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Opiate withdrawals might be one of the worst experiences that a human mind and body can endure.  Picture yourself…

You are sitting at home.  Alone.  On…let’s say…a January day.  You have run out of pills.  You don’t know what to expect.  Your body suddenly gets a rush of warmth.  It’s almost a nice feeling at first, considering the outside conditions.  But then it turns to extreme heat.  I’m talking Africa times Las Vegas in July type of heat.  You start to perspire.  It’s a light sweat at first.  Then you’re sweating profusely.  You are now literally dripping with sweat…out of every pore.  Pores that you didn’t even know existed are now leaking.  Attractive.  It gets to the point where you think that you are going to literally melt from the inside out.  You get a bright idea…one of many.  You remove some clothing.  You guzzle some refreshing ice water out of your bubbler.  Nothing.  You sweat even more.  The heat builds up.  You then decide to remove all of your clothing, which is now soaked from all of the sweat.  Nothing.  You are still hot as balls.  You turn on an air conditioner (or central air when applicable)…in January.  Sharp.  Nope…you’re still melting away.  Now you’re fresh out of ideas so you make a last ditch effort at cooling off.  You jump in the shower.  A cold shower.  Ten minutes of that heat is almost unbearable,  so you’ve resorted to taking an ice cold shower in January.  Then the cold shower starts to work…but does it?

Now all of a sudden your body is consumed with chills.  It’s fucking freezing.  You’re covered in goosebumps.  Your muscles are flexed.  You’re almost curled up in a ball…in the shower mind you.  Your jaw is chattering.  It’s that cold.  You get out of the shower and dry off.  You sprint to the air conditioner (or central air if applicable) and immediately shut it off.  Nothing is working…still freezing your ass off.  I’m talking Boston in February…while outside at night naked type of cold.  So, another bright idea hits you.  You turn the heat up…all the way up.  You begin to layer up with clothing again.  Thermals.  Winter hat.  Sweats.  Shit…even gloves.  You are now dressed for a day in Alaska.  Fuck it, right?  It beats being cold.  Only nothing is working…the chills remain…until…

That’s it, nice and warm all of a sudden.  Ahhhh.  It must have been the gloves…what a move.  But wait, it’s getting hot again.  Real hot.  The hot flashes are back.  This time it’s even worse.  Much more intense heat.  Maybe that glove and hat combo indoors wasn’t such a bright idea after all.  The sweats are back…and soon will be the chills.  Hot to cold.  Hot to cold.  Hot to cold.  Hot to cold.  Every ten minutes or so.  Just long enough for you to get dressed, then undressed, and repeat.  Long enough to drive you fucking crazy.  The laundry piles up.  The madness begins…

The hot and cold spells don’t stop…they only get worse.  In the midst of all that nonsense, you start to feel completely weak all over.  Your muscles…better yet…your whole body is aching.  Fatigue.  You’re too weak to even stand up.  It’s too hot to try and lie down…wouldn’t want to sweat on those new sheets.  While trying to maintain composure, the chills are back, so you need to curl up.  Every bone in your entire body begins to ache…all at once.  Every single muscle fiber feels pain.  Not sharp pain, but aching pain.  It feels like the day after you just worked out with weights for the very first time.  It’s not pleasant by any means.  Too weak to move, yet hot and cold kind of throws a wrench into those plans.  The pains are constant.  It doesn’t cycle like the hot and cold.  It’s all day…so get used to it.  It’s not enough pain for tears.  It’s just enough to make you feel like death.

Speaking of death, while all of this is going on you begin to feel sick.  Like nauseous-type of sick.  Enough so that you have to muster up some energy to make it to the bathroom to vomit.  Better hurry, the bathroom is downstairs.  You make it…barely…and begin to throw up…which is weird because you haven’t eaten a thing.  This also causes you great pain.  I guess a lot more muscles than you thought are used when you throw up.  Your abdominal muscles feel like someone ran over them in an armored truck…twice.  The sweat is blinding your eyes as you hover over the almighty toilet bowl.  The chills become so bad that you feel like turning on the fucking oven and taking up residence inside for the day.  Throwing up didn’t make you feel the least bit better.  Only worse.  Muscles and bones that didn’t hurt as bad before now throb in pain.  This isn’t alcohol poisoning or bad sushi…this is opiate withdrawal…and you’ve only just begun.

You’re probably beginning to question when this madness is going to end.  Or better yet…if there is a God…why is he doing this to you.  Well this isn’t ending anytime soon.  Sorry.

You have been going through hell all fucking day–non stop.  You haven’t eaten.  You tried but it got thrown right up.  You feel drained.  You have nothing left to give.  All your hopes, dreams, ambitions are in the toilet bowl.  Seeing that it’s now nighttime, your usual time for bed, you decide to make an attempt at sleeping.  You fail miserably.  Even though you’re clearly tired, there will be no sleeping.  Your legs are sore as shit.  Yet they’re moving all over the place.  It’s as if no position on that bed of yours is comfortable enough.  That’s called restless leg syndrome.  Get used to it.  Maybe it’s the small pool of sweat you’re laying in that’s prohibiting you from sleeping.  Maybe it’s the fact you feel like vomiting every time you turn to a new side.  It might be.  But probably not.  Insomnia.  No pills means no sleep.  This begins to drive you crazy.  So hopefully if you are fortunate enough, you have a working television for your entertainment seeing as it’s late and you can’t sleep.  You turn on the TV.  Once again your fucked.  It’s all infomercials.  There’s nothing on at 4AM.  Get used to it.

The sun finally comes up.  A new day.  You barely notice.  The symptoms have gotten so bad you’re contemplating suicide.  You haven’t slept a wink.  You haven’t eaten.  You look and feel like absolute shit.  That’s when the depression starts to kick in hard body.  You begin to feel helpless.  Alone.  Lazy.  You even might start hallucinating.  Not fun.  You don’t even have the energy to get out of that bed to switch the AC back on because the chills are over and it’s back to sweat city.  If given the choice you would choose to die.  Right then and there.  This has only been 24 hours…not even close to feeling better.  It’s only going to get worse…fuck.

Now I want you to picture going through what I just described…over and over…for let’s say…fourteen days.  As each day passes, the symptoms get worse…more intense…brutal even.  Hot flashes.  Cold chills.  Aches.  Pains.  Insomnia.  Nausea.  Depression. Fatigue.  Hallucinations…over and over.  Picture the worst flu that you’ve ever had.  Now times that by a thousand.  That was a day at the beach compared to opiate withdrawals.  Yeah…it’s that bad.

I realize that there are numerous people out there that have never had to experience withdrawals from oxys, or any opiates for that matter.  Consider yourselves lucky.  I won’t sugarcoat it by any means…it’s fucking brutal.  The whole experience really takes a toll on the body, especially the mind.  Sure, the physical aspect sucks pretty bad, don’t get me wrong.  But what your mind goes through during and after coming off opiates is the real bitch.  Depression, hallucinations, insomnia, and the overall morbid feeling…all which can last several months after you stop using…are nothing compared to the cravings you get.  It’s almost like a hunger sensation, but it’s not for food.  It’s the little thought in your head of knowing that just one little pill can and will make everything all better again.  It’s fucking torture.  Day in and day out….and it doesn’t go away…ever.  Even to this day I still get cravings.  Not very often.  Not like I used to…but they’re still there…and I haven’t used a drug in years.  Over time they obviously get more and more faint, which makes it much easier to abstain.  But at first…oh man it’s bad.  It’s the biggest reason why people end up relapsing within the first few days, or even hours, after withdrawals begin.  Shit is really no joke.  Once the pills grab a hold of your balls in that vice grip, they usually don’t let go very easily.

Luckily for yours truly, I happen to be a genius.  After suffering one too many times from withdrawals by trying to go cold turkey, I realized that wasn’t happening.  I went to rehab.  I didn’t really have to suffer too badly with symptoms.  I was put on a certain combination of medications that made withdrawals from opiates bearable.  Not completely absent by any means…but definitely bearable…that is until the morning after I checked out of there.  Then it wasn’t so pleasant.  I’ll get to that later…

I spent the majority of my time in rehab sleeping, especially at first.  Well actually it was a drug induced coma…same difference.  I guess the meds I was on really did the trick.  I must have slept some 20 hours a day at first while my body adjusted to the opiates leaving my system.  I wasn’t complaining by any means.  I even slept through the wildebeest’s nightly symphony of bodily functions like it was nothing.  The only time I woke up was for food, bathroom, or more meds.  I was a walking zombie for the first few days no doubt.  I can only imagine how handsome I must have looked.  I’m sure it wasn’t pretty.  Maybe it was good that there were no females after all…

Once my body finally got used to the new medication, I was awake much more.  During that time, when I wasn’t in mandatory NA meetings or group therapy, there really weren’t many recreational options or things to do.  For the most part, I stayed in my room and occupied my time by reading…which I didn’t mind one bit because I love to read.  Occasionally I would come out of my chambers and shoot the shit or play cards with my boy Anthony and the other guys, but even that gets old.  Remember, I was detoxing.  I still had symptoms.  They weren’t completely gone, so I wasn’t really my usual personable self.  I just wanted to be alone while I went through it.  Being around a bunch of people while having mild hot/cold flashes and whatnot didn’t really appeal to me…

Every now and again I would make some phone calls to the outside world.  Probably not as much as  I should’ve but oh well, I was detoxing.  I mostly called my mother Laura, some family members, a few friends, and obviously the woman that I had been seeing at the time…considering I was still technically engaged and all.  However, I’m not getting into that right now…maybe down the line.  The calls were mostly pleasant in nature but I know how worried everyone was about me….I could tell in their tones.  Shit, to tell you the truth I was more worried about myself than they were.  Not so much about staying off of drugs really.  I know I definitely didn’t want to have to end up in a shit hole rehab ever again.  I was more worried about how I was living my life on the whole and how in the hell I was going to change.  The whole being a drug dealer, all of the partying, not to mention the alleged upcoming wedding that I still had to finish planning…really ate at me while I was stuck in there.  It wasn’t sitting too well with me at all.  There were so many questions I had about my future.  So many uncertainties…and all of this while coming off of drugs…well…it wasn’t fun…not one bit.

Rehab really opened my eyes to a lot of shit.  I saw a whole side of the aftermath of drug abuse that I had never really been exposed to prior.  I saw just how badly the road of drug addiction can and will end.  I wanted absolutely no part of it.  I met all sorts of different walks of life…with one common characteristic…they were all drug addicts.  Homeless guys, wildebeest looking creatures, young kids, older guys, guys who were just in rehab for a place to stay and some free food…all with a story of how they let addiction get too far.  Some guys were once just like me, but now they had nothing and no one left.  All because of drugs.  Their lives completely fucked up–beyond fixing.  All of their bridges were burned and now they were left to live under a bridge.  Waiting on the next scheme to get high, trying to survive.  All they had left in life was a massive drug dependency and the clothes on their backs.  Well one of them had my pants as well, so he’s clearly doing better than the rest.  I knew for certain I didn’t want to end up like that.  It was almost as if I got a glimpse of the future if I stayed down the path I was on…you know…using drugs, partying, selling drugs, all the lies, the bullshit I was putting everyone through.  That future wasn’t for me.  Truth be told, it scared the fucking shit out of me…

The remainder of my stay at rehab was uneventful in terms of anything interesting happening.  I successfully finished the program and I was no longer physically dependent on oxycodone.  That made me happy.  But yet I was still scared at the same time.  I now had to go back into the real world without the drug I had been relying on for the past two years or so.  I hoped for the best.  All in all I look at my stay in rehab as an overall success, considering I never had to go back again.  I think I did just fine.  I guess it’s pretty safe to say that aside from being a victim of grand pants larceny, rehab was probably the best decision I’ve ever made…

However…when I walked out of there on that warm September evening I had more questions than I did answers…and that’s when the madness began…to be continued…..

UPDATE:  The search still continues for my missing pants; the culprit is still at large…

I don’t really know what’s worse…accidentally bringing illegal drugs into rehab with me, being overly happy about the fact that I found these accidentally placed pills in my hoodie pocket, or better yet…maybe the worst of all…the fact that I offered to share my new found surprise with the group of guys that I had been chilling with…like that was a perfectly okay and normal thing to do.  As if a group of drug addicts, stuck in a shit hole for a rehab, bored out of their minds, would say no….

At the time I didn’t see a problem with any of these things.  My high that I walked in there with was fading.  It wasn’t completely gone, but it was definitely fading fast.  I looked at my new found treasure as a sign from the powers above.  As if to say, let’s keep this fucking party going…and shit, the way I saw it, I thought I was doing a good thing–being unselfish–by offering to share with everyone when I could have just kept them all for myself.

I would love to be able to tell you that we fought the good fight against drugs and we came out victorious…that we just said NO to drugs…that we were above the influence…or that we practiced any of those other cliche drug ads that you see on TV…I can’t.  As soon as the smoke break was over with and we were let back inside the building, I led the brigades to my room and victory was ours, and ours alone.  The pills were crushed and sniffed faster than I’d ever seen the process done.  I was happy.  I can’t speak for the other guys, but I’m sure they were pleased as well….

While still enjoying my new found high, I figured I’d hop on the ol’ payphone and call a few friends and family members.  Well, I could only remember a select few phone numbers, so I figured I might as well call my mother Laura.  We exchanged obvious pleasantries.  I believe her first words and the gist of the conversation from her perspective, was something along the lines of just how proud she was of me for getting help, how much she loved me and supported me, and how I didn’t have to worry about anything while I was gone, other than getting the help I needed, cleaning myself up, and getting better.  Guilt ensued.  Shit…guilt is an understatement for how I felt on that first night during and after talking to my mother.  Here I was, son of the fucking year already, admitted drug addict, admitted drug dealer, high as a fucking kite while sitting in a rehab, listening to my unsuspecting and supportive mother tell me how proud she was of me.  I had hit a new low.  I obviously lied to her.  I told her that I was doing great.  I told her of how I had run into an old friend and how my first day went by without a hitch…I was on my way.  I told her how I was so eager to clean up, go back to working a regular job, and how I hadn’t even thought of ever touching another pill ever again (stories)…what was I supposed to do….rat myself out?  “Oh yeah, hey Ma.  I’m doing great.  I love it here…listen to this…so I found a bunch of loose 30s in my sweatshirt.  Pretty funny right?  Oh yeah, crushed and sniffed faster than I found them, all gone.  YES Ma, of COURSE I shared…what kind of man do you think I am?  I DO have manners…ok, ok….love you too, call you tomorrow.  Ciao….”  Yeah, that would have went over really well…let me tell you.  So…I did what I thought was necessary.  I lied…at least I felt guilty about it.

After the phone call with my mother, I was pretty disgusted with myself.  I made no more calls.  I spent the remainder of my night all alone…high…but not enjoying it because of the overwhelming guilt and feeling sorry for myself.  I ended up falling asleep fully clothed while reading one of my favorite books that I had brought in with me.

I realized I had really hit rock bottom when I woke up the next morning to a plethora of unpleasantness (if that’s even a word…lol).  Let’s see… I was in a strange, unfamiliar bed, which normally might have been a good thing…lol…but that day…not so much.  I was all alone and it was brutally uncomfortable.  I was mildly soaked with presumably my own sweat.  I had what appeared to be mild chills.  “Fucking pissa…the withdrawals had begun.”  I was no longer high.  I was insanely hungry.  I still felt guilty for the previous night’s debauchery and for lying (yet again) to my poor mother.  To top it all off, when I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw (yes…I said thing) was what looked like a fucking wildebeest sprawled out in one of the other beds a few feet from mine.  It was facing in my direction.  It was presumably a male of its species, seeing there were no female patients in rehab.  It was drooling or sweating, or perhaps both, definitely going through some major withdrawals.  This creature was snoring and farting simultaneously in the most unpleasant melody I have ever heard….nice way to wake up and start my day huh?  Yup, I had arrived in hell…oh yeah, if anyone sees Tucker Max, tell him they don’t serve beer…and if they do…I didn’t get any.  All I got was drug withdrawals, a snore and farting symphony for the ages, and my first ever legitimate excuse for wanting to end my life….

After I woke up to that shit, I figured that my day could only get better…boy was I wrong…

I was told by the nurse, even though I was clearly going through some serious withdrawals, that I wouldn’t be placed on any medications to help me until later that night…or even worse…possibly the next morning.  Which meant, since it was six in the morning at the time, I would have to suffer for possibly the next twenty four hours.  “Fuck. My. Life…”  Remember, withdrawals from opiates only get worse as the day progresses.  Considering I felt like shit then, I could only imagine what was in store for me.  As one would imagine, this didn’t please me.  Once again, I thought of escaping…once again, I realized I was fucked.  I’ll tell you one thing, I definitely regretted sharing the pills I had found the night before with everyone.

I tried to take my mind off of the fact that I felt like death, which was rapidly getting worse by the second…or so it seemed…by trying to wolf down a little breakfast.  Bad idea.  That hunger I felt upon waking up had subsided.  The mere sight and smell of food made me nauseous.  Anyone who knows what it’s like to withdraw from roxys, or any opiates for that matter, feels my pain.  I couldn’t eat.  I couldn’t go back to sleep.  My body ached in the worst way.  I was cycling from hot to cold every ten minutes or so…it was fucking miserable.  Especially considering I wasn’t withdrawing in the comforts of my own home, in my own bed, with my own TV.  Nope…I was stuck in some shitty rehab, with an uncomfortable bed to lay in, with no TV anywhere close to where I laid my head (it was two rooms over).  Not to mention, I was stuck in a room going through all this shit with a room full of strangers…good times…let me tell you.

However, I didn’t have to suffer for too long.  One of my new friends, whom I had selflessly shared my pills with on the previous night, decided to return the favor.  He had witnessed me arguing, more like begging and pleading, with the nurse in the AM pill line about how shitty I felt and how she held the key to making me feel all better.  Then he witnessed me attempt to eat breakfast and fail miserably.  After mid-day pill line, he gave me…well…to this day I’m not quite sure as I never asked…some pill-like object that he smuggled from the line.  It could have been a fucking Tylenol for all I know.  Regardless, I took it without question considering I thought I was on my death bed.  I would have taken anything to make me feel better.  It did the trick.  Within ten minutes I felt so much better, as if I was never sick.  Looking back, I’m pretty sure it was either a methadone wafer or some other sort of opiate that I took.  Whatever it was…it worked.  See folks, that’s karma for you… always share…lol.

Speaking of sharing, I have a little advice that I’d like to share with anyone that is thinking of checking into a rehab.  First…DO IT…GO…don’t think about it any longer.  If you have a problem…go get help now!  It was by far the best thing I’ve ever done.  Second…DO NOT…and I repeat…DO NOT bring anything valuable or expensive (clothing, jewelry, etc.) with you that you would mind losing.  I didn’t know this considering I had never been to rehab before.  I won’t get into too much detail here, but my wrist watch (that I thought nothing of wearing in there because it was my everyday watch) apparently caused a little bit of a frenzy among the more less fortunate patients.  Allegedly, there was talk among a few of them that they were going to try and steal my watch from me somehow.  I guess they figured that they would steal it, pawn it, and buy drugs and/or small used sedan with the proceeds.  Well…they thought wrong.  Nothing happened to my watch, or me for that matter.  I actually almost laughed when I caught wind of that little nonsense plan because if you saw the caliber of people I was in there with (other than the few guys I became friendly with) you would know that neither I nor my wrist watch was ever in any danger.  However, somehow word got to one of the staff members that my wrist wear was causing a distraction among the patients.  When I say distraction, I mean two little pussies that were 100 lbs. combined challenged me for my watch.  When I stepped up, they backed off and ran and told the nurse… so after hearing that, the nurse made me hand my watch over so someone could come and pick it up…or I had another choice…I could leave the rehab with it still on my wrist…if I refused.  I reluctantly obliged.  I handed it over and all went back to normal…whatever that meant in that place.

Even though I didn’t lose my watch (as if that was ever going to happen anyways…lol), I did end up losing a pair of pants later on in the day while I was at a group meeting.  I remember laughing hysterically when I realized my pants were missing…as if to say… who the FUCK steals another man’s pants like?! shit are times THAT tough out there…PANTS!?  I could understand stealing the watch…it’s worth money…it has value…but  PANTS!?  I actually had to laugh out loud to that one.  Shit, if someone needed a pair of pants that badly, all they had to do was ask me nicely and I would have given them a pair.  It just goes to show you the caliber of people I was dealing with in there.  Aside from the few I kicked it with, and my pal Anthony, they were straight trash…

All in all it was a pretty fucked up day.  I had woken up to what looked like a mutant creature a mere few feet from me withdrawing from god only knows how many drugs…don’t forget the fact it was playing a special musical for all who were there…I had to endure withdrawals of my own for the first six hours of my day…a possible plot to steal my watch was unfolded, and when the two idiots were confronted they told on me…and to top it all off…somebody went and stole my pants…I loved those pants…

TO BE CONTINUED….

Silence is pure bliss…well…it is in most circumstances anyway.  Not when your stuck in a rehab while high on pills.  Silence is pretty fucking depressing when your laying down on quite possibly the most uncomfortable bed ever invented, all alone, with nothing to fill the empty space of absolute silence, but thoughts of how miserable you are, how much you want another pill, and just how badly you fucked up your life.  I didn’t think it could possibly get much worse than that.  Then again, I hadn’t been to prison yet…had I?

I had a plethora of different emotions, thoughts, and memories going through my mind as I restlessly laid there.  I thought of my friends and what they were possibly doing at that moment.  I thought of my family, mostly my parents, and wondered if they were okay…I mean…since I was in rehab for drug addiction and all.  I thought of the countless women from over the years…whatever ones I could remember anyway…lol…and smiled to myself.  I thought of everything I had done thus far, the many places I’ve seen, the people I’ve met, and how it had been a wild ride.  I smiled, I felt lucky.  Then as I thought more and more of the good, I started to feel pretty shitty.  I started to realize how I had thrown it all away.  I had literally sniffed my life away.  I began to grow sad, hopeless…like “Oh…woe is fucking me”…then I had a bright idea…I could do it again, I’d just start hustling again.  I’d make some more money, and this time I’d do it right, I’d be smart.  I’d stay clean, I wouldn’t sniff a single pill this time around.  That was the key…right?  Yeah, that’s what I would do…I’d get cleaned up at rehab and as soon as I got out of there I’d call my former friend and be on a flight to Florida.  I closed my eyes and smiled.  I remember falling asleep…or maybe it was all the pills I had sniffed and I was nodding off.  Either way, I was out like a light.

After a short while, my nap…or my drug induced coma…whichever way you want to look at it…and the silence…was disrupted by what sounded like a small stampede.  I remember thinking to myself…“Fucking pissa.  It’s bad enough I’m stuck here in this miserable room, laying on these itchy ass sheets, and now I cant even nap?”  I heard all sorts of random voices, yelling, laughter and mixed conversations, and it grew louder as it presumably neared my room.  It was either my new roommates or someone freed the animals from the zoo in the next town over.  Sadly, I didn’t hear one female voice among the bunch.  If there was one, she was silent, or had possibly the deepest voice I’ve ever heard.  Now I’m not saying I was trying to pick up a woman in rehab or anything…I mean I was engaged and all…although that would have made for an interesting story…all I am saying is that I enjoy the company of women, and it would have been nice to have one, or several for that matter, around while I was stuck in fort detox.

As soon as I headed into the corridor to see what all the commotion was about, I was immediately let down.  As I had assumed, there wasn’t a female in sight.  The only females out there were the nurses I had mentioned before…whom…unless I was still paranoid…were still looking my way.  All that occupied the hallway were a bunch of suspicious looking males of all different ages and ethnic backgrounds.  My hopes of the rehab hookup were deflated…lol.

As I turned to head back to my room to avoid any awkward introductions or interactions, I heard someone call out my name.  (I wasn’t trying to make friendly with anyone else just yet.  As I mentioned before, I wasn’t in a good mood being there, and truth be told, I was just awoken from my drug induced slumber by these people, so I didn’t go out there with open arms ready to make friends).  The only thing I can remember thinking was…“Fuck!!  I guess this whole little trip to rehab isn’t going to be a secret for much longer.”  Then I realized, “Wait…who the fuck knows me all the way up here?  This cant be good…”

When I turned around ever so slowly, not knowing what to expect, I was surprised to see my old friend Anthony heading my way.  Let me tell you, I have never been so happy to see a familiar face in an unfamiliar place in my entire life.  I practically ran over to him, all smiles, to give him dap and a hug.  Now I won’t get too into how I know Anthony.  Let’s just say that I met him through an old flame of mine’s little brother.  We had hung out and partied together in both Boston and LA.  I hadn’t seen him in a few years.  If memory serves me correctly, the last time was out in LA, right before I went on BB9.  It had indeed been a while.  Seeing him changed my whole mood and my outlook on being there.  As if to say, “Fuck it, it’s all good now.  Now I won’t have to be stuck in here all alone…I have a friend to kick it with while I kick drugs…this could be alright after all.”

Anthony and I played catch up for the next few hours while he showed me around my new digs.  He had gotten there a day or two before I did, so he pretty much knew the ins and outs already.  He basically gave me a rundown on how the joint was run…how the other inmates…or should I say patients were…how the food was…the schedule…meetings…the staff…you know…all that good stuff.

In talking with Anthony, I learned that the staff members (nurses, counselors, case managers, etc) were pretty laid back for the most part, which pleased me.  The last thing I wanted while I was detoxing was to be around unfriendly or aggravating people.  I knew how bad withdrawals sucked and how they were going to fuck with my emotional and mental state.  What if a nurse decided to be super nurse on a bitchy power trip, while I was mid-withdrawal…well let’s just say it wouldn’t have been pleasant for either of us.  So…it was really a relief to hear that they were all chill.  He did tell me however, that the one thing that they were extremely strict about was the med line.  I was told that I had to be on time and there was to be absolutely no talking.  By the way, for those who don’t know what the hell a med line is…it’s a line formed by the patients, three times daily, to receive whatever type of meds that the clinic put them on to help detoxify from whatever type of street drug(s) they were abusing.  For example…heroin users typically got methadone at a high dose, oxy users (such as myself) had the choice of the clonidine and librium cocktail or a low dose methadone taper.  Cocaine users got librium, etc.  You get the idea.  The reason they were so strict about med line, as I would learn, is because patients would try to pull such moves as hitting the line up twice for double the fun, or better yet, they would go up, pretend to take their meds but really cheek them, and then in turn sell them to other patients later on… so unless I tried to pull any stunts, I wouldn’t be bothered.  I could detox in peace.

I also learned the rest of the ins and outs of the place…there were to be daily NA meetings, in which an outside guest would come in and speak…there were to be other daily group therapy sessions, and better yet, one-on-one sessions with whoever my case manager was…there were smoke breaks every 15-20 minutes in the backyard…to make outgoing phone calls, there were two payphones in the corridor…there were two vending machines, a TV room, ping-pong table, and two random tables that were used by the patients for illegal poker tournaments at night time…right up my alley…the food was edible and they even served coffee every morning.  Truth be told, after walking around and talking with my friend, I had a whole new outlook on the whole rehab thing.  It still sucked being there…don’t get me wrong…but I guess I was starting to feel like it wasn’t THAT bad.

After I got the grand tour and the rundown on how the place operated, I got introduced to a few of the normal guys there.  There weren’t many, let me tell you.  Now, I’m not one to pass judgement on others.  I realize I’m no prize myself, but some of the dudes in there were straight up trash, well beyond fixing…however, I actually met a few cool guys during my time spent there.  There were these two brothers from Woburn that I ended up kicking it with hard body until I got out.  There was a younger kid from Stoneham that Anthony knew from before, so he chilled with us.  There were a few others from around the Boston area that I also became friendly with.  All in all, even though I was in a shitty place, it didn’t mean I was surrounded by shitty people.  These were guys like me who had just made a few poor choices along the way.  I wasn’t alone in battling addiction after all.  I met dudes from all walks of life and I came to the realization that addiction can really happen to anybody, regardless of social or economic status, and that scared the fuck out of me.  Shit, what scared me even more was when I told some of the patients that I was friendly with, what drugs I was there for and that it was my first (and hopefully last) time in rehab…they laughed, as if to say…that’s it??!  That really fucked me up.  Now mind you, I was sniffing like 20 pills a day and a bunch of cocaine sporadically during the course of a week up until I walked up in there.  For them to say “THAT’S IT” made me really start to think a lot about life and where mine was heading.  It also almost made me thankful that there may still have been hope for me after all….

When the evening was coming to an end and it was time for a smoke break, I told the guys that I was chilling with that I’d be right back so I could go grab a hoodie out of my luggage, since it was nighttime and getting a little chilly outside.  When I came back to join in on the conversation and smoke a cigarette with my new compadres, I remember reaching in my hoodie pocket and feeling something very familiar, more like a few somethings that were very familiar.  To my new friends and my surprise, I pulled out a few blueberries.  Yes, I guess I was one of the idiots who smuggled drugs INTO a rehab.  Now I didn’t do this on purpose.  Remember, I used to have so many of these things…and I had them everywhere.  All I can remember saying, while smiling yet struggling with conflict, was….”What you fellas tryin’ to do?!……

(To be continued)…

I’m not quite sure of what I’m allowed and not allowed to talk about in regard to why I had abruptly stopped blogging about a month or so ago, so I’ll keep this as brief as possible.  They tried to shut me down…they failed.  So now I’m back and I’m going hard on this until I’m out of here…which just so happens to be pretty soon (sometime in 2012)…

Also, please try and bear with me on this blog topic specifically.  Traveling down memory lane isn’t always easy, especially when it concerns me thinking back to my time spent in rehab.  I was in a pretty fucked up place in my life at the time.  I guess you could say I’m still pretty ashamed that my drug use and my actions ultimately landed me there for an extended stay.  Until recently, I had kept my time spent there a secret from a lot of people for fear of being judged.  Shit, most people had no idea that I even had a drug problem of any kind until I started this blog.  But now I’m in prison…all the fear and embarrassment is out the window.  I’m not too concerned with how others view me anymore.  I am only focused on how I view myself.  I realize I’ve done some crazy, stupid, and fucked up shit in my life…some of which I’m not too proud of.  Rehab is the exception.  I am proud to be able to say that I’ve been..that I made it through (and only once)…and managed to stay clean after.  Not many in the position I was once in can truly say that.  So follow me if you will.  Down the long, lonely corridors of rehab, while I describe what it’s like to detox from drugs in a room full of complete strangers…what it’s like to be forced into group meetings to share feelings and experiences…and what it’s like to finally convince myself to give up the life that I was leading…the life of a hustler…the life of a drug addict…this is my moment of clarity……..

Walking into rehab (which for now will remain nameless) on that particularly sunny mid-September day back in ’09, I didn’t really know what to expect.  For the most part, it was an entirely new experience for me.  Sure, I’ve watched guilty pleasures such as Celebrity Rehab and Intervention before, who hasn’t, but going to rehab is sort of like prison–unless you’ve been there before and experienced it first hand, you truly don’t know what it’s like.  All I did know for certain as I walked in there high (like I owned the place) was that I was a drug addict and I needed help.  Supposedly, rehab was the place that could help me safely flush all the different shit I’d been slowly killing myself with out of my body for good.

I was originally going to write, while I was checking in at the front desk that day, I had all of these hopes that while I was there I could learn how to stay clean and sober once I left…how I was so eager to get my old life back and how I was ready to do everything and anything to make that happen…how I didn’t want to wind up a news clipping or a cautionary take…how from the moment I walked in I was a changed man who finally saw the light…I was going to sound righteous, profound and motivated…inspirational perhaps……it would have all been complete and utter bullshit.  Sure, it would have sounded good, but not a single word of that would have been true.

Truth be told, I hadn’t changed…not even close.  I walked in there high on pills and I was itchin’ for more.  I certainly wasn’t concerned with staying sober.  That didn’t even cross my mind at that point.  I could not have cared any less if I was going to wind up as a cautionary tale.  I just didn’t want to be there.  It was nice out.  I was high.  I should have been enjoying my life, yet I was there, checking into a hotel that would take my high away for good.  I was really only there to please my family and friends, to pacify my girl at the time, and for financial convenience.  Sure, I was pretty sick of pills having my balls in a vice grip.  I was sick of how my entire life revolved around drugs.  I was sick of the mood swings, the ups and downs, the lies, and the lacking social life and family relationships that ensued.  But to tell you the truth, I was REALLY sick of almost two grand a week going from my safe to right up my nose.  That’s just not good business.  That was my main motivation for going through with it.  All those other reasons came in a distant second.

I had thoughts of pulling some Jason Bourne type shit and hopping over the counter, slipping past the guard at the entrance, and bolting through the door to freedom shortly after my mother left.  However, I realized I had zero cash on me.  Nor did I have my key fob or a phone…I forgot I had given them to my mom so conveniently a little while before.  So in other words, I was fucked.  Even if I made it to the parking lot, I wouldn’t have made it very far.  Whether I liked it or not, I was going to go through with it.  Rehab was going to be my residence until I was free from drugs.

Now it may seem that my blogs are a constant contradiction.  In one blog I’m having epiphanies because I meet this little boy with cancer and I realize how bad I’m fucking up, so I vow to quit selling drugs and quit doing them.  Then I’m talking about how I want to escape rehab to sniff pills and go back to hustlin’.  It seems as if I’m all over the place.  Welcome to the mind of a drug addict.  I only write about how I felt at each particular time.  If your confused, imagine how I must have been.  I had a devil on one shoulder telling me, “Fuck rehab, go cop some more pills and let’s get this money.”  Then I’d think of my family and how I had already put them through enough of my shit, and I’d snap out of it and realize I had to get my act together.

So, if at any point it sounds like I regret going that day, that is not the case.  Going to rehab is BY FAR the BEST decision I’ve ever made.  Shit, I wish it didn’t take me so long to get my ass there.  Maybe I wouldn’t be sitting in Federal Prison right now.  OK, where was I?

Once I finally convinced myself that I was indeed stuck there, I was commanded by the ever so pleasant woman checking me in that I had to hand over my luggage so it could be searched for drugs and other contraband.  This still baffles me to this day.  Sure, I can see maybe smuggling in a cell phone or an iPod for recreational purposes, but c’mon, who the fuck would bring drugs INTO rehab?  You would have to be a real idiot…or better yet…a real asshole to pull that kind of move.  I mean isn’t that counterproductive?  That’s like smuggling fudge brownies into a Weight Watchers meeting.  It kind of defeats the whole purpose.  But, as I would later learn, there are more idiots out there than one would guess…and I’m one of them.

While my luggage was being thoroughly searched, I was given an interview and a piss test from the same pleasant woman who had checked me in.  The interview was pretty basic.  They wanted to evaluate how bad of a drug addict I was, what drugs I was then using, how much and for how long.   The whole time I was secretly praying that I didn’t have any loose blueberries or god knows what else floating around in my luggage.  That’s ALL I needed…to get kicked out of rehab before I even made it to my room.  The piss test went pretty smoothly, no pun intended.  I studied really hard for that test and it showed.  I had three different drugs in my system.  The fucking trifecta.  Yippie!  Well, not really.  All that meant was that they wouldn’t start helping me detox with medication until withdrawals from the shit I was on started to happen.  You remember…the sweats, chills, aches, pains, nausea…yeah, all that good stuff I mentioned before.  In other words, since I sniffed and swallowed a handful of pills a mere half hour before that intake interview and piss test, I wouldn’t start to withdraw for 24-48 hours…I was fucked yet again.  The first two days I had to spend there would be for nothing…I was already batting a thousand.

When the whole intake ordeal was through and my luggage was cleared by security, I was given a fresh bed roll and pointed toward my room down the hall.  I can still remember that moment as clear as day.  I passed a few nurses as I walked down the white walled corridor alone…all of which were blatantly staring at me…or at least it felt that way.  It was almost eerie.  I mean I know I’m devilishly handsome…lol…but this was different.  I almost felt as if I was being judged as I walked by dragging my suitcase.  I remember feeling my face start to flush with embarrassment.  All my confidence, my ego, my male bravado…out the window.  I must have left it in my car.  I was nervous.  No, it was more than mere nerves.  It was a cross between a panic attack and shame…if that makes sense.  Like I had some sort of sign on me that read, “I am a drug addict”.  It almost felt like a walk of shame or what I would imagine that would feel like.  I remember thinking, “Now I know how my one night stands must have felt…leaving my apartment the next morning as I walked them quickly to their car, my car, or to their awaiting cab…wearing their clothes from the previous night, usually something provocative,  hair all over the place, shades on, barefoot, carrying their heels so they could keep up with me as I hurried them along…as we passed neighbors who greeted me and smiled at my guest as if to say (without saying) that she’s not the first and certainly not the last woman they’ve seen do that very same walk from my place, but yet they were still trying to be somewhat polite.”…yeah…I felt like that when I did my lil’ walk of shame by those nurses that day.  I felt low.  It was brutal.  Quite possibly the longest walk of my life….

I was hoping for a single room with my own private bathroom, TV, and possibly a window with a nice view.  Something to perhaps make detoxing a little more comfortable for me.  What I got was an eight man room with a bunch of single beds evenly arranged along the walls.  There was a bathroom, but it certainly wasn’t private by any means.  There was no TV and the only window appeared to be sealed shut with a view of the parking lot.  If I had one word to describe the ambiance of the room I stayed in, I’d say miserable works nicely.  The walls were bare, off white.  The floors were tile, dirty beige.  The beds were small, metal, with mattresses that didn’t appear too cozy, lumpy.  It almost looked like what I would picture a mental ward to look like, minus the padded walls.  It would have been a perfect setting for a horror film and I was there to get off drugs, just great.   The only upside to the misery of the room upon me entering…there was no one there.  That pleased me.  I took that as a chance to make my bed and unpack some of my shit without being bothered by anyone.  After I did all of that, I remember lying there…high, still feeling judged, staring at the ceiling thinking…“So this is where my life has ended up?  I’m in fucking rehab?  Like really Matty…rehab??”  I vividly remember yearning for another blueberry, anything for that matter, to help take my mind off the fact that I had fucked up my life to the point where I was in some dingy room at an overpriced understaffed rehab trying to get off of drugs.  I never felt so disgusted with myself as I did at that moment.  I almost teared up, but I held back.  I think the drugs I was on played a small part in that, or maybe I didn’t want one of my new roommates to walk in on me crying on my first day.  Tears or not, I was sad.  I felt like a complete failure.  I felt like history repeated itself.  I ended up just like my deceased father……addicted to drugs….

(To be continued)…

Hey Ma.  Hey Mike.  How ya doin?  Oh me, I’m good thanks.  Well, sort of…um…yeah…so….um……I’m a drug dealer.  Pills.  Oxys.  Yup, have been for quite some time now.  Explains a lot huh?  No, don’t ask who.  Definitely don’t ask where.  There will be none of that.  Why?  Oh money of course, and well….I’m telling you because I’ve decided to stop….oh yeah….I’m hooked on drugs.  Pills mostly.  Lately it’s been a lot more though.  I mean…with life and work, and this wedding shit, everything is happening so fast.  I know…no excuse.  Yeah, I’m pretty bad.  OK…OK…I’m really bad.  Yeah, I’m high right now.  I sniffed a few in the driveway before I came in.  See…that’s why I’m here…because I have no control anymore…I can’t stop…because I desperately need your help…will you help me?

I played all sorts of conversations and possible outcomes over and over in my head on the drive over to my mom’s house.  I went alone.  It was probably the longest ride of my life, even though I lived but five minutes away in Charlestown…right over the Tobin Bridge.  I didn’t know where to begin, or how to begin for that matter.  I was about to tell the two people who I loved and respected more than anyone else in the world that their son was an epic failure.  I was not only a drug dealer, but I was hooked on pills.  I’m not going to lie…I was scared shitless.  Looking back, other than the day I was sentenced in Federal Court, and had to stand up in front of Judge Wolf and practically beg for him not to smoke me with too much time, telling my parents about my drug dealing/drug using lifestyle was probably the hardest day of my life.  Now mind you, I’ve been to rehab, I’ve been to prison, I’ve survived both motorcycle and automobile accidents, I’ve lost loved ones, I’ve lost a parent, I’ve had bad break-ups, you get it…so that says a lot when I say it was the hardest day of my life…

I went over there to my mom’s, high as ever on drugs, with my hat in hand, with my tail between my legs.  I don’t really remember too many details of the conversation.  I know I told my mother Laura and Mike about all the drugs that I’d been doing.  How I was sniffing more 30s in one day than most pain patients get prescribed for the month.  How I was sniffing the pedico everyday like a fucking crackhead.  I told them how the drugs were making me lose my mind, how I was very depressed most days, paranoid, up and down, and how I had absolutely no control anymore.  I was an addict.  I finally admitted to them that I was a drug dealer and had been for a while.  They weren’t stupid, they had their suspicions.  They noticed how well off I was and how good I lived, considering I didn’t have a job for a long time.  They knew something was up but didn’t want to believe it.  I mean who wants to actually believe that their son is a drug dealer?

I told my parents everything…well everything I could with out implicating anyone else.  I spoke of my many Florida trips and my wild times, again without mentioning names.  I’d say “my boy” or “my girl”…I wasn’t there to blame others for my wrongdoings.  Every choice, both good and bad, that I’ve ever made was mine…and mine alone.  I made the choice to smuggle drugs from Florida and take them back to Boston to sell them in mass quantities.  I made the choice to literally party my life away by sniffing even more pills than I sold.  I made the choice to lead the life that I was living.  No one forced pills down my throat or up my nose.  No one put a gun to my head and said “let’s make this money…sell pills.”  Nope, all these poor choices were mine unfortunately.  Now I was standing in front of my parents, owning up to what I had done, coming clean.  I needed to rid my body and mind of these drugs once and for all.  I asked for their help…

I won’t get into details about the reactions that I got from my mother Laura and Mike…or what else ensued that day…some things are better left unsaid.  Maybe that and all the other shit I can’t or choose not to talk about will be in the book…lol.  I will say that I am surprised at how well they both took the news of the life that I’d been leading…especially my mom.  You see, my father Stephen died when I was just a young kid…9 years old.  He died from a drug overdose, mixing an upper with a downer, ironically.  Then there I was, admitting that I was a drug addict…history just about repeating itself right in front of my mother’s eyes.  I’m sure it wasn’t easy on her, or Mike for that matter.  In Boston it’s much more than a cautionary tale about the oxy dealer getting hooked on his own supply and then…well let’s just say that I’m certainly not the first person around my way that this has happened to.  Like I said before, where I’m from these pills are an epidemic.  Oxys usually lead to two places: prison or dead in the ground.  They’re known to break up homes, ruin lives, fuck up friendships, etc…there aren’t too many success stories of drug dealers.  I’m really surprised at how well my parents took the news…grateful even.

My mother Laura was on the phone and the computer within minutes of me breaking the news to them, looking for inpatient rehabs and detox centers in Mass and out of state.  If you knew my mother, you wouldn’t expect any less.  After many searches, she finally found one in Mass that would take my health insurance.  Damn, I guess I wasn’t going to Florida or Cali to clean up after all…lol.  The only downside is that a bed wouldn’t open up for 5 days from the day that I told her.  I agreed, gave them my info, and that was that…

5 days…..now that posed somewhat of a problem.  That’s a lifetime to a drug addict.  Remember…with the amount of pills I was doing per day, the withdrawals would be brutal.  They would start within 12 hours, maybe even less, from the last time I had taken or sniffed one.  5 days……shit I might be dead by then.  So against the will of my parents who wanted me to stay at their place until I was set to go, I left.  There was NO way I was going to go through withdrawals for that long…that’s fucking torture…especially when I still had to go to work and function socially.  I had other plans.  Life didn’t stop because I was an addict…it definitely wasn’t going to stop because I was dope sick.  For 5 days I bought pills from a local street dealer at street prices.  Not exactly cheap if you take into account how many pills I was doing per day.  Not even close to how cheap I was getting them in Florida.  I’m not going to lie, I thought about taking one last trip down there, to grab some pills, make some more cash, but I made promises.  I was sick of hurting the ones I loved.  So instead, I shopped at the local hustler and sniffed away for five whole days.  I sniffed away like shit was sweet, went to work and life went back to normal.  Though in the back of my mind I knew where I was headed…good ole rehab.  No, not the Vegas pool party…DJ Prefanna wouldn’t be spinning, shutting down the pool party (stories lol), there would be no sexy girls, no big rehab cups filled with my favorite mixed drink, none of that…I was headed to a real rehab.  A place I had only seen on TV and heard rumors about.  I won’t lie, I had second thoughts during those 5 days, with me being high and all.  Shit, I had third, fourth, and fifth thoughts…then one night I got a call from my boy Alessandro.  I still remember that call to this day. “Matty, whats up kid?”  We exchanged pleasantries…then, “Are you doing okay palzy? Someone told me they saw you the other day…said you looked like shit…”  That was all I needed to hear.  I lied.  Told him I was great, looked great, felt great, started this new workout, just got back from Florida last week, looking at wedding venues.  I lied…not about Florida and the wedding thing…that was true…but about how I looked and felt.  I remember getting off the phone with him and thinking, “fuck it…I’m getting my life back.”  His call may have been the final kick in the ass that I needed…

As luck would have it, the Dana Farber job I was working on was ending for my company.  My cousin Jackie told me I was going to be laid off for a month until the next job was going to be set up to start.  I was thrilled.  I could use this time to clean up my act, then get right back to work as if nothing ever happened.  It also saved me a pretty embarrassing conversation with my cousin and union foreman, Jackie.  He didn’t know of my drug use, not until much later.  Things were falling into place…

The day I was to go to rehab was like any other.  I woke up.  I sniffed some pills.  Did some laundry. PLR (pills, laundry, rehab) haha…. I packed my suitcase for my stay at hotel detox.  I ran some errands…the usual.  I had to be at the rehab by 3pm, so I used the beginning of my day to get as high as I possibly could…my last hurrah if you will.  I sniffed an obscene amount of pills on that warm September day.  I was so high that I started to have doubts again.  I thought about blowing off rehab and hopping on a plane to Florida for a few weeks to stay with my former friend.  I could clean up down there, and I could come back with a boatload of pills, and stack up some more money.  Yeah, I didn’t need work.  It was like it was starting all over again.  Cold feet isn’t the word for what I had.  I just simply didn’t want to go.  I was back on my “I don’t need fucking rehab shit.”  That was obviously the pills talking.  Luckily for me, my mother thought otherwise.  She was hip to my plans.  She was outside my apartment in Charlestown in the early afternoon, blocking my driveway, beeping like a madwoman for me to get my ass downstairs and on the way.  Shit, I guess that was it.  I was going…not like I didn’t put up a fight.  Once again, I’ll spare the specifics, but I screamed, argued, cursed, you name it.  My mother wouldn’t budge.  There was NO getting out of this lil’ vacation.  I finally caved in once my mother said I could drive myself in my own car and she would follow.  I had some calls to make and I really wanted some privacy.  That…and I had a pocket full of pills I wanted to sniff on the ride.  So she moved and I pulled by…I was speeding like a madman…to call my trip to rehab a high speed chase would be an understatement.  I flew over the Tobin Bridge, all the way up Route 1, driving like a real asshole.  I was in and out of traffic, speeding, doing about a buck, while still managing to crush up some pills and sniff them while talking on the phone at the same time.  I didn’t know how long rehab would last and I was told that I couldn’t bring my phone in with me, so I had a lot of goodbyes and loose ends I had to tie up that I had to handle via phone, some of which weren’t pretty.  Again, I’ll spare details.  I still have NO idea how my mother kept up with me the whole way.  I was really putting my car to the test with the speeds I was hitting.  God I miss that car.  At first I was trying to lose her…I had visions of Florida, pills, money, and warm fun in the sun.  Then…as soon as I would see her in my rear view, I knew she was determined, and if I fucked this up, I probably wouldn’t get any second chances, so I kept on driving til I hit the rehab.  After the long chase, I finally pulled up to my new home for the next some odd days.  It was a big brick building with a fenced in backyard of some sort.  I noticed there were some people playing wiffle ball in the backyard as I pulled up, and they were all looking at me, probably cause I pulled in there like a madman.  I parked my car, grabbed my suitcase and walked over to my mom.  I gave her a huge hug…my last hug I ever gave while high on pills.  She was crying…I wasn’t.  I was more aggravated…like this was some sort of chore for me…like I had somewhere better to be.  In all reality, it was the BEST choice I ever made.  I tossed her my keys, handed her my phone and walked inside with her…like fuck it…here goes nothing…

“Hi, I’m Matthew McDonald…I have a 3 o’clock reservation…..”

(To be continued)….