Fat Fat Fatty

I realize that it’s been so long since posting that I will never be able to accurately describe everything that’s recently happened. Let me just review the highlights. I apologize in advance for the possibly lengthy post.

I’m Not Crazy, Get Me Out Of Here!

A lot has changed since my last post which, although I’ve yet to reread it, pretty much glorifies my drug addiction. In case it came off as confusing, let me clarify a few things. I was miserable. Starting down the road of methamphetamine addiction was one of the worst decisions in my life. Of course, I’d suspected this ahead of time, which is why I did it. Go me.

Friday, March 2nd: I started my day early since I couldn’t sleep, and even though I was disgusted with my habit, I was all to excited to take my first few lines of the day. I took the opportunity to spend the morning driving aimlessly through the dark cities. My thoughts wandered, eventually settling on dark suicidal feelings of wanting to buy a gun to shoot myself in the head. I hated the way I felt and was ready for it all to end.

By the time I got to work, over two hours early, I was exhausted but buzzed from my morning high. The ideas of my death continued to float through my brain. It felt like having ants crawling on you that you can’t scratch. Metaphorically. I was officially in hell. My life was swirling down the drain quickly and I saw my death in my immediate future. I had to make a decision. Did I really want to die?

Shortly after normal working hours began, I took refuge in my coworkers cubicle and started to confide in her, hinting at my hardcore drug use and suicidal plans. She stayed with me. Although she had a mountain of work to finish, she talked to me for hours until I agreed to go with her to my boss’s office and ask about a leave of absence to get into a treatment facility. This conversation led to a similar one with my HR department. Though I didn’t know it at the time, this was my last day at work for a while.

Later that day, I had my appointment with Dr. M. On my session sheet I wrote that I wanted to talk about a treatment facility. The office worker (who’s far nicer than my actual doctor) talked to me briefly, asking what exactly I was looking for. I explained my suicidal thoughts and anxiety, along with a mention of detoxing. I told her I wanted to go to SR but they rarely have beds available. A few moments later, she told me she called and said they had a bed available and waiting for me if I wanted to go that evening. I spoke with my doctor, who seemed to care less what I did, and decided to take the opportunity to change my life. For real this time. I went home and quickly packed my backpack with necessities. Before I left, I took four lines of meth, then flushed the rest, as well as my stash of pot, down the toilet. It was worth about $150 total and was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make. But I wanted to get better. I was so tired. I tossed my grinder and pipe in a trash bag before nodding and heading to my car.

The admission process was long and tiring, but I made it in. After I was inside for good, I realized I no longer wanted to be there. I didn’t want help. I wanted to get out and pull the trigger on life. I looked around at everyone packed into the crowded room and felt like crying forever. What have I done?

The first day, Saturday, March 3rd, was by far the worst day. I was surprised to find that this hospital was very different from RW. They made you get out of bed and locked the doors all day. No sleeping all day for me. Furthermore, you were forced into a group room for most of the day. I was irritated and angry at the other patients. They were loud and I hated them. I wanted out. How the fuck was I supposed to get out of this? I had random crying spells throughout the day and refused to eat almost anything. As soon as they opened the rooms, I went straight to bed. My roommate, an older lady who was addicted to benzos, told me that the first day is always the hardest and insisted it would get better. Whatever, I thought as I laid my head down, exhausted both mentally and physically.

Each day at the hospital, things got a little easier. I started opening up in groups and befriending other patients. The doctor put me on a new anti-depressant and a sleeping pill. I ended up staying for eight days. I won’t go into too much detail since it would take too long, but the doctors approved my LoA request for work and short-term disability (don’t know if it was accepted yet.) Social services helped me call my mother and finally tell her everything. She asked my mom if I could come stay with them for a few weeks to get out of my current situation. This decision was mostly based on the fact that apparently residential mental health facilities will usually not be covered by insurance until there’s been several hospitalizations. Basically, once again I would have to get worse to get better. And to my surprise, my parents agreed and bought me a ticket for the same day as my release. I was headed to California. Despite the incredibly difficult conversations to come, I was excited to see them. I was ready for a vacation from my life and this was my chance to get my shit figured out.

Parental Controls: Activated

I flew out on March 10th. While reviewing my ticket at the gate, I realized they booked me first class tickets. Sweeeeeet, I thought. Free booze. I took full advantage. By the time I arrived in San Francisco, I was so drunk I could barely walk. Bad start to my reunion. I was so far gone, I didn’t notice my mother’s significant weight loss until the following day. I spent the weekend helping my parents any way that I possibly could. I also made sure to stick to my new diet of eating only a few bites of food a day. In Georgia, I was steady at about 270 pounds. By the time I got to my parents trailer in Cali, I weighed just under 250. I’m not bothered by my eating habits. Call it what you want. My parents have made little fuss about it. It’s easy to concentrate on my eating when all they talk about is weight loss. They’ve both lost about 60-80 pounds each in recent months and eat fairly healthily. I nibble. One hard-boiled egg for breakfast. Five or six carrots for lunch. A quarter of a salad for dinner. On nights like tonight when I can’t control myself, I just quickly make my way to the bathroom to throw up. Before sleeping, I take a few laxatives to help get rid of the rest. I’ve been doing really well too. Between going into the hospital and now, I went about two weeks without having to poop. I feel like I can control at least this one aspect of my life. And thought I’m still disgusted with what I see in the mirror, it helps a little.

My parents and I have been on edge. I’ve been brutally honest with them, down to telling them more than once that I want to kill myself. I know it hurts them. Believe me, it hurts me too. But I hate lying to them. Except about my eating habits. That’s my little secret. Other than that, it’s been up and down. I’ve had some episodes that have scared them pretty bad. Last night, I got way drunk and started throwing a fit. Before I went to bed, I took three times the medication I was supposed to, hoping by some miracle that I wouldn’t wake up in the morning. But alas, here I am.

I don’t know what I’m doing here or really, what I’m doing at all. My parents and I are all at a loss as for what to do. I don’t know what I want anymore. The feelings of wanting to die are still coming in waves and more seriously that before. I still feel drugged out from the Klonopin they put me on but not in a good way. More just a sleepy, half-drunk way.

Right now I’m on:

Effexor XR – 150mg – 1x morning

Klonopin – 0.5mg – 3x daily

Serequil – 50mg – 1x evening

I don’t think they are working as intended and it makes it really hard to keep taking them when I don’t feel any different. But I promised I’d try, so I’ve been taking them anyways. My parents have pretty much now banned me from drinking and gambling after last night. I’m both angry for the restrictions and relieved that they are finally taking this seriously. They’re worried. And that… satisfies me? I want them to be worried. Because I am. I’m worried I won’t live to see my 22nd birthday…

 

I’m really tired now. I’ll try and write when I can, but since I have limited computer access now, it may be a few days. Until then…

True Self Punishment – Stick It Where It Hurts

I’m sure there are many people who understand self-punishment in terms of self-mutilation. But how far do you really go to make it hurt? I ask because I’ve gone to some pretty nasty lengths to “trick” myself. This is done most efficiently by doing something that will not hurt me now, but at a later time when I will not expect it. I’ve done this both for good and bad reasons. Reasoning for a negative outcome: this is typically when I’m sabotaging a relationship, whether friendly or more, by saying things I know cannot be taken back (such as telling my best friend’s girlfriend we had slept together) or neglecting something (dodging communication attempts.) Reasoning for positive outcomes: this is much more common, fortunately. I “trick” myself into doing things that are better for me. Such as throwing away my full pack of cigarettes right after I smoke one. I know I’m going to crave one in a few hours and then I’ll have no choice but to fight or cave. Or like the phone call to the psychiatrist. Leaving a message on the weekend when I know I won’t have to talk to anyone sets me up for a return call (usually) during the week when I’ll be forced to deal with it. But my favourite example? I “tricked” myself into going to rehab. Yep, pulled out the big guns. And I hated myself for weeks for doing that. It actually turned out to be a very rewarding experience. One I would do again if I possibly could. (This also may explain why I’m curious about in-patient programs. Because I would go back to this in a second if I could. I felt safe and like I was actually benefiting.)

This may be a long story but it happened over a span of only nine weeks. I went into the rehabilitation program from March ’05 – May ’05 at the age of fourteen. The company was called Catherine Freer. It’s specialty? Wilderness therapy programs.

The Epitome Of Hell

The decision to send me to wilderness therapy was, according to my parents, the most difficult decision they ever made. At the price they quoted me (over $25,000), I can understand why. But they were at their wits-end. I can understand that too.

I may go more into this story another time, but to get to rehab days, let me just say this was the scariest, stupidest suicide attempt of my life. I packed a go-bag, with my CD player, my huge book of CDs, a bag of every penny I owned (literally, about $30 in change), and most importantly, my box of razor blades. I left a coded note at home under my pillow before taking the bus to school and walking to the metro train instead. I took the train into the nearest major city where, after wandering around a bit, I miraculously managed to buy a train ticket. After a quick browsing of the upcoming trains, I knew I wanted to get well out of the city before the end of school, which if I recall correctly was only an hour or two away. I bought a ticket to Eugene. It was the only one I could afford really, and my brother was at U of O college. I’m not sure why this was relevant. Him and I were not at all close. Anyways, long-story short, I actually got there… before quickly getting lost. By nightfall, I was in a deserted city with no money and no idea where I was. I found a hospital and begged a receptionist to let me call my mom (even though it was long distance.) I stayed at the hospital while my mom drove the couple hour drive to come get me. That was the final straw.

A week or so after I’d gotten home, I was home from school. I remember thinking it was weird that I didn’t have to go to school. I didn’t at the time realize that I was not going back to school that year at all. My mom approached me one day and told me about the program. I believe part of her pitch said, “It’s going to be hard, but just think, you’ll come back a Happy A-. Not to mention skinny as hell with a killer tan.” I knew better. I knew my mom was spinning me some kinda bull and there was a catch. But I was so tired of being sad. Plus the idea of no school and getting the body I’ve only dreamed of… you tell any fourteen-year-old girl with no friends that and see how she feels. Within a week, we were off at some ridiculous hour of the morning to Albany, the base camp of this program.

Although my memory is rusty on any of the questions asked (partially because I wasn’t listening in the first place), I remember the thoughts and feelings of that day. Nerves. Anxiety. Anger. Always anger. But above all, surprisingly, excitement. Oh, don’t worry, by the end of day one, it was gone. Basically, we went in and sat in a circle. I remember thinking it was weird that my brother joined us. Weird that not only was my family together, but over me. I learned quickly not to celebrate this moment. There were several other families there. I want to say, ten, or twelve total. Some big, with mother, father, brothers, sisters, babies, cousins, grandparents. Others just a parent and child. I figured out something off the bat that I knew made me different. Something my parents didn’t tell me. This was a drug rehabilitation program. And despite what was initially said (meaning some of them came out through therapy), throughout all three programs (over fifty other patients), I was the only one who’d never done drugs. Each family spoke, each kid answered questions. I was.. what’s the word.. I had a falsely inflated ego. I was putting up a bigger tough front than normal. Mostly because I knew these fellow misfits were my new possibly friends. I wanted, as always, to be liked. As the youngest kid there, I had a lot to prove. I puffed out my chest, upped my anger a few notches, intending to make a name for myself. I only made myself look stupid since only the very next day I became the most hated member of the camp.

At this rate, I’m going to be here all night. Let me clarify something really quick. My rehab treatment was broken into three sections. The first that the above paragraph introduces is Trek #1 and lasts two weeks. The second is called Trek #2 and lasts three weeks. The third is called E2 and lasted the remaining four weeks.

Trek 1: After our meeting, all our clothes and belongings were taken from us. We were strip-searched, then given a bag of clothes. After that, it gets fuzzy. We eventually got on the bus and ended up at our location about four hours later. On the bus, it was clear this was not just Kumbaya camp. Rules were strictly enforced. No talking was a big one. We couldn’t typically talk to each other unless specifically stated so. I think it was around this time that I started to realize how much of a mistake I’d made. By the time we got to our “starting” location, it was dark and snowing. Since Oregon doesn’t typically get snowy except in the mountains, I knew we had to be up high. They quickly gave us each a backpack and we had to set up in the snow. After that, all I can remember is sleeping. It felt a lot like I’d imagine a first day in military boot camp.

There’s no way I can ever describe what it was truly like, so if you’re interested, just Google it. I linked Freer’s website above. If you can find unsponsered testimonials, I bet it’d be an interesting read.

My first trek was in the mountains. I don’t like hiking, or any physical exercise whatsoever, nor was I conditioned for it. So you bet your ass when it came to the first good hill, I was kicking and screaming. I would stop in the middle of trails and sit on the ground, sometimes for hours. Yes, my campmates hated me. I don’t blame them. I could talk about Trek 1 all day, but it’s all negative. Which is why I had to repeat it. There are four outcomes (that I remember) to the end of a Trek: If you did perfect, you go home. If you need more work, you go to E2 (Extended Expeditions). If you need a lot more work, you go to their boarding school (don’t remember the name.) And if you didn’t pass at all, you repeat Trek. At one point, it got so bad I’d been sentenced to my tent for days, sans clothes and shoes since they thought I’d run away (they were right.) I refused to eat. I refused to talk. If anyone came into my tent, I’d spit at them, kick them, do whatever it took for them to leave me alone. After two weeks, they’d had enough and two men hiked out to our location. After a pretty good struggle on my part (think aiming low) and getting sat on (I’ll never forget that) they hiked my ass out. Once I realized I couldn’t get past these guys, I hiked back willingly. I quickly grew attached to them. We got to talk, they shared they’re yummy trail mix with me, and they listened. Deep down, I was planning my escape.

It took two days to hike back, then drive back to Albany. I knew in Albany, I’d have my best chance. I’d wait till they weren’t looking and bolt. Well, when I finally got the opportunity, I chickened out. I still made a feeble attempt to escape, but only by walking away. I’m a fat girl. I can’t run worth shit. Burly-super-son-of-a-bitch quickly grabbed me and dragged me kicking and screaming to the van. I’d raised such a ruckus that one of the neighbors actually called the police! The police officer made the counselors show him their paperwork for having me before coming up to “check on me.” I saw how scared the counselors were with him around. I looked that officer straight in the eye and asked him, “Officer, if I punch you, you’ll take me to jail, right?” Apparently I’m not very scary since he said, without flinching, “Yes, but trust me, juvie is worse than whatever this is. I promise.” I didn’t believe him, but I knew I was not going to punch him. I should have. Juvie didn’t scare me as much as this place did. At least you didn’t have to fucking hike mountains in juvie. Plus, I was sure once I could just talk to my parents, I could explain everything and they’d let me come home. I was sure.

Trek 2: Trek 2 is far less interesting, in my opinion. At some point on the bus, I’d decided that I’d have to do this. I’d have to stop being a faggoty cry-baby and just do it and get it over with. So I did. I dedicated myself. And, fortunately, it was a desert trek. Almost all flat land. It was still a son-of-a-bitch, but I really did enjoy it. I bonded with my peers, who knew what it was like to struggle. The counselors listened and actually helped when you needed it. I felt my need to rebel subside somewhat and it was nice. When week 3 came around, I understood why I was sent home a week early on my other trek. Because week 3 is “Solo week.” Each counselor walks us individually out really far away (like half mile to a mile away) where we’d set up camp and be alone with nothing but our thoughts for four days. There were restrictions of course. Like we had a border around our site drawn for us. If we crossed the line, there’d be serious consequences. And we had to respond when “knocked.” Twice a day, the counselors would clap or rattle our tents and we had to say something or clap back to indicate we were there. I was still excited. Four days without hiking. Four days to sleep whenever I wanted. Such a luxury!! Well… it’s not all peaches in cream. My first night there, I immediately hated my location. The wind blew hard and it snowed like crazy nearly the whole time. I tried to make the mac and cheese I’d been saving, but I couldn’t keep my fire going long enough to finish it, so it was crunchy. The next morning, I was eager for my meeting. We all knew that sometime during the solo, a counselor would come back and tell us what’s going to happen to each of us after trek. The long awaited question: do I get to go home? Paul, one of my favourite counselors, came by to talk to me. I was sure I was going home, I’d done everything perfectly. Nope. E2 for me. I cried and cried. I asked Paul what I did wrong and he said that they’d recommended me for release. It was my parents that insisted. I’d felt betrayed. My parents, who in there letters said, “if you do good, you can come home,” lied to me. They didn’t want me home. Assholes! I didn’t eat for the rest of my solo. Oh, except for the candy bar that was meant to symbolize our “drug of choice.” No, I ate that. Of course.

E2: E2 was interesting. It was definitely not what I expected. Rather than hiking the whole time, we set up location in one place a week and did day hikes instead. It was focused more on “integrating back into society.” We did lots of group therapy. And because of the rotation of patients, I even saw my old campmates from Trek 1. To sum it up, I had a good time. Still, everyone hated me. I’m an anti-socialite even among the fellow crazies. But we got to do fun shit. I had a crush. It was like family. Sigh, I can’t explain it. I still think I preferred Trek 2. Something about the isolation of it, maybe. I connected with people so much better.

I could go into so much more detail, but no use in trying to tell it all at once. I’ll refer to my rehab often. It was a huge chunk of my life. I’ve dreamed about it. About being back there. It was safe. Someplace I’ve never felt again. Is it weird to want that? I know many of you live at in-patient programs all over the world and wish so badly you could be out. Is it wrong that I want in?

 

Also, I really wanted to share this. It has nothing to do with this post, but it’s just so much like me on energy drinks, it made me laugh so hard. End on a happy note?