detox
I just got home from detox today. It was one of the most painful, sickening things I've ever gone through. I slept through the first 3 days. They put this patch on me that made my blood pressure go so low that I almost died. On the 4th day I woke up and made a friend who was a heroin addict/dealer. Him and I plan on hanging out in 20 days when he gets out of Valley. One day I threw up all over the doctor and phychologist. One of the signs of withdrawal for my drug of choice is aggitation and anger. So I was sedated yesterday after having a scream-fest with this stupid nurse who told me I would fail miserably if I didn't go to in-patient afterwords. I still have to take anti-seizure medication because the withdrawals can cause seizures. The place was completely boring. You could watch VHS's or read from the AA or NA books. No sugar, caffeine, or nicotine allowed. I had to go to two AA meetings and stand up and say "Hi I'm Liz and I'm an opiate and Benzo addict." So that was pretty fun. They woke you up about every two hours to check your pulse and blood pressure. And the first three days they woke me up every 2 hours to take blood too, so now I look like a heroin junkie. And I'm not allowed to drive for 5 days because I'm so drugged up. I thank everyone who sent cards or flowers or balloons though. It really does help to know that I have people to call on in my time of need. Now...who wants to go to NA meetigs with me 3 times a week? Any takers? Come on...you know you want to. Here's to a new, sober, me.
The night nurse at detox told me I should write a story about my life, that it's so interesting. I doubt that, however. But he did say that writing about my addictions and being up-front with people about them can help cure them and help get to the root of why I'm so addictive. So here I go.
I'm starting to think that I am incapable of true happiness and contentedness with myself. I feel like it is completely impossible for me to love myself. I've never loved myself and I've never been happy. Memories of my childhood include crying myself to sleep, hiding under furniture or in corners crying, and biting myself so hard I bled when I was mad. I've hated my body since I was in 3rd grade. I used to check books out from my elementary school library about girls with eating disorders, idolizing them, wishing I could have that willpower. Finally in 8th grade the final thread snapped. I stopped eating completely. In 5 months time I lost 40 pounds. I thought if I got to this certain weight I would finally love myself. The number kept getting lower and lower. 120, 110, 100, and when I reached 100 and felt the same disgust with myself, I decided I would love myself at 80 pounds. My parents were going to send me to an eating disorder facility in Arizona for 6 months if I lost 5 more pounds. I had no choice but to gain weight. I knew the other patients would make fun of me because I wasn't skinny enough to be anorexic and in a hospital.
I mentioned earlier that I bit myself in times of anger when I was younger. I started cutting myself on a regular basis when I was 15. Everytime I felt bad about myself, I was sneaking down into the kitchen pressing the cold, serrated blade against my arm and and dragging it. Sometimes I can still hear the sound of the serrated blades tearing my skin apart and feel the pain. And I miss it. God, I really miss it. I did it partly because I felt I needed to be punished, and partly because the blood reassured what I prayed it wouldn't...that I was still alive. My parents knew what was going on. They made comments. They insulted me. It only made things worse. Finally my brother had the balls enough to tell them to seek help for me.
I can't remember the exact timeline of some of these things, but I do know that at some point I attempted or planned to take my own life. I remember the first time was during the Summer when I was 15. My brother was gone. My parents had just left for a walk. I don't remember thinking anything. I just shuffled downstairs and took a bottle of aspirin out of the cabinet. I only planned on taking a few, hoping to make myself feel better. I couldn't stop though. I was like a machine. I reached down to grab a pill, put it in my mouth, picked up the glass of water with the other hand, swallowed, reached down to grab a pill, put it in my mouth, picked up the glass of water with the other hand, and swallowed. All in all I ended up consuming about half of the bottle. I don't know why, but somehow I stopped my methodical madness and quit picking up the rest of the pills. I went to lay on my bed, and when my parents came home I was drifting in and out of consciousness. My mom saw the bottle, spilled out over the counter, and came upstairs to find me. I told her what I'd done and she rushed me to the ER where I was given ipecac to induce vomiting. I begged them to not send me to Fairfax. I assured them I felt fine and I wasn't going to hurt myself again.
The other time I planned to take my own life, Ted put a stop to that and he showed me that someone was capable of loving me, even if I wasn't capable of loving myself. I remember sitting in the quiet room of the ER with my mom sobbing and asking why. I wouldn't speak. When the doctor came in, I again begged him to not send me to Fairfax. And he didn't.
I went through my herb addiction when I was 14-16. I drank almost every day of my sophomore year. I went through a phase of promiscuity at age 16. I'm addicted to cigarettes and nicotine. And now I find myself home from a chemical dependency detox center for opiate and benzo addiction, feeling like I'm dying. All because I'm trying to numb myself so that I don't notice how I feel about myself. I jump from one addiction to another. It scares me. It makes me wonder what is next for me. What substance will I find myself addicted to next? I want to find out why I don't love myself and fix it. But I don't know where to start. My self hatred is my biggest fear. It has gotten me into so many terrible situations. I've been abused, walked on, raped, sent to rehab, you name it. This is the start of a new journey for me. I'm not going to mask my pain anymore. I'm going to figure it out. And starts with me being honest to and about myself. So that's my story. Now It's time for a new chapter.
I really wish I could sleep, but part of my withdrawals is insomnia. I've slept maybe 2 hours in the past 3 days. I'm going to go find something to do.
The night nurse at detox told me I should write a story about my life, that it's so interesting. I doubt that, however. But he did say that writing about my addictions and being up-front with people about them can help cure them and help get to the root of why I'm so addictive. So here I go.
I'm starting to think that I am incapable of true happiness and contentedness with myself. I feel like it is completely impossible for me to love myself. I've never loved myself and I've never been happy. Memories of my childhood include crying myself to sleep, hiding under furniture or in corners crying, and biting myself so hard I bled when I was mad. I've hated my body since I was in 3rd grade. I used to check books out from my elementary school library about girls with eating disorders, idolizing them, wishing I could have that willpower. Finally in 8th grade the final thread snapped. I stopped eating completely. In 5 months time I lost 40 pounds. I thought if I got to this certain weight I would finally love myself. The number kept getting lower and lower. 120, 110, 100, and when I reached 100 and felt the same disgust with myself, I decided I would love myself at 80 pounds. My parents were going to send me to an eating disorder facility in Arizona for 6 months if I lost 5 more pounds. I had no choice but to gain weight. I knew the other patients would make fun of me because I wasn't skinny enough to be anorexic and in a hospital.
I mentioned earlier that I bit myself in times of anger when I was younger. I started cutting myself on a regular basis when I was 15. Everytime I felt bad about myself, I was sneaking down into the kitchen pressing the cold, serrated blade against my arm and and dragging it. Sometimes I can still hear the sound of the serrated blades tearing my skin apart and feel the pain. And I miss it. God, I really miss it. I did it partly because I felt I needed to be punished, and partly because the blood reassured what I prayed it wouldn't...that I was still alive. My parents knew what was going on. They made comments. They insulted me. It only made things worse. Finally my brother had the balls enough to tell them to seek help for me.
I can't remember the exact timeline of some of these things, but I do know that at some point I attempted or planned to take my own life. I remember the first time was during the Summer when I was 15. My brother was gone. My parents had just left for a walk. I don't remember thinking anything. I just shuffled downstairs and took a bottle of aspirin out of the cabinet. I only planned on taking a few, hoping to make myself feel better. I couldn't stop though. I was like a machine. I reached down to grab a pill, put it in my mouth, picked up the glass of water with the other hand, swallowed, reached down to grab a pill, put it in my mouth, picked up the glass of water with the other hand, and swallowed. All in all I ended up consuming about half of the bottle. I don't know why, but somehow I stopped my methodical madness and quit picking up the rest of the pills. I went to lay on my bed, and when my parents came home I was drifting in and out of consciousness. My mom saw the bottle, spilled out over the counter, and came upstairs to find me. I told her what I'd done and she rushed me to the ER where I was given ipecac to induce vomiting. I begged them to not send me to Fairfax. I assured them I felt fine and I wasn't going to hurt myself again.
The other time I planned to take my own life, Ted put a stop to that and he showed me that someone was capable of loving me, even if I wasn't capable of loving myself. I remember sitting in the quiet room of the ER with my mom sobbing and asking why. I wouldn't speak. When the doctor came in, I again begged him to not send me to Fairfax. And he didn't.
I went through my herb addiction when I was 14-16. I drank almost every day of my sophomore year. I went through a phase of promiscuity at age 16. I'm addicted to cigarettes and nicotine. And now I find myself home from a chemical dependency detox center for opiate and benzo addiction, feeling like I'm dying. All because I'm trying to numb myself so that I don't notice how I feel about myself. I jump from one addiction to another. It scares me. It makes me wonder what is next for me. What substance will I find myself addicted to next? I want to find out why I don't love myself and fix it. But I don't know where to start. My self hatred is my biggest fear. It has gotten me into so many terrible situations. I've been abused, walked on, raped, sent to rehab, you name it. This is the start of a new journey for me. I'm not going to mask my pain anymore. I'm going to figure it out. And starts with me being honest to and about myself. So that's my story. Now It's time for a new chapter.
I really wish I could sleep, but part of my withdrawals is insomnia. I've slept maybe 2 hours in the past 3 days. I'm going to go find something to do.