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

confidence. Each of us was wondering, How am I ever going to make it? Instead of uplifting broken people, the pep talk planted the seed of doubt. It turned out the facilitator himself did not make it. A few years later, he died of a crack-induced heart attack.
    I knew I would have to fight to keep from becoming a statistic. I later learned that in rehab made-up statements about recovery were often passed off as facts. More than once I heard people throw around the “statistic” that only 1 percent of heroin addicts get clean and stay clean. This was not very comforting to a person trying to stay clean. On top of that, my options were limited. If I failed to complete the program, I was going to prison for three and a half years. More than that, I was motivated by the fact that if I failed, I would die with a needle hanging out of my arm.
    I told myself: Of the eighty people in this room, seventy-nine will be fighting for that last spot, because I am going to be one who stayed clean. Period. I was not returning to alleyways. I was not going back to pushing my belongings in a shopping cart. I was not returning to injecting myself ten times a day. In my mind, I almost felt lucky that I had hit such a low bottom. It made it that much easier to commit to a program. I was willing to try anything not to use drugs: meetings, groups, keeping a journal, talking about my feelings. I was tired and I was done with that life. DONE. I ran that car until the wheels fell off. Drugs held no more illusions for me.
    In early recovery, life was an effort. One second I felt happy. The next I wanted to scream at someone for accidentally brushing against me. Then I would feel the need to apologize not only to that person but also to every single person I had ever wronged. I had no idea how to live. I felt like crying, but the tears did not come. I didn’t feel like using. In fact, on many days I didn’t feel anything at all. My life was gray and overcast.
    What I needed was a distraction, and for that I went to the second and third floors, where the men lived. Walking down the hallway, I slowed down for a good look. After two and a half months in jail, I craved the presence of men, even if they brought out things I didn’t like about myself. I admit my view of men was warped. For example, there was something so sweet about a man escorting you back to your apartment after you have taken too many drugs. He would get bonus points if he didn’t press for sex. That to me was romance. But when a boyfriend brought me flowers, I threw them on the ground. “I wanted to do something special,” one boyfriend had said. I was homeless at the time. What the fuck was I going to do with flowers? He should have brought me some tissues instead, since he had given me a bloody nose and a black eye.
    On the way to breakfast one morning, I caught a man looking at me as I crossed the cafeteria. I quickly looked away but when I saw him later in the hallway, I didn’t flinch. Women and men sat together at mealtimes on the third floor. The management there tried to make it a family atmosphere, but with the “brothers” trying to sleep with the “sisters,” it was more like every man for himself.
    When I finally earned enough trust for an afternoon away from the program, I quickly abused it. The man I had spotted and I both knew the rules: no sex between residents. Yet my first pass involved forty-five minutes in a hotel room with him. Never mind that he spoke almost no English and I spoke only halting Spanish. I had fooled myself into believing he cared for me. My first sober kiss since high school led to hurried sex. As I pulled my clothes from the floor, I saw the momentfor what it was: two people using each other for an escape. When I returned to the treatment center, they were surprised to see me back so soon. With no explanation, I went to the women’s floor and took a long shower. Instead of tamping down my feelings