Acrobaddict (19 page)

I returned to rehab to finish the program and cobbled together over two months of abstinence. I was allowed to return to Staunton College, but everything was different without Darren and Cloud. All alone, I continued on my path of recovery. The whole school knew I went to rehab. Kids would walk by and shout “drug addict,” which I didn’t really care about. It was better than being called a fag.

The campus felt different, like it belonged to the good students. I knew I stood alone. I knew I was still seen as the freak. My few friends from the gymnastics team didn’t share even my nondrug interests, and hanging out with them felt more like they were babysitting me, keeping me out of trouble. I continued going to an aftercare program from the rehab and passed all the drug tests.

I was better physically, but mentally I was falling apart. I started jogging at night in the athletic center, a massive circular hall that made me feel like I was inside a UFO. Listening to techno music, I ran until I felt high, but my past would creep up behind me and ask, “What went wrong?” I kept jogging, running to reach redemption.

Depression continued to torment me, and I felt no different with the medication my psychiatrist prescribed. I became her lab rat. My anxiety kept me up at all hours of the night, and I was on 80 mg of Prozac for my suicidal thoughts. One of the men in my aftercare group with the same psychiatrist told me she prescribed Klonopin for him, which was a favorite of mine. He came into group therapy slurring words, stumbling, and pilled out, and when the counselor called him out on it, he’d say, “It’sss jisssst my medication.” He never failed his drug test, even though it showed benzodiazepines in his system because he was prescribed those pills by our rehab psychiatrist. A small crack of light opened up when I heard this. I knew I could manipulate my psychiatrist to get me those same pills. When I called a friend and told her of my plan, she laughed and said, “Joe, there is no way she is going to prescribe those for you.” The challenge had been set.

Aside from a short relapse with Xanax and mushrooms, I thought I was doing great in my recovery (no denial here), but my anxiety was seeping through my flesh. My psychiatrist saw the pain I was in and had grown tired of watching me battle with myself. Her desire to help me find peace within was met with my ulterior motives as I walked into her office to see how far she could be pushed.

She worked in a square, sad cube of an office, and deep in her eyes I saw my depression mirroring hers—years of studying, and she had ended up there. As she sat in her uncomfortable chair, she peered down at me like a specimen under a microscope.

“How are you today, Joseph?”

“Not good.”

“What’s going on?”

“I still can’t sleep.” I slid down in my chair.

“Did you try the trazodone?”

“Yup.”

“The Serzone?”

“Kept me awake for a day.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“How about the Buspar?”

“It was awful, made me feel even more anxious.”

“Well, that can happen sometimes with that medication. What about the Elavil?”

“Gave me the worst headache ever.”

She looked pensive, angry at the pharmaceuticals. I knew I looked restless, and was putting on the greatest act of my life. Then she asked casually, “Have you ever heard of a drug called Klonopin?”

B I N G O!

I couldn’t believe she had asked me that. I almost exploded like a smashed piñata. There it was, the golden opportunity my friend said was impossible. Afraid to talk for fear of screwing up the situation, I pretended I’d never heard of it. I said it back to her in a long, confused manner as if the syllables were difficult to pronounce. “Kaa-lonnny-pin? Nope, never heard of it, but please, only if you think it’ll work. I can’t take this anymore.” I restrained any signs of happiness and steadied my nerves by staring at the floor like a lifeless doll. And then, she did it. She wrote a prescription for twenty Klonopin.

The prescription was written for one pill a day. I ate two in the car on the way back to campus. I was to call her after a few days, and if it was working she’d prescribe more. I held the orange-brownish bottle tight in my hand like a trophy. I would use as much as I wanted, but had to control my insanity; otherwise she would know I was abusing them and would stop prescribing them.

By the time I made it back to campus, the pills had already hit. I was calm and lubricated. On my way to a friend’s room, fate presented itself. During all this wintery madness I’d had my eye on an acquaintance. His name was Nick and he was tall, masculine, strong, and popular—everything society told me I wasn’t. Having him would make me what I always wanted to be. I remembered one night we had done coke together. It had been his first time, and after a few lines his leg had started twitching like an impatient man with too much energy. I had found this cute in my drug delusion, and was sold. He was still experimenting with drugs, so my abstinence became the threat that kept me from him. Now that threat was gone, and there he stood in front of me.

He said hello, and I immediately held out the bottle and offered him one. He smelled stoned, so I knew he wouldn’t turn it down. His eyes lit up and he asked what it was. I gave him a quick rundown of the wonderful side effects and gave him one, then gave him “one more for good luck” as I tried to pull his essence into mine. He then invited me into the world I had never been a part of—the other side of his bedroom door, where his friends hung out and smoked pot,
drank, and partied. I had never been invited in before, and now was my opportunity.

I went in to find three other guys who looked slightly drunk and stoned. The pills were working, removing my anxiety, allowing me to relax and be myself, or at least who I thought I was. Nick poured me a beer from their mini-keg. I drank it as fast as I could, filled my plastic cup again, and made myself at home. As we listened to Phish, one of the guys asked me about some of the drugs I’d taken, since I had the reputation of being a drug addict. They were interested in getting to know me, not make fun of me, and for the rest of the night I felt accepted. I gave each guy a pill, but only one, since I needed the rest—though I secretly handed Nick another one. We drank more beer, listened to more music, and smoked pot. I ate a few more pills and told the guys my sordid drug stories like we were kids sitting around a campfire.

A day and a half had gone by and I woke up in the same chair, dressed in the same clothes—ripped rave jeans and a black hoodie. I looked elusive and mysterious, like a boy who played with matches. I reached down into my pocket, making sure the pill bottle was still there. It was. I shook it, hoping for the dull rattle of remaining pills. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t eaten them all or given them away in my calm euphoria. I looked up at the bunk bed and Nick wasn’t there.

Alone in the room, I heard the door open, and it was him, returning from class. I said drunkenly, “Dude, how’d you go to class?” He said with his raspy, deep voice, “I dunno. I sat in the seat and fell asleep the whole time. I never miss class, no matter how fucked up I am or tired. I’m always gonna be there.”

“Shit, man. I don’t know how you did it; I can’t even move my legs!”

We both laughed and I stood up, embarrassed and confused, because I didn’t know how long I had been asleep, what day it was, or how much time had passed. I was afraid to ask him if it was Wednesday, but I knew I needed to take a pill fast. Reality was starting to crack through my comfort, and the anxiety was leaking through the medicated state of my brain.

I reached down into the jeans I had been wearing for months and handed Nick another pill as I left for my room. “Here’s one for later.” As I walked through campus, I thought about Nick’s smile. I liked him, and acknowledging that fact brought a small trace of sunlight back into my gloom.

I walked into my room, and the depression hit me like a thunderclap. My room was dark, disturbing, and lonely. No one ever came in; it reeked of sickness, like a cancer ward. I didn’t even bother to decorate the institutional white walls. My turntables were thickly layered in dust, and my clothes covered the floor. My chessboard always made me laugh. My mother had bought it for me. I loved playing when I was younger, but over the years I had lost the pieces. I replaced those lost pieces with prescription bottles full of antidepressants, useless antianxiety pills, and painkillers. Instead of warriors fighting to save their queen, it became an addict’s playground—last pill bottle standing wins to take all of the remaining pills, surrendering his life to overdoses. There were no rules.

I called the psychiatrist a few days earlier than she had expected. I told her that the pills were working, though they seemed a little weak. I was fishing for a stronger strength. She paused for a moment and said, “I know what to do. What is your pharmacy number?” I quickly searched the bottle for the number that had nearly been rubbed off by my tight, sweaty grip on the bottle. She called in for the next dosage. The pills I still had were yellow 0.5 milligrams, little SweeTarts, but now I graduated to the green ones that were double strength. On top of that, I had a brand-new prescription waiting for me at the pharmacy. I picked them up, ate a few, and made sure to save a few for Nick.

My phone rang, which was usually my counselor since no one else called my room. I had slammed it down in anger so many times that it barely worked, but on the other end of the line was Nick. I smiled. He asked what I was up to, and I didn’t know if I should tell him the truth or not. I was getting fucked up all by myself. He had just taken the pill I left him, was feeling the effects, and would bring some beers over. We talked into the night. He came from a caring family.

I felt like the black sheep in the conversation. I wasn’t even twenty-one and had been to one rehab and was already into my second. He seemed to like all the bad things I’d done; all my destruction made him laugh. And then it happened.

We kissed, and it felt like my first kiss ever. The kiss I’d never had, the one I heard my sisters talk about when I was younger, the one I heard Tara and her friends mention a million times—that special kiss that made them teenagers. The weird thing was that I knew Nick wasn’t gay. He was just fucked up, just another straight guy experimenting. Drugs make people more intimate and allow them to cross boundaries they normally wouldn’t cross. I loved drugs even more, because they made that moment possible. I was so alone for so many months, and for the few moments that kiss lasted I felt cared for, attractive, and desired. All the things I had been washed away. Even though I had secretly wanted that moment and carefully prepared for it, the kiss shattered me. I smiled from deep within my being and it shone through my eyes and penetrated through the drugs. For a brief second, my soul and essence broke through the darkness I had covered myself with for years. For the first time in a very long time, I felt human.

20

CALVARIA

T
HE CALVARIA OR SKULLCAP IS THE UPPER PORTION OF THE SKULL.
W
HEN SOMEONE SUSTAINS A BLOW TO THE HEAD OR HITS THE HEAD AGAINST A STATIONARY OBJECT, A CONCUSSION CAN OCCUR.
A
CONCUSSION IS AN IMMEDIATE BUT OFTEN REVERSIBLE TRAUMATIC PARALYSIS OF THE NERVOUS FUNCTION IN THE BRAIN.

I became a new fixture in Nick’s room. We had sex on more than one occasion, but only when we were extremely intoxicated. We would whisper the words “no regret” to each other, verifying that although we never spoke of it afterward, we understood that it happened. Most of the jocks partied in his room, and I had painted them all wrong. I had judged them because I was never part of their conversations; however, they found me interesting and dark, with a sardonic sense of humor that made them laugh. I realized that there was more in common than not between us. We all felt the same pressures to be the best.

I had stopped attending group meetings at rehab, started to miss my appointments with my college counselor, and had no intention of showing up for classes. Every day started the same—I would shower, throw on my Ralph Lauren polo shirt and big baggy jeans, eat some pills, take a short walk over to Nick’s room, and then start to drink. I’d take a nap while Nick went to his classes. We took every drug together, from ecstasy to acid and mushrooms to mescaline.

After Darren left, I contacted one of his dealers and started getting coke for the other guys who hung out with Nick. I loved it. My phone rang all the time, and for the first time I had tons of new friends, but I was a horrible coke dealer. I would get their stuff, steal a few lines out of it, and then cut their bags with baking powder to make it look like a large amount. Everyone knew I was a shady guy and buying coke from me was risky, but it’s just the way it went. I wasn’t going to justify anything to anyone. I had to feed my own addiction first.

I stopped talking to Darren and realized that we never had much in common; we had basically driven each other crazy in a bizarre struggle for power and acceptance. I spoke with Piper now and then, and even gave Cloud a call from Nick’s phone. After I told him so many Cloud stories, he finally let me use his calling code to give her a call.

Still in design school, she answered the phone and her voice was disturbing. At first she sounded happy to hear from me, but then there was no one there, as if she had fallen asleep in midconversation. Then she woke up, completely forgetting that I was on the phone. Whenever I took about thirty pills I sounded the same way, but this was different; she sounded more anesthetized. What I could hear sounded like heroin. That same scratchy, soft, opiate voice that came out of junkies in the street begging for change now came out of Cloud’s mouth. My counselor’s voice echoed in my head—“Someday you will return here as a heroin addict”—and now I hated heroin even more. It seemed to have taken Cloud, and my voice couldn’t wake her from her deep sleep. There she lay, somewhere in Portland, phone in hand, asleep in the void between life and death, an unkissed Sleeping Beauty.