Edit: This very long, so I'm putting it into spoiler tags to save on space.
SpoilerWhen I was kicked out of my apartment for basically being a lazy junkie, I was dropped off at the hospital. I had a blood infection running up my arm, with the telltale little red streaks. I had scrapped my knuckle a few days before on a brick wall, though not severely. My immune system was so shot from doing a lot of meth and opiates (pills and smokeable opium) that it the infection went wild.
The doctors took one look at my arm and immediately put me on 3500cc of antibiotics. The very first thing they asked was if I had used meth in the last 48hrs. Which I had. I went through two bags in less than 90 minutes because I was so sick. The doctors told me if I had waited another 48 hours, I'd likely be dead. That infection would have reached my heart and well...that's all she wrote.
I had hit rock bottom. I was briefly homeless, with nothing but the clothes on back. No money, and most of my stuff was taken. My "friends" that had gotten high with me had all turned their backs. My best friend of now 18 years was one of two people that stood by me, but I couldn't move in with him. I had no choice but to call my parents and have them come get me. They didn't know what happened exactly, but they knew that I was sicker than hell.
I had moved back out 6 months later. I did tell them a couple of years later what had happened, and they were pretty compassionate. I know for a fact that I would have ended up dead if it wasn't for them. They took care of me during and helped me clean up. Even if they didn't know it at the time.
Anyway, I got back to my folks and I had some clothes that I hadn't taken with me. I took a hot shower, and put on an old nightgown. Then I saw my reflection and started to cry. I looked like Death was trying to creep up on me. I was 112 lbs and I didn't recognize myself. It was bad.
I knew it was down to two options: Get sober or die as a junkie. I didn't want to die, so with all of my resolve, I knew I was going to quit. I got back in touch with my old friends, got a job working with animals for awhile, and started to get my act together. Nearly dying was what really motivated to quit, and I'm happy I did.
It wasn't easy at times. One night in December of 2000 (so about 9 months after,) I was at a friend's house. Unbeknownst to the owner, someone was smoking tweek. I told my friend "You get my the f' out of here now." He did, thankfully, and I was okay. I had the shakes for awhile, but I made it.
I got out of the whole thing relatively unscathed. I lost my stuff, some of which was precious to me. However, since I didn't share needles and always used protection, I came out of it 100% disease free. No Hep A or B, no STDs. I'm grateful and happy that I got a second chance to not screw things up. A lot of people don't have that.
That's part of the reason why I try to be nice and diplomatic, offline and online. I believe in paying it forward. Sometimes, a kind word or a reasonable point of view can make all the difference to someone. Life's short and pain is long and we were put on this earth to take care of each other.
The Dude Abides.
Wow Nat. I had no idea.
I went through the same thing, a couple of years back.
I relapsed for a time last year, then after a breakdown (I won't go into details) got clean again.
It's an eternal struggle for me, as being on drugs was the only thing that really made me happy. But I can't do it anymore, it messes with my head.
Cheers to staying sober/clean!
Retour en haut
(Warning: testosterone poisoning?)
not that I know these people, but going into a couple of threads in the MEA section I've seen somebody get trolled.
