I don't think I'd ever had such little sleep as we did that weekend. It amazed me to see the time on the clock; it'd be 3am or 5am, and it'd feel like the middle of the day to my mind. I'd always had a good internal clock, so that memory stands out strongly in my head.
Your body, however, takes a beating on this crap. (Actually, given the state of my memory at this time in my life, I'm sure your brain does too. I mean, it's made with freakin' battery acid - how could it not?) But as you'd start to come down, the lack of food and sleep would cause your body to feel like you'd been put through a press. I'd feel actual physical achiness and bone weary. You'd have to force food down or agonize over trying to fall over that brink into sleep so that you could function as normal. That weekend, however, there was nothing to keep me from going for the remedy in the form of that bitter powdery line. I didn't have to keep up any "normal" looking role or be a responsible, attentive parent.
That evening (or maybe it was the middle of the night) we were tackling the last of our project - the stairwell. It's the highest ceiling in our place. There's a main room in the "cottage" with an open stairwell that runs up the side to a balcony and our master bedroom above it. So, the ceiling there, which I needed to "cut in" is probably at 20 feet from the main floor. I had wedged the ladder from one of the top steps, leaning the top edge to the angled ceiling opposite the stair. And was using this angled base as a
Mary freaked, and had me increasingly convinced that I'd not thought this plan through - and that somehow, the ladder would work it's way through or beyond the ceiling and cause me to tumble to the floor if I put much weight on it. I laughed her off; I was a good student in high school and college! I knew there was no way, mechanically, that the ladder could come down. But it still shocks me, today, how much the drug could make you so paranoid that reality was unclear. I look at that wall today and still see it's flaws, I was so eager to get down from that ladder that night.
Anyway, the painting was finished and we head home. What's vivid for me that particular night, as I lay awake once again next to Joe, was a strong feeling that I'd burnt a hole clear through the back of my nose into my brain. I could feel it burning, the air rushing through it. Couldn't believe what I was willing to do to myself.
That Monday was the beginning of the rest of my life. I'd like to say it was because I'd decided that was enough. That I was done with the shame, the lying, the lowering of myself. Rather, I'd called Mary when I woke up experiencing that achy, weary blood-drained-from-me feeling. And she gave me a gift.
She told me that her supplier had gone to jail. Apparently, he'd been this tri-state's main guy. The Feds had been following him for months. Though I'd never gone with her to pick up our supply, I felt my first sense of "luck". He'd been watched for months, and I'd been just one step away.
Ironically, that very night was my night to hold small group at our house. That's the strange thing in all of this. My double life kept me active at our church this entire time. I was involved there more than a couple times a week, either within the music ministry, singing every Sunday morning, helping out with planning retreats, writing for their monthly newsletter, or being candid every other week with my own, dearly thought of, small group members. I didn't feel as though I was living a lie. As much as I was devoted to my addiction, I was equally devoted to my spiritual life. Deep inside, I knew that He would offer me a way out and redemption, but up until that time I was just too weak to walk that path.
So, small group was at my house. As usual, I was procrastinating my reading for that evening. I was still achey, I needed to nap, the *last* thing I wanted to do was to host group, but that has always been my saving grace. I had to prove my goodness. Had to prove I wasn't as messed up as I felt. Had to follow through with the "good" role. Sitting down to read, a cold sweat ran down my spine. We were working on Rick Warren's Purpose Driven Life, and the chapter that week was on temptation. That we were as sick as our secrets. That a small group, a Christian community, couldn't be healthy when there were skeletons in your closet.
And I knew. I needed to tell. It was being held at my house, and we were on this specific chapter because I was meant to spill the beans. I'd flirted with the idea of doing that ever since Kirby died. I didn't like living in the shame that I experienced daily. Feeling like such a bad person. I mean, METH AMPHETAMINE! ME?? Just as people were always shocked to find out that I hid my smoking cigarettes, it was so out of my exterior character, they'd never suspect meth from a girl like me. But it all came back to the fear of losing the drug. And justifying it to myself that if no one knew, if I was holding up my end of normalcy, it couldn't really be that bad.
That night, sitting around my dining room table, a newer member monopolized the conversation. She'd been experiencing panic attacks out of the blue, and a severe depression. She came out of this depression feeling an overwhelming sense of anger, realizing how much she'd accomodated for everyone else in her home. How much everyone else's needs caused her to ignore her own which, in her own blindness at the time, caused the mental instability. I found no commonality in listening to her that night - I was blissfully happy in my own marriage and family life; no complaints. I just wished she'd shut up so I could follow through with telling someone about my (unexplained) use of meth.
Clearly, I remember the night coming to an abrupt halt that evening. When the discussion rolled back to the chapter in the book, the skeletons in the closet, I said, "When I read this, I really wondered what people here tonight would be willing to share about their own closets. Who would be willing to really open up. Lay it all out there."
Utter silence.
It was like I was sitting there completely naked. All eyes were on
me.
"Like what?" my friend, Dana, asked.
Think. Think quick. What might we - any of us - be hiding? What am *I* hiding?
Oh God, I'm not ready.
"Well, I mean, I smoke. Not many people know that. My kids don't
anyway."
Silence again. Eyes.
Taking a large cross with a chain attached on the table, Dana said, "Well, it's not like your doing this." And she proceeded to pinch the chain into a line and lower her head to snuff the metal. This is imprinted on my mind like a grid. My heart stopped.
I was stunned. Oh. My. God. She knew. "No, no. Right. Nothing like that."
Who knows what happened after that. All I know is that it dragged interminally onward, Jeanette whining about her homelife and how selfish she was enjoying to be. I couldn't wait for them to all shut up and get the hell out of my house.
Until they actually were leaving and I thought, I'd not told. I missed my chance. This was it - if I didn't do it tonight, I was sure I'd go back. I'd find a way to get another connection. I needed a lifeline!
So, alone once again in my house, I reached for the phone. Dana - the one that surely knew anyway - was the best one to approach. She was ten years older than me. Non-judgemental. Wise. Loving. She was a single mom for several years and just...open-minded. I felt quite surely that she wouldn't throw the wrath of God on me.
I could feel my heart beating in my throat. I thought of hanging up several times as the phone rang.
"You know," I said.
"What?"
"You know what I"ve been doing. You did that with the cross thing on the table. You know."
She had no clue what I was talking about. I had to lay it all out there in shame. I felt like utter scum, street trash, telling her what I was doing behind everyone's back. The life I was leading. Meth ampetamine! Oh my God! How could I be doing
that?
As tears run down my cheeks as I write that memory, I'm humbled by how poorly I thought of myself. How much I'd deluded myself into believing that it was "no big deal". That I could still maintain "normal". And how blessed I was to find someone to confide in - someone that wouldn't condemn me to the hell I felt I deserved at that point. Someone that would love me enough to listen. To suggest help. To open the door to forgiveness.
It was the beginning of my spiritual journey. The real one. Not the "church going" one.
No comments:
Post a Comment