I stopped updating. The entire time I told myself that I would write again, only when I was ready and not before. I was ready many times, but I could not force myself to sit at the computer and write. Just write. Just close my eyes, think of my day, open my eyes and type for all that it was worth. I use to find that so therapeutic.
Then I relapsed. Then I relapsed again and ended up in the hospital.
Then I had the two positive drug tests and I felt ashamed. Ashamed not because there was drug use in my system, but because I wasn't just destroying my life, I was also taking my best friend down with me, and he was the one who provided the drugs. I forced him to provide the drugs. I belittled him when he asked me why. I told him that I had a back ache or that I had a knee pain and all that could settle my storm. This was someone who loved me and was taking care of me, or so he thought, and here I was, verbally abusing him and running him into the ground.
That wasn't me.
Taking a look around the hospital ER room after an IV full of benedryl, fluids and an antidote, I was coherent again and able to take in my surroundings. My friend was sitting in a chair, in the corner of the room, looking scared. I quietly asked what happened and he said I was "rolling" for three days. On the third day, or that night, I started begging for help. I had not been eating. I had only taken one dose. Then I started seeing stars inside and floating. This went on for three days, and he had to call in to work, and he had to deal with my husband coming by asking for me. He thought he was doing me a favour by keeping me hidden from friends and family because they shouldn't see me like that.
And I shouldn't be remembered like that.
Remembered? The next seven words made my hair stand up on the back of my neck: "I thought you were going to die."
Two days later I walked out of the hospital with him, holding hands.
I made some affirmations right then and there. No more drugs. No more asking for them. No more brow-beating one of the truly few friends that I have for drugs. No more. No more. No more. No more pushing others to do drugs with me. I didn't pick up a Bible and become religious in that time frame, but I became more spiritual. I scared someone who loved me dearly, and I should not have done that. On the long, silent drive home, he said that I knew I was dying. That he could not sleep because I might stop breathing and he didn't know CPR.
So I asked, "What now?" he shrugged. Sitting outside my house with a small overnight bag on my lap, I leaned over and hugged him. I held him in my arms. Our silent tears were all that we needed to realise just how real this all was.
I slowly went back on my prescriptions. For a day or so, I was too afraid to take anything, thinking it was an over dose of one of my prescriptions. I basked in the warmth of my daughter and sons showering me with "Yay! Mommy is home!" and my husband's look of relief before asking where I was. I promised to tell him when the time was right. I sat down and did glitter crafts with my boys and little girl. I diapered dolls with my little girl. I wore a pink gem stoned tiara and dressed up as the queen and the boys were my little princes. I got out my old pins and mounted them on a framed cork board with my husband. I wrote in the journal that sits on the night stand. I watched TV endlessly with him. I played video games with the boys. I played Nintendogs with Chloe. I returned all the phone calls that I had been thinking about getting back to. I bought my mother scented candles and Godiva chocolates. I bought my father a stuffed rabbit with chocolates. I told my parents that I appreciate them. I wore the hoop-diamond-drop earrings that my Nick bought me for Christmas on my 18th Christmas. I put on the simple silver ring for my wedding band. I took nothing for granted anymore. I ordered a new journal and some stickers with Chloe and we have been making little scenes in the pages of my journal.
I take nothing for granted now that I know it can all be taken away from me so quickly. I never would have known my life was ending.
The next part I did Sunday evening. I went to my friend's work and watched him take drinks to several of the tables, back a fourth. He didn't even see me there. Shame that he was working on that day. I ordered a glass of merlot and waited. When he delivered it to me, I stood and held out my arms to him. We were instantly pulled together in a tight embrace. I whispered in his ear that I loved him and thanked him for being there, for letting me live another day. When the hugging was over, I asked what was in that final pill. I specifically said nothing harder than a barb. He said he wasn't sure, he'd gotten it from the john that was always asking for me. I sighed and told him that we could still be friends, in fact, I had made him a cake that he needed to come over and celebrate with me with after his shift. He gave me a wide-eyed look. "You know what..." he began. I nodded. "I know it's your birthday. Happy twenty-fifth! Come by after your shift for cake and ice cream!" I replied. His face immediately brightened.
I celebrated my friend's birthday with him, just the two of us, just as he had envisioned it. I'm not going to lose a friend because of an accident. I apologised to him for all that I had done, and I hoped that he would forgive me. He says he has. We should go on an adventure. We will. Just not this week, or the next. I need to rest up.
It's good to be alive.
