The Big Fix (2 page)

Chapter 1

THE OTHER SIDE

W
hen I get to work this morning, I glance through the notifications on my phone and something unusual catches my attention. This is more than someone liking my picture on Instagram. This isn't telling me about a 15 percent off sale, if I can just drag myself into a hideously crowded store. This is something different. “I wanted to tell you that you saved my life. When I was . . .” Someone must have left a message on one of my profiles. Even though it seems like I have so many ways to connect with the world, there are still so many moments that are lonely. I often think about how addiction is the constant state of dissatisfaction and disconnection
with the positive things in life. Many days, even without drugs, I still feel that state of unease. This phone, these messages, let me connect with others who understand. When I get a minute away from my desk, I'll sneak off to the bathroom to read the rest of the message. For now, I need to focus on getting myself together for a long day at the office.

My morning started off with the cat jumping on my head. He is really an asshole. I love him, of course, but his behavior can be intolerable even by cat standards. When that didn't wake me up, he stuck his paw in my eye. He is so mean that many people refuse to come over to my house—they are afraid of him. He reminds me of myself. He is sweet to those he loves, but is constantly on the defensive. We both are so afraid of being wounded, we end up spending a lot of time curled up in a ball, holding on for dear life. Anyway, apparently he thinks 5:02
AM
is a perfect time to eat. I, on the other hand, wanted to savor my last twenty minutes in bed.

My night was filled with tossing and turning—otherwise known as the joy of perimenopause. I still cannot understand how I can be in perimenopause when my youngest is still in diapers. My relatively late-in-life third child reveals a whole other realm of my ironic life decisions. Having a toddler in my forties is exhausting. Not quite staying-up-for-three-days-on-cocaine exhausting, but exhausting nevertheless. When my three children get through college, I will be well into my sixties. But this is all part of a life I never imagined, much less planned. When I was young, I had dreamed of having a baby one day. Then I traded in that dream for a bag of heroin, and my plans changed to “live fast and die by thirty.”

Who could have ever imagined me, the junkie whore, as a caring mother? Yet when I gave birth to my children, mothering came naturally to me. I will always remember them as my beautiful miracle babies snuggling with me in the hospital. They were the true gifts of my recovery, gifts beyond my comprehension. The joy I felt as a new mother was easily the highlight of my life. I suppose it also provided me with a dose of the happy chemicals I read about on the mothering forums. Nursing and cuddling with a child are supposed to provide oxytocin, which results in a warm and content emotional state. I suppose I have gotten attached to my natural baby high. Giving up nursing, that feeling of connection, as my children grow is bittersweet. When I formed this bond with my first child, it was as if I had run a marathon. I felt as if I had achieved the impossible. I had overcome addiction and created a new life. My children were the manifestation of that. Nurturing each child reminded me of how I had nurtured myself.

Not that it's always been easy. Given my history, I had to fight with medical providers when I wanted to nurse my baby. Nursing is the last link to joy-filled time after having a new baby. Even now, I'm still bitter over a thoughtless comment a nurse made when I'd just had my first child and she saw on my chart that I used to be an intravenous drug user.

“Are you sure this is okay?” she asked me.

I pretended not to hear her. I stroked the hair of my baby as I fed her. I drank in her smell. The smell of my new baby was more intoxicating than any drug combination I had put into my body. I experienced more love in that moment than I have ever felt through a needle. For a brief second, my life
was complete. That empty pit in my heart I had filled with substances was gone. It was as if those ten years on drugs had been erased with the birth of my daughter. I was more than an addict. I was a powerful woman. Finally, I had created something good in the universe. When my daughter arrived in my arms, I was reborn.

She started again. “Are you sure you should be doing that?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, still half ignoring her.

Nurses were constantly coming in and out of my room, offering unsolicited advice. While the majority of the medical staff were helpful, it only took one to sour my experience.

She continued. “Are you sure you should be breastfeeding the baby with your history?”

I wanted to throw something across the room. Can't she see that I have changed? Can't this woman see that I'm a new person? The arrogance—on my part. I actually believed I could be a normal woman. I actually believed I could be accepted as something beyond my history. I ignored her again. She needed to get the fuck out of my room.

The buzz of the alarm interrupts me. I had turned over in hopes of getting five more minutes of sleep. I guess I slipped into a dream, or, really, a painful memory. My husband is already at work, long gone. He is a solid, hardworking man. He is the type of man who supports me while giving me the freedom to be myself. He works in construction, and I love him for his white T-shirts and blue jeans. He provides stability to balance out the crazy thoughts that run around in my mind. He loves me without judgment. I respect him, especially on a day like today. Many mornings, he leaves the
house at 4:30
AM
for the long commute to his jobs down the peninsula. I sometimes wonder how he can function with so little sleep.

I give myself exactly one hour to get ready in the morning. I have to feed myself, wake the kids, feed the kids, dress the kids, make my lunch, make their lunch, and get out the door without losing my shit. I wonder how many parents out there are also about to pull their hair out with stress. I find it strangely comforting when I see another family struggling with their children in my morning travels. When a mom has to pick her fitful toddler off the ground or I see a dad struggling with a stroller on the train, I give them an empathetic nod of recognition. I see you, weary warrior. Having children is hard work. So many things to do in the morning! It will be a miracle if I can do all of this without raising my voice. Two kids go off to the elementary school and one to daycare. Fortunately, I have some help with transporting the big kids to school.

I had a “little” incident a year or so ago when I had a panic attack while driving seventy miles an hour on the highway like a madwoman to get to the train station so I could get to work on time. I am not sure if it was the three and a half cups of coffee a day I drank to stay awake. Maybe I had just reached some type of mental mommy critical mass. The panic attack was an ugly scene that made me question the way I managed my life and my time. That was one of many breaking points. After that, I knew it was time to look for some new solutions. One of the gifts of my recovery is that I have learned to ask for help. One of the teachers at the school kindly agreed to drop off my older kids for less
money than I spent on gas. That change makes my morning flow instead of coming to a screeching halt. I also cut back on the caffeine.

In the category of everyday miracles, both my trains were on time this morning. This makes me feel like the commuter equivalent of a rock star. I made it to work with a few minutes to spare this morning. In fact, my son cooperated every step of the way. I had the assistance of some snacks for minor bribes. The best part of not driving in the morning is I get a few extra cuddles with my son. As he sits next to me looking out the window, I bury my head in his hair. That sweet smell brings a smile to my face. The softness of his hand inside my hand can make being ten minutes late seem completely insignificant when it used to be everything. I used to practically have a mental breakdown if I was late. I was that irritating person who always showed up early for everything. Now, I feel satisfied if I arrive at all with clothes on that match. I am no longer just working harder, I am working smarter. Of my four years of business school, this seems to be the one thing I remember. For my own mental health, I need this time with my son. I deserve this time. When he waves goodbye to me, my heart breaks. Mothering time is over.

I snap back to my routine at my desk. In the middle of multitasking, my mind frequently wanders off. Fortunately, I seem to have some sort of muscle memory that can help me navigate even when I am on autopilot. I have so many things to cram into a single day. I come back into the moment in front of a white screen full of emails needing my attention. I have twenty minutes or so to stuff my face with yogurt and
tea. Supposedly hydration is the key to balance. I find this amusing, since the only hydration I practiced before my thirties involved a syringe and a cotton for a filter. Now, here I am drinking tea by the fistful, waiting for the staff to start trickling in. Since today was a miracle day with
ten
whole extra minutes, I have time to look at my new message.

           
I saw the movie Black Tar Heroin: The Dark End of the Street in high school. The film had a huge impact on me. It only briefly stopped me from trying opiates at 20 years old. My boyfriend got me started with OxyContin and switched to heroin when oxy became too expensive. There is no harm reduction here, no treatment I can afford. After years in and out of jails and rehab, I have 32 days clean. I saw some of your videos. You are such an inspiration to me.

The writer pleads with me to explain to her what I did to stay clean. I push myself back into my chair. I need to take a moment. When I read these kinds of messages, I try to knock all of the elements of my rational mind down a notch and let my emotions flood in. It would be really easy to provide a long list of clinical advice. First you need to do this, then that, and good luck to you. But that is not what this person is seeking. When people contact me, they want a connection. They saw me on the screen. They feel as if they know me. This person wants to connect with me, the addict. She wants to know what I did to put myself in that place again when I was struggling to keep the needle out of
my neck. She doesn't want some rote catchphrases devised in rehab. She wants me to reflect and respond.

Her words make my heart ache. I know this pain. While thirty-two days is enough time to physically feel much better, the road to real restoration is a much longer path. When I look at her face in the compressed photo next to her name, I see myself at twenty-seven. She has that overly made-up face, a mask to deflect from her emotions. I remember standing at the mirror putting on eyeliner like it was somehow a ring that would hold back my tears. I caked foundation on my scars, applied lipstick to draw away from my chipped front tooth.

She sees me as a heroine.

To a generation of young people struggling with addiction, I am known as the heroine of heroin. The documentary this woman is referring to
—Black Tar Heroin
—featured me when I was a junkie in my mid-twenties. It was aired on HBO in 1998 and still has a cult following around the world. Articles have been written about me since then extolling the fact that I have done what seemed completely impossible: I have been clean since February 27, 1998. That makes an impression on anyone who knows anything about this drug. When I agreed to do the film, I thought I would soon be dead from an overdose or homicide and that my story would be no more than a cautionary tale that would live on long after I was gone. My story is now one of transformation. I have escaped what has killed so many others.

This young woman is reaching out to me for answers. I might have a few, but I'm not sure I can fully explain in a few sentences what has taken me so long to learn. I can
try. I need to explain that recovery is a long process full of ups and downs. Getting off heroin is just the start. The real work comes after you put down the drugs. Heroin controls every element of your life. Heroin dictates your finances, your sex life, your family relationships, your mental health, your physical health, your spiritual condition.

I always take a few minutes to collect my thoughts before replying to such a thoughtful message. I reflect on the massive changes in my life since I stopped slowly poisoning myself. Why was I one of the few to get out of that life? Why was it me? What is it about me that made my story so different from that of hundreds of young people I knew who died in addiction? I was what is known as a low-bottom junkie. My using took me into horrors rarely witnessed, and rarely escaped.

I was using heroin during the era of AIDS. When a friend first pushed a needle into my arm, it was a used one. We would use the same needle—hoping it wouldn't break off in our arm—until the numbers on the side of the syringe wore off. Needle exchange programs and other services to assist users were nonexistent where I grew up in the Midwest. If you went to the hospital for an overdose or an infection, you could easily be taken to jail. People who had overdosed were dumped on the street, in hallways, or, if they were lucky, outside the hospital. A heroin user was considered to be the lowest of the low in society. We were told AIDS was cosmic retribution for our sins. The world would be a better place if we all just died off.