**Survivors Series** The Sober Junkie

By The Sober Junkie and Jessica Skinner
@thesoberjunkie and @kushy_kitty
Pulling myself from the tight grip of sleep, I realized that this day was just like every other day. I woke up, already dope sick. I was cold and aching all over. To top it off, I also had the sweats and was spewing and excreting a yellow foam. I now, know this is bile.
Solid in the knowledge that, “I just can’t do this anymore.”
I had enough dope to do a morning “get well” fix and promptly did. Problem was, at this stage in my disease, I was not high. This is the time of day I start plotting and scheming in my head. My daily ritual of sorts. “How can I do just enough, and no one find out?”
That never happened, however.
It was hopeless, I was hopeless. I was hooked. Time to go.
I was off and running for the day. Gotta score some more. My daily adventures, always ended up at my connections house, which unfortunately for me, was in walking distance.
Finally, I’m in my warm dope fog, when…
Of course! This is when my wife starts calling me. “D*mn, why you always gotta ruin my high?” I think to myself as I hit ignore. I truly was a selfish sh*t, during this time in my life. I had allowed opiates to become the most important thing in my life. Hell, it was the only thing that mattered anymore. I had to stay well. There was no choice. It wasn’t often I was what I would even call “high.” I had to stay “well.” I was terrified of being sick. I had heard horror stories of detoxing, never mind that I had a few of my own logged.
I knew the dope could kill me, but so could the withdrawals. Let’s face it, to a using junkie, withdrawals are scarier than death. I had to stay well.
Ring…..
The phone snaps me back and I know I should answer. She asks me “What’s up?” and I reluctantly told her exactly what was up. She tells me I should come home, “I want to talk to you.”
I immediately knew something out of the ordinary was in store for me today. I told her I would be home as soon as I could. She quietly responded “Don’t worry, I’ll see you when you get here. I love you, Michael, I love you.”
As I trudged home, I was wondering exactly what it was that we had to talk about now.
I had some dope and a new syringe on me, so before going inside I hid it along the back fence. She must have been watching and listening for me. As soon as I rounded the corner to go up the stairs into the house, I ran right into her. After a short verbal confrontation, she quite literally knocked me out. Struggling to pull myself together, I can feel my wife’s voice invading all my senses. It’s the only reality now.
“I can’t do this sh*t anymore. I refuse to sit here and watch you kill yourself. Your mother and your kids are watching you die. You are killing yourself and taking us with you. You’re the smartest man I know. Right now though, I must say you are being so God D*mn stupid! What do we have to do? What the f*ck do you need from us? Please, let me help you. We need you and miss you. It’s either get right or go. I hate to say it like that, but it’s your choice.”
I told her I wanted to quit this vicious cycle more than anything, but I don’t know how.
“I can’t do this alone, I’m so scared,” I whispered.
We called every rehab facility we came across. NO BEDS! NO HELP! All too common problem. My wife looked at me with all the determination love possesses and said,
“Then we find a meeting for now.”
There happened to be one, right down the street from my house that night. On my way out (in true junkie form) I grabbed my stash from the fence and trotted off down the block.
The meeting had already begun, so I snuck into the bathroom first. I had to be high, in order to talk to strangers about getting high. I slammed the last bit of shame I had left, with that last shot.
I walked into the meeting, just in time to hear a little bit of a story. ”These guys are true War Dogs!” I remember thinking. I was so high, though, I honestly didn’t give a sh*t. When it was my turn, I was more than eager to speak. Here I was the “new guy,” center of attention, and most important person in the room. My selfish ass rambled on and on. I’m not sure at what point it became cathartic, I’m just grateful it did. This was just a little bit crazy to me. Giving out my ugly truth to strangers. They swarmed around me, embracing me. Praising my courage, and telling me they loved me. I know I was definitely giving off a “get away from me” vibe. I had just told these people what a scumbag husband, father, and son I had been. They still took me in. Gradually the unconditional love and friendship they were showing me, chipped away at the last of my reserve. I surrendered. I had to.
Now I had to truly get well.
I knew they understood my burden, my pain, and my desperation. In a way that only a fellow addict would. They loved and accepted me at a time that not even I could. The stories are all similar, like Deja Vu. For the first time, I found myself thinking “maybe this time I can.”
I was blessed to find an awesome sponsor that first night.
Steve.
He went home with me that very night, to meet my wife. We sat for a while, getting to know each other, developing a plan of attack.
That first week was so hard to get through. I couldn’t have done it without my family and cannabis. A painful haze of sleep, smoke, and diarrhea. The second day is really the first. I was feeling like sh*t, and out of it. Imagine the flu and roto virus at the same time. I had vomited and defecated so much that by midday, I was dehydrated. Although, that didn’t stop my body from trying. I honestly thought I was going to die. I was not able to make any meetings. I vaguely remember Steve coming by to check on me and bringing pizza. Time to smoke, eat, sleep, repeat. Day 3 and 4 were spent pretty much the same way. I was a lifeless zombie, struggling to keep enough fluids in, so I would at least have something to spew when my body betrayed me.
Dry heaves on both ends are no fun.
All I could do was smoke cannabis and stay hydrated. After a week or so the pain and discomfort began to fade. Gradually I regained control over my body; the physical withdrawals were done. At least that’s before I realized, that was the easy part.
Now, I had to deal with me. I had to dig deep into my mind and soul and confront my dirt. This is raw and rough. The meetings were necessary for me. Knowing I had a safe place to express my ugliness as I was ripping it off. I needed that.
About a month or 2 into recovery, I slipped.
I thought I would be OK and keep control if I just smoked dope, no needles.
Yeah Right! As soon as my high took effect, it was as if I was in the middle of a meeting. I could hear the voices of my newest friends and supporters. I was not being who they thought I was. I was lower than low. I couldn’t shake it. I was so disgusted and disappointed in myself. I went to a meeting right that moment. I went in a purged my shame and truth, again.
I wanted them to hate me. To ridicule me. I wanted them to shake their fists and shout. They didn’t. They just pulled me right back into the fold. Gently reminding me, one day at a time. I have to be patient and loving with me.
I had a new sponsor come into my life at this time. His name was Cornfed, and my life truly started to change at this time as well. Things were looking up and I was feeling stronger. He was really into music as well, and we would just kick it and chill. It was already clear to me that music and cannabis were my therapy. I asked him one day if I could share with him, my way of staying get sober. I sang my heart out for him that day. I told him I wanted to focus on my music and helping others.
It wasn’t too much later that he showed me how much he believed in me.
It was a beautiful day in Santa Cruz, and here I was in a high rise! A recording studio! This was real, and happening. It was here that Chris and I cultivated and recorded my first release “Disease.”