Dying to Survive (26 page)

I felt guilty and I immediately ran to where she stood. ‘Jacqueline, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean it.’ With her hand to her nose she stormed past me into the sitting-room and she rang my mother. Then
I
rang my mother, crying hysterically, trying to tell her what had happened and how sorry I was.

About ten minutes later I saw Philip looking through the kitchen window from outside. It must have looked like a murder scene from where he stood—the kitchen was full of blood. Within minutes Philip had smashed the front door window in and he was charging at me like a lunatic. ‘Why are you doing this to us?’ he shouted, throwing punches into the air. My mother and Jacqueline held him back, but he looked as though he didn’t know whether to hold me or to hit me. Then he broke down crying and my mother began to get upset.

She pulled me up off the floor and she tore my cardigan off, revealing my arms. ‘Look what you’re doing to yourself,’ she shrilled, holding me by the wrists. ‘Look at your fucking arms, Rachael. Look at them.’

‘I know what they look like, ma.’

‘You mustn’t! Do you even realise what you’re doing to yourself? Do you realise what you’re doing to us?’ she screamed. ‘Do you hate yourself that much that you would do this to yourself? Do you hate
me
that much that you would do this to yourself?’ She had held everything back for years. Now it was all coming out and she was sobbing. ‘I know that I haven’t been there for you, Rachael. Every day of my life, I have to live with that guilt. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. If I could turn back the clock, I would do everything differently. I wouldn’t send you to Cuba or even to Texas. I would be there for you and you’ll never know how sorry I am. I’ve tried to move on with my own life. But I’ll
never
be happy until I know that you’re happy. But I’m here now, Rachael. Look at me!’ she screamed, shaking my skinny frame. ‘I’m here now.’ She tightly wrapped her arms around me. ‘I’m here now.’

That was the first moment that I realised just how my addiction was affecting my family. All of my life everything had been about me.
My
pain,
my
hurt,
my
loneliness,
my
innocence. Pointing the finger at pretty much anyone who came across my path and who didn’t behave in the way that I wanted them to. The whole world had it in for me and I had no comprehension of anyone else’s troubles except my own. But something had changed within me over the previous weeks. I knew now that
I
was the problem and that only
I
could change things. This was my final turning point.

Chapter
16

    A NEW BEGINNING

A
fter my arrest for shop-lifting with Neil, my escape from Pearse Street and all the media frenzy that followed, I ended up right where I had started as an addict—in prison. But this time, for a different reason. This time, I was going to prison because I had committed a crime, sure, but also because I knew that prison would keep me away from drugs and give me the start I needed on the road to getting clean for good.

After my arrest for shop-lifting in July 2006 I arrived in the Dóchas Women’s Centre at about 9:30 p.m. and I was quickly strip-searched, showered and sent to the medical unit where I received a set of old pyjamas, old sheets and a duvet cover, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a miniature box of Cornflakes and a carton of milk. After being informed that I would see the doctor the next day, I was sent to a transitional two-person cell that was already occupied by a young girl from Bosnia. She was a striking looking girl with long blonde hair, milky skin and big sad eyes that told a story of hardship. She smiled at me as I entered the cell, looking exactly how I felt, frightened and vulnerable.

That night Maria told me all about her country and her family. I felt sorry for her, but I was also thankful to her because she distracted me from my withdrawals, which were getting worse by the minute. It was a long sleepless night of tossing and turning, battling with my own mind and trying my best not to torment myself by thinking about drugs. The next day myself and Maria were moved over to the real part of the prison. It was state of the art—six different houses with names like Maple, Hazel and Laurel. The houses were designed to segregate the prisoners from each other, depending on their situation and type of sentence. I was brought to Maple, which accommodated sixteen women, most of them drug addicts just like myself. They were in custody on various different charges, like me and were waiting to be dealt with by the courts. We had a communal kitchen, which appeared to be immaculate, and a sitting-room complete with a plasma
TV
. Our cells were not unlike bedrooms, with portable televisions and en-suite showers and toilets. Apart from not being allowed into other prisoners’ houses, we could come and go as we pleased within the grounds of Dóchas. It was a far cry from the old women’s prison, Mountjoy, which was cockroach-infested and overcrowded. The only thing that had not changed was the women who were imprisoned there. I knew most of them from Mountjoy and I was surprised that half of them were still alive.

After a long wait to be assessed by the doctor, I received my ninety mls of methadone. It was such a relief to feel my bones and my blood warm up, but this only took away the pains and helped me to function just enough to protect myself from the other women in Dóchas. There were many young girls trying to make a reputation and a name for themselves who were loud and boisterous. They would take any opportunity to humiliate you in front of others. By nature I wasn’t a fighter and at this stage in my life I hadn’t the energy to pretend that I was. All I could do was be myself and hope that knowing most of the old-timers would guarantee me some element of safety.

I quickly settled into my cell and established a routine of doing nothing. There were many activities that a prisoner could get involved in, such as going to school, getting lessons in hair and beauty or going to the fully equipped gym for a class in aerobics. But all I wanted to do was lock myself into my cell. Even though drugs were readily available beyond my four walls—and sometimes within them—I realised that being locked up was a chance to get myself off the heroin. I knew that this would be far from easy, but I made a decision to do my best.

It wasn’t helped by the fact that the days at Dóchas were long and boring. The highlight of my day was getting my methadone and wishing my time away. I knew that spending too much time on my own wasn’t a good idea, because I had too much time to think. For the time to go quickly, I needed to be around the other prisoners. It was July and the sun was blazing in the sky, so myself and some other girls would sit in the garden. Some of them would tell me all about their lives and how they ended up in prison. Most of the girls I spoke to lived lives that were full of regret and guilt. Others hadn’t an ounce of remorse and got great pleasure in telling me all about the crimes they had committed.

One girl in particular, who was much younger than me and whom I had known since she was a little kid, insisted on telling me in graphic detail about the murder she had committed. She had already been convicted and was looking at spending the foreseeable future in prison. We both sat alone in her cell as she animatedly told me her story. As I listened to this young, pretty girl, I thought to myself, Jesus, what happened to you. I was dizzy, I felt like vomiting and the hairs on my arms stood up with fright. I knew this girl looked up to me and she was trying to impress me. I couldn’t get out of her cell quickly enough. There but for the grace of God, I thought. I may not have murdered anyone, but I had done plenty of other bad things.

Sometimes I would sit and watch the girls get their drugs in. It baffled me how the prison officers wouldn’t even notice what the women were up to: they must have been blind. The women would congregate by the prison wall waiting for their ‘dropsy’ to be thrown over. All of a sudden, I would see a package flying over the wall. Then the women would scatter and one of them would stay behind, suspiciously looking around for her deal. This is how most of the arguments would start in prison. The women would take turns ‘sorting each other out’ with their drugs. Most of the time somebody would get left out or ripped off. This would lead to huge fights, with some pulling others down flights of stairs by the hair and even scalding each other with boiling water mixed with sugar. The ironic thing is that the Dóchas Centre had no facilities to help those of us who might have wanted to become drug-free. There were no counsellors to talk to or groups that would be of any benefit to us. The problem of drugs was being avoided, which defeated the purpose of any sort of rehabilitation.

I kept my head down and tried to stay focused. My court day was slowly approaching and I was certain that a bed would become available.

One morning my cell door was unlocked and my fluorescent lights were turned on. ‘Rachael, it’s time to get up, pack your stuff and be ready in twenty minutes.’ I was relieved and ready to say goodbye to Dóchas Prison. After packing all my belongings, I was given my methadone and brought to court. Once again I was put in a grotty little cell. I sat alone and prayed that the judge was in a good mood. My destiny lay in his hands. Staying clean for one week in prison was difficult enough. Anything more than that just seemed impossible. Please God, let there be a bed available, I thought as I stood to meet my fate in front of Judge Cormac Dunne.

‘Well, Ms Keogh, a week in prison has obviously done you the world of good. You look a lot better,’ the judge stated. ‘What is the situation with Cuan Dara?’ he addressed my solicitor.

‘Your honour, we have been in close contact with Cuan Dara, but due to the waiting list, a bed has not become available as yet.’ My heart sank. ‘They have informed us that the next bed that becomes available will be for Rachael, but that could take anything up to six weeks. I would, however, ask the court to take into consideration Ms Keogh’s circumstances. She is a young woman who has battled serious drug addiction for a number of years. She has had long periods of being completely drug-free and she says that she realises where she went wrong. She believes that if she is given the chance, she could become drug-free again, but she and her family maintain that going back to prison could be detrimental to any chance that she has in achieving this.’

‘Really? Where is her family?’

‘Her mother is with us in court today.’

‘Where are you, Mrs Keogh? Mrs Keogh, would you please come up here and tell us what you think?’ the judge requested. I was beginning to feel nauseous, but I knew that my mother would speak up for me. I heard shuffling sounds coming from behind me, then the echoing noise of my mother’s footsteps as she walked past me, up to her designated seat.

‘Well, Mrs Keogh, do you think that going back to prison would jeopardise Rachael’s chance of recovery?’ the judge asked. Everyone looked at my mother and waited for her to respond. She said nothing. She sat silent and frozen to the spot. Tell them what you think ma, tell them, I screamed in my head, hoping that somehow she would hear me.

‘Mrs Keogh?’ the judge said, urging her to respond.

Then my mother’s bottom lip began to wobble and I knew that she was about to cry. No, no, don’t cry, don’t cry, I thought, but my mother broke down and sobbed her heart out in front of the whole court.

‘Ok, Mrs Keogh, thank you very much. You may step down now,’ said the judge with a hint of sympathy in his voice. Then he turned and looked at me as if to say, ‘Shame on you for putting your poor mother through this.’ He shook his head and sighed heavily, addressing my solicitor. ‘Mrs Brennan, I have no choice but to put your client back into custody until I know for certain that what you are saying is true. I will hand this case over to the recommendation of Dr Brian Sweeney. He will assess Ms Keogh in the Dóchas Women’s Centre during next week. Next court date, one week from now.’

I was devastated to be back in prison. It really felt like I was back at square one in my recovery, but strangely enough, things turned out quite differently. Perhaps it was Dr Sweeney’s quiet listening to my family story and the chance to pour out my heart to him and not be judged, that made me realise I could do this, I
could
get clean. After telling Dr Sweeney everything during my second trip to Dóchas, it seemed that the worst was over. I even surprised myself by not using heroin while I was in prison. With the knowledge that I had been freely given from Narcotics Anonymous, I decided to take things one day at a time, or if needs be, one second at a time. I asked God to help me and it worked.

I was granted bail pending a place becoming available at Cuan Dara, on condition that I attend
NA
meetings. I was free. But I was still on ninety mls of methadone and I needed to stick with my plan and my bail conditions. If I did this, my doctor agreed to reduce my dose to forty mls of methadone and make me a priority for Cuan Dara detox centre. Keeping busy was a must, so I went to three and four
NA
meetings a day, surrounding myself with people who had gone before me. Whether I knew them or even liked them, it didn’t matter. Once I was with other recovering drug addicts, I knew that I wouldn’t use drugs.