Tomorrow - July 1st - I will be meth-free for as many years as I was addicted to it: 13! In this case, 13 is a lucky number, don't ya think?
Anyway, in honor of today being the 13th anniversary of the last day I ever used meth, I am re-posting my story for the newbies, and, to once again remind myself of just how far I've come.
My Story in a Nutshell
Hello. My name is Lori. I was an active meth addict for 13 years of my life. I have been clean since July 1, 1996.
I never used meth until around the age of twenty-seven, when the man who later became my husband offered me some at a party. I don't know why I said yes. I had always said no to everything except beer and pot. I was adamantly opposed to putting any other chemicals into my body.
When I looked down at what he had, my gut told me: 'turn in the opposite direction and run as fast as you can and don't look back!' It was such a strong reaction. Before that, I'd just say no and move on. But this time, my gut reaction was so strong, and so fearful.
This time however, I said yes, thus embarking on THE roller coaster ride from hell. It didn't take long before I was addicted, to be sure. At the end of 13 years, I was 85 lbs., I had lost all of my back teeth, top and bottom, my house was in foreclosure, my cars were being repossessed (I actually sold one for a song just to buy more dope), my husband was gone (still out there using to this day), my son had graduated high school and moved away to college, my step-son had gone to live with his bio mother, I was facing 11 felony counts against me, I had lost all self-respect, any sense of self-preservation, and all hope.
At that point, I truly believed that the only to quit meth was to die. And I welcomed that option. I was willing to die rather than keep living (and I use that term loosely) the way that I was.
My paranoia was completely out of control. I had 4 windows in my bedroom, all with miniblinds on them. Only now, they were duct taped all the way around the edges and down the sides and down the middle where the strings feed through the little holes (holes I was sure I was being spied on through). I saw things that weren't there, heard people that weren't there, and became convinced that my husband was about to murder me.
On July 1, 1996, I woke up after a sleeping pill induced nap - you know, 8 sleeping pills so I could get SOME rest after being awake for 6 or 7 days - only to have napped for maybe an hour. Something was different about this day. I felt like crap, but then I always did. What was it?
I know now that IT was my moment of clarity. I wasn't out of bed for more than 10 or 15 minutes. I knew I had no dope left, but of course, could fly in 10 different directions to get some, as I was a very good customer. I was getting dressed to go score, and something stopped me dead in my tracks walking from the bathroom to my bedroom. I was in the dining room, and I swear something or someone (who I now know to be my God) spoke to me and said: "If you stay here one more day, you'll die."
It freaked me out. Like I said, I had been seeing things and hearing things, and it was getting really scary. Especially because this time the voice was so clear, rather than the usual muffled noises. "If you stay here one more day, you'll die."
And I knew it was true. I knew this was real. I knew I was being given an ultimatum; a premonition, if you will.
I got on the phone immediately and called my husband at work and told him I wanted to go to rehab. I had had enough. He said I couldn't go into rehab, because then everyone would find out that we were on drugs. You see, I married into a prominent logging family in the Pacific Northwest, and lived in a rather small community. Everyone knew everyone, and my mother in law was the matriarch of it all.
I told him I had to stop and I had to stop now, or I believed that I was going to die - and soon! He told me to stop sniveling and do a line; it would make me feel better. I hung up the phone and immediately got the number of an inpatient rehab place that one of my tweaker buddies had gone to. I called and told them I needed help and wanted to check myself in. I gave the woman all of my insurance information and she said she'd call me back.
When she did, I was advised that my insurance didn't cover inpatient rehab, but that I could go to the local outpatient facility. That was a joke, because I knew where the facility was in our little town: right across the street from a motel that one of my main connects was dealing out of. No way, I told her. I needed inpatient help. She said she was sorry, but my insurance wouldn't cover it.
I cried into the phone for this woman to please help me. I told her that it was hard enough just to get to the point where I was asking, even begging, for help, and then to be turned away. I hung up the phone and felt more desperate than I have ever felt in my life. I was standing at a precipice, and I felt certain that I was going to fall, and that when I did, I was going to die.
My choices were two: go out and buy the BIGGEST bag of dope I could find and do it all at once and end the madness once and for all. Or, turn in the opposite direction and run as fast as I could and never look back. That is what I did.
I called my husband again and told him what the rehab place said. He said we didn't have a serious problem with meth because we were functional; we weren't like the others. I just said goodbye and hung up the phone.
Then I threw some clothes and mementos in the back of my car and drove north on Interstate 5 through California, Oregon, then Washington - I drove until the United States ended and Canada began. I found a KOA campground that had little campers for rent; I rented one, and after resting a bit, I found an NA meeting and went to it. From that day forward, I went to NA meetings every day, all day, for 3 straight months.
During those early months of my recovery I realized that I needed to go back to pick up the pieces of my shattered life, to try to get help for my husband, and to turn myself in to the police for a crime I committed while active in my addiction. My goal was to make amends as best I could to all I had harmed, and to clear my guilty conscience for the crime I had committed.
When I got home, my husband wanted nothing to do with me. After 15 years of marriage, it was over; he was divorcing me. The house was foreclosed upon, the cars were repossessed, and I was indicted on 11 felony counts.
Because I wouldn't name names, they threw the book at me. I had no criminal record whatsoever before these charges. The DA told the arraigning judge that they couldn't even find a parking ticket on me - and he, not my attorney, requested that the $50,000.00 bail be set aside, and that I be released on my own recognizance. I didn't go back to clear anyone else's conscience but my own, and all I wanted to do was whatever I had to do in order stand up to what I did, take my punishment, and clean the slate. They sent me to the state penitentiary for the first offense of my life for 4 years (3 sixteen month sentences, to be served concurrently - whew!). I spent a year in prison, and while I was there, my divorce became final.
That was it. I had lost it all. I had given it all away, for meth. I lost what is most precious, but that which most of us take for granted until it is gone: my freedom.
After I got out, I moved back to Southern California where I was born and raised, and with my family by my side, I have managed to gather most of the pieces of my shattered life and glue them back together. There are pieces still missing, and I don't think I'll ever find them. I am forever altered by my drug addiction and where it led me. I will never be the same again.
Miracles happen to those who believe in them, and for one brief moment back on July 1, 1996, during my moment of clarity, a miracle happened to me.
That's it in a nutshell.
Anyway, in honor of today being the 13th anniversary of the last day I ever used meth, I am re-posting my story for the newbies, and, to once again remind myself of just how far I've come.
My Story in a Nutshell
Hello. My name is Lori. I was an active meth addict for 13 years of my life. I have been clean since July 1, 1996.
I never used meth until around the age of twenty-seven, when the man who later became my husband offered me some at a party. I don't know why I said yes. I had always said no to everything except beer and pot. I was adamantly opposed to putting any other chemicals into my body.
When I looked down at what he had, my gut told me: 'turn in the opposite direction and run as fast as you can and don't look back!' It was such a strong reaction. Before that, I'd just say no and move on. But this time, my gut reaction was so strong, and so fearful.
This time however, I said yes, thus embarking on THE roller coaster ride from hell. It didn't take long before I was addicted, to be sure. At the end of 13 years, I was 85 lbs., I had lost all of my back teeth, top and bottom, my house was in foreclosure, my cars were being repossessed (I actually sold one for a song just to buy more dope), my husband was gone (still out there using to this day), my son had graduated high school and moved away to college, my step-son had gone to live with his bio mother, I was facing 11 felony counts against me, I had lost all self-respect, any sense of self-preservation, and all hope.
At that point, I truly believed that the only to quit meth was to die. And I welcomed that option. I was willing to die rather than keep living (and I use that term loosely) the way that I was.
My paranoia was completely out of control. I had 4 windows in my bedroom, all with miniblinds on them. Only now, they were duct taped all the way around the edges and down the sides and down the middle where the strings feed through the little holes (holes I was sure I was being spied on through). I saw things that weren't there, heard people that weren't there, and became convinced that my husband was about to murder me.
On July 1, 1996, I woke up after a sleeping pill induced nap - you know, 8 sleeping pills so I could get SOME rest after being awake for 6 or 7 days - only to have napped for maybe an hour. Something was different about this day. I felt like crap, but then I always did. What was it?
I know now that IT was my moment of clarity. I wasn't out of bed for more than 10 or 15 minutes. I knew I had no dope left, but of course, could fly in 10 different directions to get some, as I was a very good customer. I was getting dressed to go score, and something stopped me dead in my tracks walking from the bathroom to my bedroom. I was in the dining room, and I swear something or someone (who I now know to be my God) spoke to me and said: "If you stay here one more day, you'll die."
It freaked me out. Like I said, I had been seeing things and hearing things, and it was getting really scary. Especially because this time the voice was so clear, rather than the usual muffled noises. "If you stay here one more day, you'll die."
And I knew it was true. I knew this was real. I knew I was being given an ultimatum; a premonition, if you will.
I got on the phone immediately and called my husband at work and told him I wanted to go to rehab. I had had enough. He said I couldn't go into rehab, because then everyone would find out that we were on drugs. You see, I married into a prominent logging family in the Pacific Northwest, and lived in a rather small community. Everyone knew everyone, and my mother in law was the matriarch of it all.
I told him I had to stop and I had to stop now, or I believed that I was going to die - and soon! He told me to stop sniveling and do a line; it would make me feel better. I hung up the phone and immediately got the number of an inpatient rehab place that one of my tweaker buddies had gone to. I called and told them I needed help and wanted to check myself in. I gave the woman all of my insurance information and she said she'd call me back.
When she did, I was advised that my insurance didn't cover inpatient rehab, but that I could go to the local outpatient facility. That was a joke, because I knew where the facility was in our little town: right across the street from a motel that one of my main connects was dealing out of. No way, I told her. I needed inpatient help. She said she was sorry, but my insurance wouldn't cover it.
I cried into the phone for this woman to please help me. I told her that it was hard enough just to get to the point where I was asking, even begging, for help, and then to be turned away. I hung up the phone and felt more desperate than I have ever felt in my life. I was standing at a precipice, and I felt certain that I was going to fall, and that when I did, I was going to die.
My choices were two: go out and buy the BIGGEST bag of dope I could find and do it all at once and end the madness once and for all. Or, turn in the opposite direction and run as fast as I could and never look back. That is what I did.
I called my husband again and told him what the rehab place said. He said we didn't have a serious problem with meth because we were functional; we weren't like the others. I just said goodbye and hung up the phone.
Then I threw some clothes and mementos in the back of my car and drove north on Interstate 5 through California, Oregon, then Washington - I drove until the United States ended and Canada began. I found a KOA campground that had little campers for rent; I rented one, and after resting a bit, I found an NA meeting and went to it. From that day forward, I went to NA meetings every day, all day, for 3 straight months.
During those early months of my recovery I realized that I needed to go back to pick up the pieces of my shattered life, to try to get help for my husband, and to turn myself in to the police for a crime I committed while active in my addiction. My goal was to make amends as best I could to all I had harmed, and to clear my guilty conscience for the crime I had committed.
When I got home, my husband wanted nothing to do with me. After 15 years of marriage, it was over; he was divorcing me. The house was foreclosed upon, the cars were repossessed, and I was indicted on 11 felony counts.
Because I wouldn't name names, they threw the book at me. I had no criminal record whatsoever before these charges. The DA told the arraigning judge that they couldn't even find a parking ticket on me - and he, not my attorney, requested that the $50,000.00 bail be set aside, and that I be released on my own recognizance. I didn't go back to clear anyone else's conscience but my own, and all I wanted to do was whatever I had to do in order stand up to what I did, take my punishment, and clean the slate. They sent me to the state penitentiary for the first offense of my life for 4 years (3 sixteen month sentences, to be served concurrently - whew!). I spent a year in prison, and while I was there, my divorce became final.
That was it. I had lost it all. I had given it all away, for meth. I lost what is most precious, but that which most of us take for granted until it is gone: my freedom.
After I got out, I moved back to Southern California where I was born and raised, and with my family by my side, I have managed to gather most of the pieces of my shattered life and glue them back together. There are pieces still missing, and I don't think I'll ever find them. I am forever altered by my drug addiction and where it led me. I will never be the same again.
Miracles happen to those who believe in them, and for one brief moment back on July 1, 1996, during my moment of clarity, a miracle happened to me.
That's it in a nutshell.
- and we were required to find work. I was hired by a plumbing outfit in
Venice Beach, who only hired ex-convicts, because the owner was one himself.
)
