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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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2020-11-05
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My Death My Resurrection and My Life Restarted

Summary:

Autobiographical revelation of a struggle I went through for 15 years, nearly dying from it before I was given a second chance at life. 

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This past week has marked a very important anniversary for me, for it was three years ago on February 7, 2009, that I had a very painful epiphany that revealed to me just how fucked up my life was, and it was on February 14, 2009 that I was given a chance at rebirth, at getting my life back in order to LIVE it.

You see, I am a survivor of many things: of horrific childhood abuse that included physical, emotional, and sexual abuse; of vicious bullying at school that included physical and verbal attacks, along with sexual harassment; of a marriage that deteriorated into emotional abuse that left me with no self-confidence or faith in myself at all; but the biggest abuse I am a survivor of is drug abuse.

Yes, you read that right, I was a drug addict for nearly 15 years…me, the quiet person who never likes to make waves and who is painfully shy, even when online. Some of you know me as a friend, some of you know me as a writer, and now you will know me as a recovering drug addict. I honestly debated whether or not to reveal this about myself…some of you already know it because I've told you about my past, but I decided that three years of being clean and sober with absolutely no setbacks is something to…well…be proud of.

It all started in 1993 when I was diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, and one of the major health problems I was suffering with the disease was ferocious migraines. I'd had migraines all my life as it was, and the onset of the CFS only triggered more of them, to the point where I was having three or four a week. For anyone who has migraines, you know how debilitating they can be, with the sensitivity to smells, light and sound, along with that gut-churning nausea, not to mention the godawful kettle drums that pound in your head with the slightest movement. And so after trying several different medications, both abortive and preventative, and having little success, my doctor put me on the painkiller Fioricet, which is a combination analgesic, with butalbital (a barbituate), caffeine and acetaminophen. I was instructed to take it when the headaches first started to come on (up to six tablets per day), and I could take it at night to help me sleep, since unrefreshing sleep is a hallmark of CFS.

And it worked…for awhile. It kicked in fast and relieved the pounding headache, plus it relaxed me and eased the anxiousness I often got with a migraine, but about a year after I was on it, I had to ask for an increase in the dosage, since it seemed to be losing its effectiveness slightly…and of course, the doctor agreed, for he saw no harm in me upping it to 8 tablets in a day's time. And by that time, my marriage had started to crumble and my husband knew that if he stressed me out, I'd get a migraine, so he worked on stressing me out as much as he could because he also knew the pills made me relaxed and compliant, and therefore he was more likely to be able to control me. When I finally wised up and kicked his sorry ass out and divorced him after five years of marriage, I had zero self-confidence, zero faith in myself, and a drug habit that was on par with Keith Richards.

It grew from there…oh sure, I got some of my confidence back, at least enough to attempt going back to the college classes I'd had to give up when I got sick, but I was averaging between 12 to 14 tablets of Fiorcet a day…and I convinced myself that since I was still able to function and showed no signs of impairment, I wasn't a drug addict, and besides, I'd cut down tomorrow…or the next day…or the day after that. And so the cycle went on: I'd get a migraine, pop the Fiorcet, it'd go away for a couple of hours, then it would return and I'd pop two more tablets, and so on…and I actually convinced myself this was life. Not necessarily a GOOD life, but hey, I was getting through the day, right? No matter that I had to keep finding doctors who'd be willing to prescribe the ever-increasing amounts of a dangerous narcotic painkiller, no matter that I went through 5 doctors in about seven years' time, including actually getting 'fired' from one doctor's practice because I'd gone to see him to get more pills and he refused, so angry with me that he pitched an honest-to-god hissy fit right in front of me, then sent me a certified letter the next day telling me I had 30 days to find another physician.

Humiliating, right? Oh, but embarrassment is small potatoes to a drug addict, we will shame ourselves, we will degrade ourselves, we will humiliate ourselves, we will make asses of ourselves, just to get that beautiful poison that we think we need to survive.

And I knew the tricks too…if I ran myself short of pain meds on the weekend, I'd call the answering service and have the doctor on call contact me, and I'd give them the sob story, complete with weeping, about how I'd had a horrible migraine and had run myself short, could they please call in a few tablets to get me through until Monday? And some doctors relented and did that for me, while others told me to go to the ER if I was in that much pain. Then I finally I found my Dr. Feelgood. Oh, every town has one, he's the doctor who'll prescribe Oxycontin for a hangnail and who'll ask you what you need whenever you see him, his prescription pad is endless and he'll give you whatever you want, he doesn't care. So I hooked in with him for my "pain management" and Dr. Feelgood was more than happy to accommodate me in whatever I wanted. One of the other doctors had put me on Ambien and I'd slowly increased it too, taking 15 mgs. of what was supposed to be a maximum dose of 10 mgs. a night. And my Fioricet? Dr. Feelgood was happy to up me to 100 tablets every two weeks, he asked no questions and believed me when I said I was in that much pain to need that high of a dose.

And truly I was. I had gotten into the vicious cycle of rebound headaches, which can actually be worse than the original migraines, and so I was trapped…and 100 tablets every two weeks soon became 100 tablets every week, and Dr. Feelgood was calling in extra refills to various pharmacies, with no pharmacy being aware that I was filling scrips for the Fioricet at other pharmacies, and I even covered my tracks with my insurance, making sure they paid for only one refill every two weeks, while I paid for the others out of my own pocket, running my credit card up to nearly $3000…an amount I am still paying off. And when the pharmacies questioned why I was going through that much medication with the refills I had through them, I told them that I had a lot of pain problems and as long as the doctor was okay with it, they should be too. Then Dr. Feelgood left his practice here in town and we wound up driving 80 miles every six months to the town he'd moved to, just so I could keep my addiction going. And he never questioned a single thing. Oh, you need a scrip for 45 Ambien a month? Sure, here you go. You need three separate scrips for Fioricet that you can take to different pharmacies to fill each week so that you're not forced to wait every two weeks for a refill? Here you go. See you in another six months, and call when you need more refills faxed in to the pharmacies.

By late 2008, I was taking up to 18 or 20 tablets in a day's time…and I rationalized it out, too. I had severe pain and I needed the medication to get through my day, and if I managed to cut back to say, 16 or 14 on a given day, I was proud of myself. And I'd tried to control it by giving my mom the medications to keep and to regulate out, but that didn't work…we got into some horrible AWFUL fights in which we both screamed things at one another that mothers and daughters NEVER should scream at one another, and at that high of dosage, I showed serious impairment…I walked like I was drunk all the time, I slurred my words, I couldn't write my name because my hand shook so bad, and I inflicted injuries on myself when I got dizzy and fell…had to have stitches in my right eyebrow after I got dizzy and fell into my nightstand, cutting my eyebrow on the edge of it, and I fell another time in my kitchen and in my struggle to stand up, I turned the burner on and burned my palm pretty badly. I also fell and gave myself a black eye, and I broke a lamp after I fell into it. My body weight dropped from 90 lbs. down to 70 lbs. and I basically gave up all social interaction because I was embarrassed of the fact that I couldn't speak right or walk right, plus I got tired of people asking if I was anorexic. I said things to people, including family and friends…cruel things, unkind things, stupid things…I called sometimes when I was high and carried on what I thought was a normal conversation, but in retrospect I realize I was a babbling idiot. And like an alcoholic, I had to find reasonable excuses for my behavior or why I had a black eye or a splint on my wrist or stitches in my eyebrow…and not a single excuse was the truth that I was stoned, for that was a truth I didn't want to face.

Nope, I didn't want to admit I had a problem, even though deep down inside I knew I had serious issues that were gonna eventually kill me, but I had adopted Scarlett O'Hara's theory of tomorrow was another day, I'd cut down tomorrow, I'd start getting my act together tomorrow, I'd worry about it all tomorrow. I knew I needed help but I was afraid to ask for it, I was terrified of going through drug rehab, and I was even more terrified of facing life and my headaches without my security blanket, that demon monster of barbituates and sleeping pills that made things all soft and cozy and easier to deal with. And STILL, I was convinced this was living. I was a walking skeleton, I had no appetite, I shook all the time, I was suffering from a neverending headache, and I had NO energy at all, giving up to the point where I didn't bother getting dressed, I wore my lounge pants and tshirt all the time, and there towards the end, I'd given up taking a shower and washing my hair every day…a very huge change for someone who was usually extremely fastidious about her clothing and her appearance. I even had a guinea pig that largely became my mom's responsibility to take care of, I couldn't find the energy to get up and feed him or play with him or pet him, all I wanted to do was sit on the couch and watch tv. And I cried...a LOT. The medicine seriously depressed me and yes, there was even one time that I tried to kill myself, but chickened out at the last minute.

And then…then came the epiphany, a very painful one, on February 7, 2009. Simply put, I overdosed, got dizzy, and fell in my apartment, breaking my nose and chipping a front tooth, knocking myself out for a good two hours before I finally got the sense to get up and crawl into my bedroom and call my mom for help. She got an ambulance for me and I lied to them, telling them I had no idea why I got dizzy and fell, but they knew I was stoned, it showed in my slurred speech and sluggish pupils and weird manner. They took me to the ER and there I kept saying I just couldn't understand why I was dizzy, carefully omitting my copious amounts of Fioricet and Ambien I was taking…but they too knew why. I could see it in their eyes. They knew I was a drug addict, but the question was, did I? I kept saying I thought I'd had sinus infection, and so they did a skull series to rule out a concussion, and they did a CT to rule out a stroke, and they took x-rays to make sure I didn't crack any ribs or my shoulderblades, and they kept asking why I was so skinny, and in all the tests that they ran, they found out that my body was shutting down…my kidneys were failing, my heart was running erratic and fast, and so they admitted me to save me…

And that's when I decided to save myself.

My stomach was churning and I was shaking and sweating from fear as I asked in a trembling voice if they'd help me. The doctor who was going to be treating me asked me what I needed help with, and then I broke down and told her…I told hereverything, how I was taking up to 20 tablets of Fioricet a day and two Ambien at night, and I was sick of being a slave to the medication, of having an outrageous credit card bill, of only being able to eat fried potatoes, of not having any energy, of the constant headaches, but most of all, I was tired of not having a life, because what kind of life DID I have, relying on that much painkillers to get me through a 12 hour period? Whatever kind of life it was, I no longer wanted it, and if it meant having no medication to deal with my headaches, I was willing to suffer, just as long as I got off the merry-go-round I was on. And goddamnit, it finally felt GOOD to ask for help, to get that off my chest, to finally admit I had a huge problem.

And so, they got me help. They brought in a stern neurologist who told me right off the bat I was due for some serious suffering as I went through withdrawal, but he was going to try and taper the medication so I wouldn't have seizures. It worked for a day or so, but then when a bitch nurse neglected to bring me the medication on the schedule I was on, letting me go for a good three hours, I went into a seizure...and there the week became a jumble of seeing my sister whom I hadn't seen in a few years come visit me (my mom called her and told her I was in serious shape), of going into another seizure that nearly killed me (seriously, I saw my deceased father and maternal grandmother by this peaceful stream, telling me to go back, it wasn't my time, and I heard what I think was God's voice, telling me the same thing), of spending a couple of days in the ICU as a horrible little snarling monster due to the chemical changes from the seizure and the medication withdrawal...all of that is a blur that I only remember snippets of here and there. After the stint in the ICU, I was sent down to a regular room, and that's where I stayed until they released me to go home on Valentine's Day. And that scared the fucking shit out of me. How was I going to cope at home without the medication? My mom told me that after I'd had the seizure, she went home and flushed the Fioricet and the Ambien down the toilet, but the test was that I had one refill left at a pharmacy that I could get filled..the question was, would I fill it?

And no, I didn't. The refill was never filled, expiring after a year, and I never went back to Dr. Feelgood because I was told if I did, my mom would kick my ass, my sister would kick my ass, my brother in law would kick my ass, my three nieces would kick my ass, several tenants in the building who were my friends would kick my ass, my doctors would kick my ass…the list was endless of people who would sooner beat the shit out of me than let me get hooked again. When I walked out of the hospital, clean, sober, and a bit shaky and a LOT scared, I vowed never to get into something like that again…and I haven't. Since February 14th, 2009, I have not taken any painkillers outside of OTC Tylenol and my one migraine medication that isn't addictive to use, nor have I engaged in seeking behavior such as going to the ER for pain meds…in fact, a couple of times when I've been in there for stomach issues, when they've offered to give me morphine for the pain, I've refused it. Even when I have the WORST migraines possible, I don't crave that drug at all, the thought of it scares me and that's a good kind of scare, one I'll never forget. And luckily I didn't have to go through any kind of rehab or therapy, they determined that I wasn't seeking the drugs to escape life or get high, that I was taking them only for the pain and sleeplessness, so there was no need to send me to any kind of Narcotics Anonymous meeting or have me go through any kind of psychotherapy.

And while I'm not a particularly religious person, I definitely think God had His hand in forcing the epiphany upon me in order to save me from killing myself, because if I hadn't gotten help when I did, I would have been dead within a week, they assured me of that in the hospital, that my body was in the process at that point of shutting down on me and they said some night within that week I would have gone to sleep and not woken up, my mother would have found me dead in my bed at the age of 38.

So I'm brought full circle in my life...a long time ago, I didn't want to be a writer, I WAS a writer, and a damned good one at that, but I'd given it up for both my husband and the drugs, but the weird thing is, in December of 2008, I somehow managed to write a story for the Adam-12 fandom, and suprisingly it turned out to be quite coherent, and I think again God somehow gave me that story to write so that I would remember what it was like to find beauty and peace and joy in the song of the written word, to make new worlds come alive for myself just by using my imagination and my talent, bringing me back to the pleasures I'd long ago lost in that haze of drugs, giving me something to do with my life that was productive, rather than harmful.

And so you may be wondering why I've revealed this and the simple reason is, while I am ashamed of what I once was, I'm mighty damned proud of what I am now…a survivor of a nearly 15 year drug addiction, clean and sober for three years now...

And it's that that I'm celebrating, for it is my resurrection and my rebirth...

My name is Kimberly and this is my new life, and I'm mighty damned glad to have been given a second chance to enjoy it.