Painting Over the Wallpaper

2011.  That’s the last time you heard from me.  It’s gonna be hard to put things into a nutshell for you, but I’m gonna try to get you up to speed.  For the sake of context I’ve left my original “Wallpaper” post from 2010 alive on this blog – but all other posts from 2010/2011 have been deleted.  They are no longer relevant to my life today.  Alright, buckle up…

When you last heard from me, I was living in a poly family in a small town in the Midwest.  Yeah, that crashed and burned.  All for the best really.  Our other partners moved out and S and I ended up sharing the house with my daughter N for several years as a happy little family.  So happy in fact, that we decided to add to our little family.  In October of 2011, I conceived with the help of a known donor so that we could expand our circle.  But in December, I suffered a miscarriage.  This was perhaps one of the most devastating experiences of my adult life up until that point. I sank into a deep depression, and dove into the bottle of prescription Vicodin they prescribed me for pain after my D&C procedure.  I didn’t fully come out of the depression for almost a three years.  I also got incredibly ill, first with pneumonia, then with chronic pain, and finally with fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.  I ended up filing for first Short Term Disability, then Long Term, and finally Social Security.  I’m still on it to this day.

Meanwhile, we sold the house and moved back to the city.  S struggled with her own depression after losing our son.  I dove further and further down the rabbit hole of prescription pill addiction.  My mother, who was dying of COPD and under hospice care, eventually had to move in with us.  I began pilfering her medication to feed my habit.  Finally, in October 2014, the shit hit the fan.  When talking to my then therapist, I dropped the bomb that I was stealing mom’s meds.  I was immediately sent to rehab.  It was the best decision at the time.  With the help of AA, I stayed sober for 19 months.

But… other behaviors began rearing their ugly heads almost immediately.  The opiate withdrawals made it almost impossible to eat.  And I remembered how much I liked the feeling of not eating and drastic weight loss that had followed my gastric bypass in 2008.  But this time I took it waaaaaay further. I dropped 75 pounds, and fast.  (I had gained a bit back in my battle with depression so I had it to lose, but still…)  I ended up for the next 19 months in and out of treatment for atypical anorexia.  (Meaning I was too fat to be ACTUALLY anorexic, but I had all the other characteristics.)  I was clean and sober, but battling for my life on other fronts.  And all the while S was at home caring for my dying mother and my daughter N.  Not happy making for a fiancée.

While I was in treatment at an ED (Eating Disorder) clinic in 2015, I met E.  I was drawn to her right away.  She was mercurial to say the least.  Laughing and bouncing off the walls one minute, with flashes of hot anger the next.  She was in recovery from heroin addiction, and we became fast friends.  After I left the EDC, much to everyone’s surprise and some’s chagrin, we stayed friends. (Lots of treatment friendships don’t last.)  Months later, she relapsed and called S and I for help getting out of the situation with her abusive, using boyfriend.  I was in treatment at the time in St. Louis, but S immediately drove the three hours to get her, and moved her into our living room.

When I returned home a month later, we spent every minute together.  It didn’t take long for us to fall in love.  S and I were still in an open/poly relationship, so everything was above-board.  What WASN’T above-board was the fact that E and I started shooting up together just a month after we started dating.  It started with just the hint of a suggestion, and I was off to the races.  Neither of us were eating, and we were using IV crack cocaine nearly every day, and heroin when we could score it.  Speedballs.  It didn’t take long before we both OD’d and everything came out in the open.  S and N were devastated.  And the second time it happened, E ended up on life support for two days.  That’s when we swore off heroin for good.  So I went to detox, and E went to Intensive Out Patient (IOP).  And eventually we went back to using crack.  We just couldn’t get clean altogether.  The drugs were what fueled our relationship, our sex life, everything.  Like true addicts, we thought we could keep using if we just did the “safer” drugs.

E was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder.  This made our relationship pretty tumultuous, and she struggled with loads of insecurity and jealousy.  Eventually, E became intensely fearful that I would marry S and drop her (we were set to be married on 10/15/16) and I became so fearful of losing E and the lifestyle that we were living, that I broke off the engagement with S.  That was the last straw with the long-suffering S – she moved out weeks later.  Without S around as my reality check and anchor, E and I went nuclear in our drug use.  The days and nights blurred together.  We both began having seizures regularly.  Not that that stopped us.   I barely managed to get N fed and to school everyday.  I used all day when she was gone and all night when she was in bed.  I hustled in ways I’m ashamed to admit to this day to earn money.  I stole to keep food on the table because all cash went to drugs.  We were about to lose our apartment because we could no longer afford it without S.  My life hit bottom.

Then in July of 2016, I received a call from a stranger, informing me that she was my step-sister and that my father had passed away suddenly from a suspected heart attack.  And that he had left me a SIZEABLE inheritance.  I was in shock. Problems solved!  I scrambled the next three weeks to get all the paperwork Ps and Qs in order.  And on August 30th, I had cash in my hand.  That night, we bought $600 worth of crack to celebrate.  And that night E overdosed.  And died.

And a part of me died with her.

It’s 11 month later.  I wish I could say I got clean after E died, but I didn’t.  I buried my pain in drugs for another 8 months.  I ended up almost dying myself after a couple grand mal seizures and a bout with sepsis.  If I never see the inside of a hospital again it will be too soon.

But – I JUST CELEBRATED 90 DAYS CLEAN LAST WEEK.  This time I am working the program of NA.  I wouldn’t be clean without it.  I attend 3-5 meetings a week, and I have a great sponsor, D, who I call pretty much daily.  I am living in a small 2 bedroom apartment with N.  S and I are good friends again, but things are still strained sometimes.  I hurt her pretty badly.  My best friend in the program, H, just moved into the building next door, and she’s who I spend most of my days with nowadays.  We keep each other on the straight and narrow.  N and I have a little chihuahua/terrier mix named JoJo.  He’s an Emotional Support Animal (ESA) for N, who needs it after being through all the trauma she’s been through in the last few years – divorce, death, moving around, etc.   I go to ED/trauma therapy with a woman named A twice a week, and I do adjunct addiction and art therapy every few weeks as well.  A is encouraging/supporting me through the process of writing the first draft of my memoir.  The updating of this blog is a part of that process – which I’m sure you’ll hear more about in coming days.

I have a lot of gratitude these days.  There’s a lot of good happening in my life.  I’m applying for a mortgage – hell, I may not get it cuz I messed things up pretty good financially there for a while, but I’m lucky that I even have a shot.  I’m trying to take a trip to Costa Rica with N.  I have the money to pay my bills.  I have clean and sober friends, a fully-paid-off car, a roof over my head, food in my fridge.  I still struggle with the ED.  I rarely eat more than one meal a day.  It’s something A and I are working on.  I miss E every damned day.  Right now I’m planning a Memorial Celebration of Life for the one year anniversary of her passing, August 31st.  It’s got me pretty depressed, to be honest.  But I need to honor her memory.  And maybe finally find some closure now that I’m doing it clean.  I’m sure you’ll hear more about that in the future as well.

The truth is, I’m doing alright. And that’s a damned miracle.

Well, that’s it folks, that’s enough, and more than enough.  Thanks for sticking in this long.  I’ll be back with some actual (and much shorter) blog posts in the future.

Peace to you, friends.

3 Comments

  1. After reading this I read your wallpaper. I’m impressed by your writing skill, and by how much you fitted into the word count. You spun through your parent’s apparent ignorance of abuse, ending the paragraph with the words “Oops! Their bad”, thereby saving a couple of ranting paragraphs. You’re not angling for pity. As you say, it’s all history; you’ve had tons of therapy, but ‘ouch’ anyway. I feel like writing that ouch in mile high red parentheses, but that’s not what you want.
    You makes some of the grittiest writing out there look like sentimental trash.. If you wrote a memoir it would probably be a masterpiece, and I hope I’d read it – no guarantees as I’m so chaotic.
    You say the woman that you loved died, and yet you continued to use. Of course you did, that’s how it goes. But the fact that you’re clean a year later is a monument to your strength. Congratulations. That’s the word that really deserves the mile high, red parentheses.


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