A decade

Nearly a decade has passed since I entered rehab the last time. I still attend Narcotic Anonymous  meetings, although not regularly, until recently. I stand up and tell my story of drug addiction. I have hurt myself, my body, but more than that I hurt people who knew me, trusted me and for some reason that I often cannot easily grasp continued to believe in me. Being type 1 diabetic and drug addict was not a good combination, at 39 I suffered a heart attack, triggered by a combination of cocaine and MDMA, commonly known as "Molly" or "Ecstasy." I "rolled" into hospital. I was lucky to have survived.

Without dredging up all my sordid details, we will simply say that I had a big problem. Oddly, when I was doing coke, I never mixed alcohol, so I can still drink but not a lot nor often for the diabetic reason. Alcohol upsets my blood sugar balance and the older I become, the less eager I am to die. I take care of myself, eat right, get exercise, and I am still an addict, albeit a recovering one.

For years I had not considered in a fully formed way to use again. While my lady was hospitalized, the thought never once entered my mind. My only focus was on her. When she woke, again, no such thoughts entered my mind. My brother never once asked. I remain astutely confident he wanted to.

When Mouse came home from hospital, with pain medication, I will admit the temptation began, but I knew she needed them. I still did not consider it, until the crisis seemed to have passed.

After returning to work, I returned to NA meetings. The strain of it all (her illness and recovery) challenged my resolve. Mouse caught me looking at the bottle of pills one morning, they were sitting on the counter, beside the antibiotic and I was a bit lost in a recurring thought. They gave her 10 Vicodin and she took three or four. Mentally, I was going through the ideas of how to use whatever was left, Vicodin on its own is rather mild, but the high is decent if you snort them, something I had done before following knee surgery that sent me back into rehab the last time. It had slipped my mind to tell my surgeon I was a recovering addict and they prescribed Oxycodone and Vicodin following a knee replacement surgery.

When Mouse uncovered the truth she did give an ultimatum, "Get your shit together or get the fuck out." When truly frustrated and disappointed, my lady rarely minces her words.

That morning these were thoughts I could not stop. When I returned home from work that day, the pills had vanished. She gave them to Lucy, as she did not want them in the house anymore. It was not that she did not trust me, she said, but we both knew that was a lie.

I told her that I would be back in a couple hours and went to a meeting, my second of the day. I can only imagine what she thought or was thinking. I told her when I got home but she wanted to know why I had not told her before I left.

She knew. Sure, I made the right choice, I did not act out, but the thought was there, and we both knew it. I had driven around deciding if I wanted to use or if I would just ramble into a meeting. I wish the decision were an easier one. I decided then to reenter therapy, and continue with the meetings.

Allow me to reintroduce myself, "Hello, my name is "Omega" and I am an addict."