Read Online The Big Fix by Tracey Helton Mitchell - Free Book Online

states of sickness curled up on the floor. I had been to jail many times, but I had never been deemed enough of a junkie to be sent here. I had heard stories over the years of people dying in here. I knew pain awaited me.
    My cold-turkey detox started twelve hours later, after the drugs started to leave my body, in a four-person cell. On the first day I was still feeling the effects of the drugs; they started to leave my body on the second day, along with what seemed like all my fluids. We were each given a plastic bag to hold our vomit. I had teary eyes, vomiting, and diarrhea all at the same time, while my legs twitched with involuntary muscle spasms, hence the term “kicking.” The jail provided some over-the-counter medications like Tylenol and Doan’s Pills. We had to provide evidence we had puked to get a shot of Compazine, an antinausea drug normally given to schizophrenics. Only alcoholics got Librium to help control their fear and anxiety. The reality was everyone needed it. We were all going out of our minds.
    At the end of day two, I was shaking so hard and it was so noisy in the jail, I felt like I had boarded a rocket ship. Destination: Unknown. My body was detoxing from who knows how many substances. I was hallucinating so badly I started searching for syringes in my blanket because instinct told me drugs were the only thing that could keep me from dying.
    The day you stop using is the day your recovery starts. Recovery begins with the body and slowly works on themind. The body shakes and shivers as layers of toxic substances are cleared away to make room for something new. It is as if you are shedding your skin. The body must be cleared of the very thing it desires. The body wants to pace, wants to run away. You feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest and then you realize you cannot get out of bed.
    By the third day my mind was clear enough to question everything. Recovery is both a noun and a verb. I did not know who I was any more than I knew what to do next. I got into a fight with another inmate, about something. She lunged at me, thinking she would take advantage of my vulnerable state. At that moment, I was in need of an outlet and she was it. As she jumped on top of me, I reached for her neck, pulling her off me with all my nervous energy. As I brought my other arm back to beat the hell out of her I had a moment of clarity. I am done fighting. I am not doing this anymore. When I get out of this motherfucking kick tank, I thought, I am asking to go to a program. Fuck this life.
    This was my eleventh time kicking heroin, and it would be my last.
    Dressed in orange pants, orange sweatshirt, orange T-shirt, orange socks, and even orange panties, I appeared in court a month or so later. I was on a no-bail hold for violation of my probation. My only deviation from the standard uniform worn by the other prisoners was a piece of glove that I had torn and used to tie my slicked-back hair into a ponytail, which I hoped made me look more respectable, appealing, and worthy of a break.
    â€œMs. Helton, do you understand and agree to this sentence?”
    I nodded. “Yes, Your Honor.” This was the only time I spoke.
    The prosecuting attorney stood up, and all I heard was, “I object.” What the fuck. My probation officer had recommended that I get a nine-month sentence that included a drug treatment program. With time for good behavior, I would be released in five months. This objection could destroy my chances of going to rehab at all.
    I’m sure the prosecutor looked at a piece of paper and saw that I was a repeat offender who had been caught in possession of a half ounce of heroin. She probably thought she was doing society a favor by protecting it from someone like me. In reality, I was putting a good portion of those drugs up my own arm on a daily basis. My life had been reduced to finding fulfillment wrapped in plastic bags. Now this—going to a