Another Chance

Everyone has asked, pleaded, and outright begged for another chance at some time or another. Screwing up is just part of the human experience. In my experience, addicts seem to have cornered the market when it comes to needing yet another chance. Those who have never witnessed addiction (personally or second-hand) can easily assume the addict lacks willpower, that if only she just made up her mind she could quit. I used to be one of those people. I scoffed at the notion that addiction was a legitimate disease. I used to believe that those people could stop, they just didn't want to.

God, I was so wrong. Humble pie, with or without the crow, is never easily consumed no matter how cold or warm it is.

They tell you in rehab that addiction is cycle of being unable to use (i.e., consume your drug of choice) but unable to stop. That circular reasoning can drive anyone mad: I need to stop, but I can't stop but I need to stop, but I really can't stop. Repeat that a couple thousand times a day and you get the picture. It is a cycle of insanity that the addict is powerless to break.

I recently read about "the gift of desperation". One doesn't think of desperation as a gift, but for the addict it really is. I remember that "Aha!" moment where I reached that place of desperation. It was my second night in a state-funded detox facility. I had been placed there on a psychiatric hold for losing my shit the night of my 29th birthday...the same night my mother, sister, and brother-in-law did an intervention. Needless to say, I didn't respond favorably as I ended up in a place called Lakeview Mental Health covered in dried blood and a myriad of bruises from handcuffs and my brother-in-law's (very effective) headlock. Not my finest moment.

[Side note: For the record, I think interventions can be very effective. However they can just as easily backfire and get ugly for the simple reason there isn't much reasoning to be had with a strung-out addict.]

My second night while at Lakeview I spoke on the phone with my mother. I was so, so sick. I was still fooling myself into believing I had a stomach bug. Um, hello? I was in full-blown withdrawal and sicker than a dog. While on the phone with my mom, I suddenly felt ill. With no time to make it to a bathroom I vomited right there in the hallway. There I was, laying on a dirty floor, a pool of vomit next to me. When I told one of the techs I threw up, he pointed me to the towels and instructed me to clean it up.

That was my "aha" moment. I hadn't showered in four days. I was wearing dirty clothes. My head was pounding and I was so sick I couldn't even keep anti-nausea medication down. And in the midst of all that, I was mopping up my own vomit in the dirty hallway of mental health facility that I couldn't leave. 

It was at that moment I became desperate. The scales began to crumble. I started to see what I had become, and I didn't like it. I was desperate.

What a gift that moment, that feeling, really was. I had finally reached a place where I was willing to try ANYTHING to get better. In retrospect, I am so thankful I had that moment. Little did I know at the time, but that moment became the fulcrum for my recovery. It hurt enough to elicit a desire for real change. It was my gift of desperation.

I never have thought this at that time, but I am thankful my detox experience was painful. I am thankful it was so awful. Some things need to be grim and scary and painful. Kicking an opiate habit needs to hurt.

That gift of desperation has enabled me to not only beg for another chance from those I love, it gave me the strength to stick to my recovery and stay sober. It has kept me honest and, most importantly, it has enabled my loved ones to begin to trust me again.

Desperation is a gift for the recovering addict.