothing I was allowed to wear. Nothing too revealing or low-cut. There were too many hormones and emotions flying around the place for that. We were allowed to bring a certain amount of toiletries and make-up, but we could only wear a little: there was to be no hiding behind masks. Under no circumstances were we allowed to listen to our own music or watch the television, not unless we were given permission to do so. Sam explained to me that the television rule especially applied to the gamblers and the alcoholics. With the amount of Budweiser ads and horse-racing programmes that were on, it was just too much temptation for them. I knew exactly what he meant. If I was watching an ad on the television that had a needle with heroin dripping from it and some man saying, ‘China White, king of turn-ons’, I would have no hope of staying clean.