I’m no kid in a kid’s game 
I did what I did, I’ve got no one to blame 
But I don’t give up, no, I don’t ever give up 
It’s all I’ve got, it’s my claim to fame 
I’m no fighter but I’m fighting 
This whole world seems uninviting 
But I don’t give up, no, I don’t ever give up 
I fall down sometimes, sometimes I come back flying

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything here, so I’d like to open with something positive, something not too depressing.

I haven’t eaten for days and my stomach is flatter than it’s been in a long, long time.  If the lighting is just right, I believe there’s an actual six-pack happening there.

Unfortunately, that’s about the best I can muster on the positive-thinking front.

I’ve relapsed.

There, it’s been said. Or rather, typed, for the pedantic among you.

I’m not sure how to begin writing about this. So much shame, so much sadness.  My head is still clouded from a week-long crystal meth binge, so maybe I’ll start with more recent events and work backward.

I spent Sunday alone in my bedroom (my husband is in Scotland doing his show at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival), smoking meth and watching porn. Pretty much par for the course, except that I wasn’t getting quite as high as I wanted to. Something wasn’t working. I added poppers (amyl nitrate inhalant) to the mix.  That helped, but only a little. I smoked more, and tried exhaling into a plastic bag and sucking the vapor back into my lungs…out again, in again, the bag inflating and deflating like some strange medical device.  That did it. My head was now swimming in a sea of meth fog, and it felt amazing.  My dick, however, was not feeling it.  Shriveled and cold, it refused to respond to the lurid images on the television screen.

More poppers.  Nothing.

I retrieved a packet of those over-the-counter male “enhancement” pills, and popped them both.

I sat back and waited.

Nothing again. Dammit.

Then, I recalled a trick that someone had told me about, long ago during a previous relapse.

I pulled out the baggie of meth and retrieved a small sliver of the glass-like crystal.  Grimacing with disgust and apprehension, I gently inserted the tiny shard into a very, very small orifice that should NEVER have anything described as a shard inserted into it.  I’m far too embarrassed to say where I put that piece of crystal, but I’ll help you figure it out by telling you it was not a nostril, it was not my ass, it was not my ears, eyes nor  mouth.

I’ll give you moment.

Okay, good. You’ve got it.

Now, I’ll give you a moment so you can blanch like I am right now remembering it, maybe even vomit a little if you are of a sensitive disposition.

Back with me? okay.

I lay back in my bed, and waited to see what would happen.

I didn’t have long to wait:  almost immediately, a feeling of cold washed over my body, and I shuddered. Next, a uniform sheen of sweat covered my skin from head to toe.  I got out of bed and put a heavy bathrobe on, pulling it closed around myself.  I got back into bed and waited for this weird feeling to pass.

It didn’t. Instead, it escalated until I was shaking so hard from chills that I had to clench my teeth closed to keep from biting my tongue.

My body went from cold to hot, back to cold and then back to hot again like a fucking thermostat with faulty wiring.  My head was filled with the sound of my heart beating: Whoosh….Whoosh….Whoosh.

At this point, I suspected I was dying. I should have used my remaining strength to dial my cell phone, call 911, call a friend, ask for help.

But I didn’t want help. I wanted to die. I hadn’t intended for this to happen, but this seemed a very fitting way for someone like me to go out.  Obvious, yes.  Predictable, yes. But fitting. The thought of looking into yet another pair of disappointed eyes was completely unbearable to me.

I thought of my husband in Scotland, and of all I’ve put him through in our years together.  I scrawled a barely intelligible goodbye note to him, pathetic as all the other ones in the past, and then somehow managed to put down a large bowl of water and another of food for my dogs, who seemed very stressed out watching their daddy stumble around the house trying to take breaths that were increasingly harder to muster. I was nervous it would take a couple of days for my body to be found, and I didn’t want my dogs going hungry during that time.  I also didn’t want them snacking on my toxic corpse, if I’m completely honest.

That’s pretty much the last thing I remember, until waking up a couple of hours later on the daybed under the giant tree in our garden, still shivering, my hands and feet cold and numb, the rosary that usually hung over our bed inexplicably around my neck.  I’m not sure why I went outside, but if past experience is any indication, I probably didn’t want to die inside the house Patrick would be living in when he returned from Europe. Kinda funny how I can muster tiny bits of respect when necessary, but completely disregard the big-picture respect that would have kept me from doing meth in the home we share.  Funny, but absolutely not funny at the same time. Kinda like a Benny Hill episode, I suppose.

I lay there for another hour or so, waiting to see which way this was gonna go. Still shaking uncontrollably, still covered in goose-flesh despite the warm night air.  Forcing myself to slow down my breathing, crying from the guilt and the shame and that feeling of complete despair.

Finally, I texted my a good friend from the rooms of recovery: I’m in trouble. I need your help.”

He was by my side in under an hour, despite not having a driver’s license or a vehicle, his arm around me and comforting me in soothing tones that began to steady my breathing.  Two hours later, around midnight, another friend, alerted by the first, arrived, enveloping me with even more love that I felt completely undeserving of.  As I lobbed comments filled with self-hate in their direction, they would each bat them away with the expertise of a Billie Jean King or a John McEnroe.

“I’m so ashamed.”  (“there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing has changed except a date.”)

“I’m so sorry I lied to you.” (“that’s what we addicts do…we lie. It’s normal.”)

I love these men so much. I still can’t believe what they did for me Sunday night: calming me down, reassuring me that I was not going to die.  One of the benefits of sobriety, besides sobriety itself, is the close friendship I’ve formed with these men. It pains me so much to know I’ve lied to their faces, not to mention my beautiful husband, my mentor Jonathan, and the two beautiful young people I was helping with their own sobriety.

Right now, two days later, I feel sick. Physically and mentally.  Crystal meth use creates a brain fog that allows entire days…weeks, even…to roll by without solidly imprinting on the brain memories of the events that occurred.  It is only when one stops using, and the drug fades from the bloodstream, that these shameful memories begin to emerge, flickering into my consciousness like a horror movie footage spliced randomly into a sitcom.

I’m scared. I’m disappointed in myself. I feel hopeless.

I’ve already made the initial round of painful phone calls: my sobriety mentor, my husband, my mother, and my two dear friends I mentored until this relapse. Now, I’m doing the other thing I’m ready to do at this point: write about it.

The coming weeks are going to be filled with much rebuilding, much introspection and a lot of humility.  I’m still too foggy to place my finger with any certainty on the reasons for this relapse, though I can say with some certainty that sex probably had a lot to do with it.  The specifics, the underlying feelings that triggered it, are going to take some time and some clarity to ascertain. But I will ascertain them, and I will use that information to make sure this never happens again.

I’m not sure what benefit this post offers anyone aside from myself. But right now, writing about this is going to take a huge weight of guilt and shame and secrets off of my shoulders. Maybe, perhaps, someone who is thinking of relapsing….or who has relapsed but things haven’t gotten too ugly yet….will read this and recommit to sobriety.

Part of me wants to give up, throw in the towel…but I know I need to get back on the recovery horse. That the horse seems to be staring at me with contempt, disgust and judgement is only a figment of my imagination. I’ve been here before, many times.  And I’m tired of it. I hate this fucking place, and that fucking horse is the only way out of here.

I’m sorry. Yup, that’s me, saying “sorry” again. I’m sorry for lying to my husband. I’m sorry for lying to my friends. I’m sorry for bailing on commitments with lame or zero explanations. I’m sorry for ignoring my higher power, and I’m sorry I stopped praying.  Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.

This written mea culpa is my first boot in the stirrup.

I have a lot of work to do now. Please keep me in your prayers. I’ll need as many as I can get.