Dying to Survive

‘The unexamined life is not worth living’

SOCRATES

INTRODUCTION

My name is Rachael. I’m smartly dressed, a college student and the mother of a gorgeous baby boy. I have everything I want in life: work I like, the support of my family and friends, my son. I’m a normal twenty-nine-year-old, but I’m also a recovering heroin addict.

For fourteen years, beginning at the tender age of eleven, I put every drug I could think of inside my body: starting at teenage raves with hash and ‘E’, moving on to other pills such as Napps and benzodiazepines, then to smoking heroin and then to injecting it. To fund my drug addiction I did everything imaginable: I broke into houses, shop-lifted and stole from my own family, and I did other things of which I’m so ashamed I have difficulty even thinking about them now.

It would be easy to say that I took drugs because everyone else did. After all, I grew up in Ballymun when drug addiction was rife in the high-rise blocks. Many of my friends took drugs: some only occasionally, others became full-blown addicts like me, spiralling downwards into crime, ill-health and worse. But really, I took drugs to hide my anger at the family I felt had abandoned me and at the emptiness I felt inside, which only drugs seemed to fill. This anger took me to some dark places: to drug squats, to shared needles, to every garda station in the city, in and out of court, and to Mountjoy prison; it took me to nasty people who did me no good and to a side of life no-one should have to experience. My attempts to run from my past took me far away from Ireland and urged me to take solace in whatever I could find to fill the void, even God and prayer.

I sincerely tried to stop taking drugs: I went to detox after detox, had several stints in rehab, none of which managed to break the hold which drugs had over me. It was only when I came to terms with the pain and hurt I’d been running from for so long and accepted just how far I was willing to go to avoid it, that I could even begin to think about my addiction and what it meant to me. And even then I had to be literally at death’s door, very little time left to live, my arms mutilated, my lungs clogged with residual heroin, my fingers clubbed from the poor circulation caused by drug use, and with hepatitis C. Only then did I decide that enough was enough.

And then, my prayers were answered. I found a source of comfort and support in Narcotics Anonymous and in their daily meetings, where I met others just like me or who had travelled the road before me, who accepted me and didn’t judge me. I found a rehabilitation centre where, in a gentle and non-judgmental environment, I learned to conquer my demons. I learned to find hope in small things, in the mundanity of everyday life, in the little routines which I had shunned for so long. I came to realise that it wasn’t the drugs that were holding me back in a life I had come to hate—it was
me
, and only I could change things.

I used to wonder how on earth people could cope with life without drugs and now I know. Life has given me so much since I stopped taking heroin. I stuck with the rehab and remained clean far longer than the six months which I had managed before. I managed to repair my relationship with my family, to build bridges with those I had hurt so badly and who had hurt me in turn. I learned to forgive myself for the past, to love myself. And life seemed to answer me by offering me new friends, new opportunities and the gift of a beautiful baby boy.

Whilst I was at my worst, the media offered me a lifeline and I found myself and my story splashed over the front pages and on the television. I became notorious, as the ‘girl with the arms’. Sure, I told them my story for a reason: because I wanted to get clean and could think of no other way, and because I wanted to show just how bad services are for drug users in this country. The reason I have written this book is the same in some ways—I hope that in reading my story, those who know drug users, their family and friends, who despair of ever seeing them recover, will know that there
is
hope and that the powerlessness they feel about their loved one’s addiction is normal. Addicts choose to take that first drug, and only the addict him or herself can walk away. But I have also written my story for other reasons: to understand why I became an addict, to forgive myself and my family and to close this chapter in my life, once and for all. To move on, with my son, to a future I thought I’d never see.

Rachael Keogh

13 March 2009

Chapter
1

    THE BEGINNING OF THE END

JULY 2006

I
t was a race against the clock, as I could already feel the sickness kicking in. Although I was sweating, what felt like a layer of frost was starting to form down my back. I couldn’t allow myself to think about the sickness, though. All I could think about was getting the money and getting the gear.

‘Are the shops not open late tonight?’ I asked my friend Neil, as we dragged ourselves up South William Street.

‘No, they only stay open late on Thursdays,’ Neil replied, a look of desperation on his face.

Things weren’t looking good; every shop we passed had its shutters down and appeared to be closed. Then, just as we were about to give up and start to think of plan B or C, we noticed that the Bag Shop was open. I took a deep breath as I entered the shop, preparing to engage in a game of cat and mouse with the staff and security guards. I knew that in order to make a few quid, we would have to fleece the place. Our gear cost two hundred euro for an eighth—this would yield us sixteen bags of heroin, each containing one hit. Yet, all the stuff here was so cheap, each handbag ranging from twenty to sixty euro: we couldn’t get anything less than six hundred euro worth of stuff, as we sold everything in bulk for a third of its price. And that was before we even thought about cigarettes and food.

To my surprise, though, it was as if me and Neil were invisible. With the staff getting ready to close the shop for the weekend, no-one even batted an eye. We left the shop with the stolen bags, sighing with relief—we’d have just enough to get us through the night.

We were roughly about ten minutes away from the flat that we were staying in, when suddenly I heard footsteps from behind and then I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘Sorry, can I stop you there for a minute?’

I turned around, only to be greeted by two coppers dressed in casual-looking plain clothes. My heart sank. I knew we were fucked. ‘Well, my friend, how’s things with you?’ the garda addressed Neil. ‘Still doing a bit of shop-lifting, are we? What have you got in the bags there?’

For a split second I contemplated doing a runner, but I knew that my body was too sick to carry me, so I reluctantly opened the bags that contained the stolen goods. ‘Ah, would you look what we have here, just as I thought,’ said the garda in a heavy Dublin accent. Before I knew it, myself and Neil were being carted off in the Paddy wagon, up to Pearse Street garda station, to be charged with larceny and possession of stolen goods.

Neil tried to make a case for me. ‘Would ye not let her go?’ he pleaded with the garda. ‘She didn’t even know that there was robbed stuff in the bag.’

‘Sure we know that’s not true, Neil,’ the garda replied. ‘We’ve been following you for ages. We’ll have you in and out in no time.’ But I knew in my heart that I was going nowhere fast. I had a couple of bench warrants that they were bound to find. Which meant that I would be kept in custody for the weekend and to make matters worse, it was a long weekend at that. I didn’t know how I would survive it.

On arrival at the garda station my personal details were taken and registered, name, address, height etc, the usual details. I was used to the procedure by now—I’d been through it often enough. Then I was led to this dingy little cell that smelled of urine and disinfectant and the huge metal door slammed closed behind me. I put my head in my hands and cursed myself for getting into this situation again. But all I could do now was wait.

For the next few hours I slipped into my own little world, one where I was unreachable. I could no longer feel the freezing cold slab of concrete underneath me, or the aching pains in my legs and my stomach as my last fix of heroin left my body. I was reliving the time I first met my friend Neil. It had been four years earlier, in the renowned Rutland Centre, a rehabilitation centre for people with all types of addictions—to drugs, alcohol, sex, food or gambling. I had successfully completed my six weeks of intense group therapy in the Ruts and every so often I would revisit to attend a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, held on the premises every week.

‘My name is Neil and I’m an addict,’ I heard this boy shout from across a room that was jam-packed with recovering drug users. His voice had a feminine tone to it and I immediately assumed that he was gay. I have no recollection of what Neil said at that meeting, but I warmed to his sincerity and sense of humour at once.

My assumption that Neil was gay was confirmed when I bumped into him in Summerhill one day. ‘Alright, love, what’s the story with ye?’ he said, strolling towards me as though he were on the catwalk. He was decked out in a tiny belly top, skinny jeans that made his ass resemble two eggs in a hanky and with nails that appeared to be longer than mine. ‘Don’t tell me you’re scorin’, are ye? Ye fuckin’ eegit ye, ye were doing so well.’ I had stayed in recovery after the Rutland, but for some reason or other I could never get past six months without using heroin: I became so disheartened by my own inability to stay clean that I went back using drugs. And that was it. Myself and Neil scored gear together that day and from then on we became attached at the hip.

I woke from my uneasy slumber to the sound of my name being called. I jumped up and looked through the hatch in the door. ‘Rachael, they’re letting me out,’ Neil said as he was escorted back to reception. ‘I’ll see you when you get out, yeah?’

Within minutes, my own door to freedom was open, but only temporarily.

‘Well, Ms Keogh, it looks like you’ll be with us for a little bit longer. We have eight warrants for you and you’ll be up in court on Tuesday. If you need anything, give us a shout.’

‘I need to see a doctor,’ I tried. ‘I missed my methadone today and I’m dying sick.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t be getting me hopes up now, if I were you,’ the garda replied. ‘As far as I know, the doctor doesn’t give out methadone any more. But I’ll see what I can do,’ and then he was gone. I resumed my position on the slab, feeling lonelier than ever before, and braced myself for what would be the longest few days of my life.

_____

I was dying inside. I knew I was living on borrowed time; I had brought things too far. Too much damage had been done and it would take a miracle to get me out of this one. I was afraid. The walls in my cell were beginning to close in on me and I couldn’t tell the difference between night and day. Every so often I could hear activity outside my door. ‘Officer, officer, will ye get me a smoke?’ The banging and slamming of doors. Gardaí beginning and finishing their shifts. I kept slipping in and out of consciousness. Still no sign of a doctor. After two nights of going through withdrawals, my skin was beginning to smell like chicken soup. This, along with the increasingly overpowering smell of my arms, which were badly infected and rotten from fourteen years of chronic drug addiction, turned my stomach even more.

After tormenting the gardaí to get me a doctor, he eventually came on Sunday night at 11.30 p.m. ‘What can I do for you, Ms Keogh?’ said the legalised drug dealer, who appeared to be Indian or Pakistani, dressed in thick brown cords and an old-fashioned cream shirt.

‘I’ve been here since Friday and I’m really sick. I need methadone and dressings for my arms,’ I replied, shaking before him in my seat.

‘Ok, well, first of all, I can’t give you methadone, because I don’t have any. We don’t carry methadone around with us any more. It’s far too dangerous; we’ve had too many doctors getting mugged.’ I was waiting for the punch line, convinced that he was having a laugh, but there was none; he was deadly serious.

‘Well, you’re gonna have to get me something. I’m on ninety mls of methadone a day and I need it,’ I said, as I began to panic.

He slowly lifted up the sleeves of my top, which revealed my rotten arms, but he didn’t seem fazed. ‘Oh, yes, they’re very bad. I can give you a couple of Paracetamol.’

I looked at him in disbelief and I could feel a panic attack coming on. I told him I was an asthmatic and he disappeared and returned with an oxygen mask. Whilst he was out of the room, I took my chance to have a nosey through his briefcase, confirming that he wasn’t carrying anything stronger than a bloody Paracetamol. I cursed him and wondered why he was even here.

‘Rachael, you can take off the oxygen mask now. Go back out to reception and I’ll send your tablets around to you, ok?’ My head spun as I walked back to reception. What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do? I thought, as I passed a door that led out on to Pearse Street. Suddenly I did a double take, as I began to realise that this could be my way out. The gardaí were only feet away from where I stood and I knew that if I got caught I would definitely get locked up. But I was incapable of thinking of the consequences at that moment. My heart pounded in my chest as I pressed the release button on the door. It opened. My veins filled with adrenalin and I suddenly felt like a mad woman on speed. I raced out of the station, up Dame Street, desperate to oil my bones and get heroin into my body.