Pill Head: The Secret Life of a Painkiller Addict (26 page)

When we reached the end of the tunnel I rolled the window down, stuck my head out, and breathed in huge gulps of what I quickly realized was New Jersey highway air. I rolled the window back up fast and tried to concentrate on even breaths. I needed another pill. I had my last four in a small plastic baggie in my right-hand pocket. I propped my left leg up on the seat to block the view of my right hand digging around in my pocket, unfastening the tiny zip lock on the bag, and fished out a pill. I hadn’t brought Clover with me for fear of permanent confiscation. I pretended to be intensely interested in something outside the window as I slipped the pill into my mouth, faced forward, casually took a sip of the ginger ale I’d brought along for the ride, and swallowed.

By the time we made it to the airport I was about to pee myself, so Erica pretended to slowly unload all my bags while I ran inside to find a bathroom. But because of the pills it took me forever to start peeing, and by the time I got out all my bags were lined up on the sidewalk, with Erica nervously eyeing a long line of impatient cars behind her.

“All right, this is it,” I said. I was too doped up to actually cry, but the weight of self-disgust pulled my shoulders so far forward and down that I looked like an old man, hobbling onward to my last ever evening walk before toppling over in a death roll.

Erica, who usually cries during parades, was oddly stoic as she hugged me good-bye. I read it as disappointment in me, but by that point I knew I was just having a big old pity party for myself. At the rate I was going I would have taken anything slightly bitchy said to me by an exhausted and bored airport security guard as a personal attack on my numerous failed attempts at getting off pills for good.

Few trips are as lonely, depressing, and loaded with finality as a solo trip to rehab. I’d watched my share of the television show
Intervention
, and had always thought how weird it would be to have a
stranger accompany you on that journey. But now I wished I had someone with me who knew what was up.

Since I was going alone I was making sure to stay as high as I possibly could until the last possible moment. I think this is typical. I thought of Jared and Heather, high on their final trips too. I can’t imagine an addict having it any other way. The flight was boarding by the time I arrived at the gate. I had none of my usual flying fears as we took off—my body was soaring at the same rate as the plane.

I cleaned the grease off the airplane window with my complimentary water and napkin, so I could lean my face against it and stare at the ground below us. Tiny lights, square after square of perfectly angled, plotted-out land. I had to transfer in Atlanta, the exact opposite direction of my final destination in Minnesota. I like the rocking chairs in the Atlanta airport, but I had to walk fast to catch my connection. The flight to Minneapolis was half empty so I got to stretch out my legs on the seats next to me. As we took off I swallowed my last three pills and stuck the small, empty zip-lock drug baggie inside a copy of the
SkyMall
catalog. The finality of this act made me panic. I still had a one last high left on its way, but I knew it was going to be a long slide downhill.

THE ADMISSION PROCESS WAS
tedious. A tie-dyed-shirt–wearing technician went through page after page of paperwork, asking all the same questions I’d been asked when I had first called. The nurse brought me a cafeteria tray of crackers, three bananas, and some Kool-Aid, then sat down and asked me all the same questions again while taking my vital signs and weighing me. She asked me when the last time I’d used was and I told her about two hours ago. She made me hold my arms out in front of me, and I was shocked at just how badly my hands and arms were shaking. She had me stick out my tongue, which flopped up and down involuntarily. I knew I’d developed a slight tremor, but I hadn’t realized it was inside my mouth as well.

I zoned out. She asked me if I felt like harming or killing anyone, and I started laughing.

“Oh good,” she said. “I’ve yet to have anyone say yes to that, but I’m always a little nervous when I get to that part.”

When we were finally done she showed me to a room next to the nurse’s station with three empty beds.

“This is the detox room. We’ll keep you in here for the first seventy-two hours,” the tech told me. He searched my suitcase and made me turn my pockets inside out, confiscating my cell phone, all
of my prescriptions, and a bottle of witch hazel because it contained alcohol. He then handed me a pair of flip-flops in a plastic bag. “For the shower,” he explained.

I made my way to the bathroom and discovered three showers located around a corner from the stalls, and I stripped down and stepped inside one, pulling the curtain shut. I showered quickly, nervous that I was going to pass out and crack my head open. After I dried off, I put on a pair of pajama bottoms and a T-shirt and drifted back down the hallway full of closed doors with patients’ names on them. Some were decorated with photos from magazines or flowers made of pipe cleaners.

As I passed the nurse’s station the tech called out that he would be checking on me periodically through the night. “Just raise your hand if you are still awake when I come in with the flashlight,” he said. “And I don’t knock,” he added rather ominously. I took this to mean no sleeping naked or masturbating. He had nothing to worry about on either account. Whatever libido I had left had long been killed, and my body was a scrawny, acne-ridden mess—I had no interest in being naked. I crawled into bed and didn’t wake up for nineteen hours, except for a few periodic moments when a nurse would sit gently on the side of my bed and take my blood pressure and temperature.

When I finally opened
my eyes for good I could hear people milling about outside my door in the main room. I sat up and my muscles screamed. I couldn’t straighten my shoulders and I shuffled, stooped over, to my suitcase to pull out jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. I slid the shower flip-flops on and headed toward the door. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken any of my antidepressants. I paused before opening the door, steeling myself, then swung it open.

There were maybe twenty people in the main lobby room. All the phones were being used, and some people were sitting at the main table reading or talking. I shuffled over to the nurse’s station, avoiding eye contact, but immediately people started coming up and introducing themselves to me. I mumbled hello, avoided eye contact.

“You’re up!” the nurse said, waving toward a chair behind the
station’s partition. “Sit down.” She took my vitals again, checked my hands and tongue, which were both still doing the Saint Vitus dance on their own.

“You must feel like shit,” she said.

I nodded.

“We’re putting you on Suboxone. It will help.”

She left and went into a back room to fetch my meds, came back, and handed me a cup filled with water for my antidepressants, which I swallowed in one gulp. I put it down and spilled the orange Suboxone out of the second cup. She handed me the water again.

“Isn’t this supposed to just dissolve under your tongue?” I asked, dimly remembering that from my research for this book.

“Really?” she asked. She had no clue.

I slipped the orange pill under my tongue and it slowly melted. It tasted like orange-flavored baby aspirin but much more bitter. I waited for it to disappear completely then drank deep from the cup of water. There was still a sharp metallic taste under my tongue, so I grabbed some candy from the table behind me and sucked on a lollipop. The room had emptied out suddenly.

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“It’s inspirational movie time upstairs in the lounge,” she said, pointing to a set of stairs behind me. “You can go watch it or you can go back to bed for a while. It’s your choice.”

I decided to go check out the movie, so I headed up the stairs, which emptied into a large lounge with windows on all sides. Every sofa and inch of floor space was covered with people. I sat near the top of the stairs, too scared to make my way into the crowd to find a spot closer to the television, but an older guy saw me and moved over, patting the floor next to him. I got up and squeezed in, whispering thanks, and he smiled back.

I got my first good look at the television screen and realized that the “inspirational movie” they were watching was
Priscilla, Queen of the Desert
, which made
no
sense to me because they were at the scene where one of the drag queens was riffling through a giant bowl of pills and plucking out the ones she wanted, chasing them down with a bottle of vodka.

And as my mind went trigger-happy at the sight of the pills, I suddenly realized I was starting to feel amazingly, deliciously, exquisitely high.

I suddenly remembered an interview with one of my doctors for this book, from what seemed like a million years ago. He had told me that if you had been off other opiates for at least twenty-four hours, Suboxone could make you high before it leveled out in your system. I counted back the hours. It had definitely been more than twenty-four hours since my last Dilaudid. I have an incredibly fast metabolism too. I rolled onto my back and looked up at the screen. The movie, which I’d never really liked, suddenly seemed full of lovely colors and gorgeous desert landscapes. I took off my hoodie and stuffed it under my head to make a pillow. I rolled up my sleeves and stretched my arms upward, flexing my fingers. I noticed a large bowl of candy a few people away, so I got up on all fours and crawled over to it, grabbing a bunch of Dum Dums. Another opiate wave hit me as I relaxed back in my spot. I tried to remember what I’d learned about Suboxone. It was buprenorphine, the partial analgesic, but with naloxone added to it. It can get you high at first, but the naloxone keeps you from overdosing or even feeling any effect if you snorted or injected it. Whatever, this was enough opiate for me. I felt incredible.

I was going to love rehab.

Sleep came easily that night, and when I woke up there was a single paper cup by my bedside with my antidepressants and more Suboxone. I still felt a little high from the night before, so I broke the Suboxone in half, took one side and hid the other in my pocket, then took my other pills. I slipped on the same clothes I’d worn before, made my bed, and wandered out into the main room. It was dead silent.

“Where is everyone?” I asked the nurse on duty, a new one I didn’t recognize.

“Small group,” she said. “Come here. I need to take your vitals.”

I sat back down at the patient chair, felt the now familiar pressure on my upper arm as she pumped a small black plastic bulb.

“So, am I going to get to meet with anyone? Like a doctor or a
counselor?” I asked. My arms were still shaking pretty badly, but my head felt a little clearer.

“Eventually,” she said. “Just rest for now. Go to groups if you want. There’s a schedule in your folder. Who is your buddy?”

I remembered something from the night I checked in, I was supposed to be getting a “buddy,” another patient who was supposed to show me the ropes.

“It’s in my folder,” I said. “I’ll find out.”

“You missed breakfast,” she called out after me.

“Not hungry,” I said.

I went back into my room and pulled out all the paperwork I’d been given when I’d checked in. My buddy was supposed to be somebody named Chuck.

I fell back asleep until I heard commotion again in the main room. I opened the door and grabbed the first person I could find and asked him if he knew who Chuck was.

“That’s me. You Joshua?” he asked. “I’m your buddy. I was just coming to find you.”

He had a lazy eye, and I couldn’t figure out which one was looking at me. I subtly leaned to the right, then to the left, to see which one followed me the most directly. It was unclear.

“Do you have your paperwork?” he asked. “There’s a whole checklist of stuff we’re supposed to do together. I’ve never been a buddy before, so I don’t really know how to do this.”

I grabbed my folder and found the sheet he was talking about. According to it he was supposed to show me around, sit with me for my first three meals, explain the weeklong schedule, and help me complete something called “20 Questions,” a list of pretty generic questions about my substance abuse issues and what I was hoping to get out of recovery. I’d already started working on them. They were basically the same questions I’d been asked when I’d initially called about being admitted and then had to repeat, twice, upon my actual admission. This would mark the fourth time I had to answer questions about what drugs I used and why I thought I used them and how frequently. But one question in particular really bothered me.
It was worded, “Does your use lead you to hang out with low companions?”

Low companions?
What kind of classist bullshit was this? I’m sure I was considered a “low companion” to people on many occasions. My answer to this inquiry was,
I find this question incredibly offensive. Every human being has worth, regardless of whether or not they have a drug problem
.

Chuck told me he’d come and grab me for dinner and we’d figure out a time to go over my twenty questions. I went back to the detox room and lay down on my bed. I was feeling violently sick as the Suboxone wore off, and just as I was about to take the half I’d hidden, a nurse walked in with more. I let the full pill dissolve this time under my tongue, not bothering to wash it down with anything, instead seeing if I could get every single tiny, minuscule granule to dissipate. I fell asleep with what felt like sand in my mouth.

I woke up, high. Chuck was yelling at me through my open door. “Let’s go, buddy,” he roared. I stumbled out of bed and up to the cafeteria for my first official meal. I took one look at the hot-food area and turned green. “There’s a salad bar over there for you veggies,” Chuck said, noticing my hesitation. For some reason everyone thinks I’m a vegetarian when they first meet me, but in this case I didn’t care, salad was all I could handle. I realized it had been two days since I’d eaten anything of substance, but I still had no appetite.

I collected my tray and utensils and followed Chuck’s waving hand to the seat he’d saved next to him. As I sat down everyone tried to shake my hand at once, asking a million questions about where I was from and what I was in for. It was too much. I got up to get myself a drink, but all I could find was Kool-Aid. It wasn’t the Kool-Aid I remembered getting at friends’ houses in my youth; it was some bizarre flavor I couldn’t identify. It had an acidic tinge to it, like a liquefied Sour Patch Kid.

I sat back down and picked at my salad, trying to answer as many questions as I could with as few words as possible.

The Suboxone had killed my appetite, so I excused myself early and went back to bed, thankful that the staff was being so lenient
with me about participation. It didn’t last long though. When I woke up again there was a tech standing in my doorway.

“You should get up and go to a group,” he said. “They’re starting one upstairs right now.”

I stopped by the nurse’s station to get more Suboxone, which I split in half and palmed so I’d have more for later, and headed upstairs just in time for the meeting to start. There was a guy I didn’t recognize standing at the front of the room. “Welcome to Crystal Meth Anonymous,” he began.

I got up and walked back downstairs. The tech gave me a sharp look. “What?” he asked annoyed.

“I don’t belong up there,” I said. “It’s a crystal meth meeting. I don’t do that shit.”

“Yes, you do belong up there,” he sighed. “Everyone is required to attend. We have people come from the outside to lead that group.”

“But I hate crystal meth,” I said. “I only tried it once, years ago, and it was, like, sick!”

“You can still get something out of the meeting,” he said in a tone that signaled the discussion was over. “Go back upstairs.”

I went back up, annoyed. The guy at the front of the room was reading a passage from an NA book. I tuned out and surveyed the crowd instead. I recognized almost everyone from the cafeteria earlier, but there was a group of older guys sitting together who I figured must be the meth addicts from the outside. They looked like depressed, middle-aged gay guys. I knew I was supposed to relate to what they were saying in terms of the nature of addiction itself. But once the Big Book reading was over, everyone started telling stories of five-day benders filled with anonymous bare-back sex that ended with them testing positive for HIV and anal warts.

Except for my fuck-ups with Everett and the painter, when I was on pills I’d mostly just watch reality TV on VH1. If I was feeling especially ambitious, I would go get a 7Up from the deli downstairs. Maybe text a few people, just to say hi. This meeting was doing nothing for me, except instilling a guilt-ridden sense of self-congratulation for never becoming a meth head. That said, the
stories were fascinating, and the more they poured out, the sadder I became. How had I gotten so lucky? But then I remembered where I was and why I was here.

The routine settled in
fast. I was moved from the detox room and placed in a room directly across from the men’s showers, with two roommates, both of whom were in for crystal meth and sex addiction. I’d been in rehab for three days and still hadn’t met one on one with any sort of counselor. In my small-group therapy sessions I was just told to keep working on the assignments given to me in my welcome notebook. They included what seemed like Sunday school assignments for drug addicts—make a collage poster of my “higher power.” Make another collage portraying how being gay has affected my life. Complete a thorough reflection of my chemical-use history and present it in group therapy.