Addiction:  The Paperweight

            My hands are shaking as I reach for the small rectangular shaped glass sitting in the middle of the table.  I cautiously glide it closer, vaguely remembering this small glass object once served as an insignificant paperweight.  This past year the paperweight has served a more vital purpose in my life.  In its center lies a fine, white crystalline powder that sparkles like fresh snow in the morning sun.  To my right, positioned on the table, are the tools required to end my pain.  I select the dull, one-sided razor blade and gently tap it several times on top of the glass to dislodge any residue from a previous use.  With great skill, I divide the powder into four short thin lines.  A connoisseur of this delicacy knows that long thick lines are a sign of addiction. 

Another glance at the tools, and I notice the rolled-up dollar bill I generally use for snorting is missing.  I reach for the red and white straw from Burger King.  That reminds me, when did I eat last?  I think it was yesterday or maybe the day before.  Picking up a small pair of orange handled scissors that once found a home in my cross-stitch bag; I cut the straw into three sections.  I know from experience, if the straw sections are too long, the fine powder will be lost in transit.  I bend my head towards the paperweight as I take the index finger of my left hand and press firmly against my left nostril to close its passage.  With my right hand, I quickly grab one of the straws and carefully place it just inside the tip of my right nostril.  Leaning closer to the paperweight, I put the other end of the straw directly in front of one of the lines of white powder.  I breathe in deeply with my right nostril and within seconds, snort one full line of cocaine.  Returning the straw to the table, I take the index finger of my right hand, and with my tongue, lightly moisten its tip.  Running the fingertip on down the paperweight on the path where the powder previously rested I pick up the remaining residue.  This small amount is never wasted, but rubbed on the mucous lining of the mouth for a numbing effect.  Within seconds, I am experiencing a feeling of euphoria.  I reach for the bronze knob on the kitchen door and its coldness runs chills down my arm.  As I open the door, the fills with the aroma of the gardenia bush that has grown across the steps.  The Cardinal sitting on the birdbath is a shocking red color and the sky is a breathtaking Carolina blue.  I stand in the doorway for what seems like hours and enjoy the extreme brilliance of the world around me.  Suddenly, my body begins to tremor and paranoia takes over.  In fear, I quickly retreat inside the house 
An hour passes, or is it minutes, and I snort another line of this mystical powder, making sure to alternate between my left and right nostrils to avoid destroying delicate membranes or creating a nosebleed.   I drink bourbon, Old Crow, straight from the bottle so my body does not become dehydrated.  Being raised a Southern Baptist, I know that my body is a temple and I should treat it as such.  
  May 20, 1985.  It’s midnight, and I have been sitting at the kitchen table since eight o’clock this morning, or was it yesterday morning?  I believe several acquaintances have come and gone, but I am not sure when.  My bladder feels empty so there must have been times I went to the restroom to relieve myself.  The rewarding mini cycles of euphoria have shortened in duration and my body is beginning to respond lethargically.  I have made the decision to partake of one more line, have two more shots of bourbon, and then retire to bed for some much needed sleep.  Besides, I notice that my stash of cocaine is getting low and I need some left for when I wake up tomorrow or the next day.  I bend over to snort one more
line but feel a trickle of warm blood from my nose.  This is a sure sign that the cocaine has overstayed its welcome.  I walk over to the kitchen sink and turn on the cold water.  Cupping my right hand, I let the water fall into my palm and then slowly inhale it into my nostrils until the bleeding stops. 

I walk into the bedroom and glance at the clock beside the bed, its two o’clock.  Glancing out the window, I notice it is dark outside so it must be two in the morning.  In preparation for sleep, I position myself on the bed face down with my nose buried deep into the pillow.  My arms tucked tightly under my chest and I wait for the inevitable.  In just seconds, a hard intense throbbing in the cavity of my nose overwhelms me.  I cannot ignore the pain, God it hurts.  Tears begin to stream down my cheeks and I push my nose deeper into the pillow in hopes the pressure will dull the pain.  Layers of pain and agony begin to control my body, my mind.  I can’t take anymore; surely, death would be a welcomed guest.   Finally, I surrender, and begin to recite the prayer that is customary when the cocaine is wearing off.  “God, if you will just make it stop, just for a while, I won’t ever do it again, I promise.”  My body becomes limp as I slowly slip into an unconscious sleep.

May 25, 1985.    Pressure from a full bladder disturbs my sleep.  My eyes barely open, I try to rise for the occasion.  I slowly emerge from the bed, ignoring the bloodstains that decorate the light blue pillowcase.  Walking towards the bathroom, I make an effort to see where I am going.  Sitting on the commode, I try to remember what day, what month, what year it is.  I slowly stand up and peer out the window, placing my face and hands on the glass that remains cold from the air conditioning vent directly below.  Turning towards the sink, I notice an image of a girl in the mirror.  I turn on the cold faucet handle and find myself still thinking about the image of that girl.  Leaning over the sink, I cup my hands for the emptiness to fill with cool water.  Bending my head down, I inhale a small bit of water into both nostrils.  I reach for the flowered towel hanging on the wall and gently wipe the outer edges of my face.  I gently pat the towel around my nose and make sure not disturb the crusted blood lining.  Within seconds, my body cries for more sleep and I stumble into the kitchen to pour a shot of Old Crow.  Removing a shot glass from the sink of dirty dishes, I notice a small plate containing cheese with mold layering the top.  I think to myself that I did eat something, I just don’t remember when.  I place the shot glass next to the bottle of Old Crow sitting on the kitchen table.  It takes two hands for me to pick up the bottle and prepare to pour.  After numerous tries, the glass is full and I lift it to my lips for one quick swallow.  Walking towards the bedroom, I think about how tired I am and wonder why.  Falling onto the bed, my eyes close, and I drift into a hard sleep that resembles death.

May 27, 1985.  Rolling over in bed, I slowly open my eyes and look over at the clock on the nightstand, ten o’clock.   I glance out the window and see daylight.  Thank goodness, I didn’t sleep through another day.  I am sure I have slept; the effects of the cocaine are gone.  Pulling my head from the pillow, I gradually place both feet onto the hardwood floor.  I walk over to the dresser and look into the mirror.  Once again, I see the strange image of that girl.  She is just staring at me, and I look away.  I go into the bathroom and grab some Charmin off the roll.  Gently placing the paper around my nose, I prepare to blow, but stop.  If I do this now it may cause the dried blood to crack and trigger a flow of fresh blood.  I make a decision to wait until later. I stroll into the kitchen and plop my limp body down at the table.  My hands tremble as I guide the cherished paperweight closer to my body.  Head bent down, index finger pressed against my right nostril, straw in place, and a quick snort of a line of precious powder starts my day.  I moisten the tip of my right finger with my tongue and then slide it up and down every inch of the glass. There is no residue.  I clutch the paperweight with the grip of a starving child and frantically lick it with my tongue from corner to corner, but to no avail.  I grab the bottle of Old Crow and take two big gulps.    My body lunges towards the recipe box n the kitchen counter, there’s always a little stash of coke in this box, but it’s empty.   I throw the box towards the ceiling and recipe cards parachute to the kitchen floor.  I race into the living room and grab the Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary from the bookcase.  Flipping threw the pages, I spot a corner section of a Ziploc bag, but it’s empty. I whirl into the bedroom with the fury of a hurricane, slam open the closet door, and frantically search for the Bass shoebox.  I discover the box hidden in the corner, under on old GAP t-shirt.  Feeling like a child on Christmas morning, I throw the lid to one side and reach into the box, only to find a pair of red sandals.  By now, my breathing is sporadic; I sit down on the bed and begin to cry.  Looking around the room, the Escher print about the headboard makes me smile.  As if sitting on a trampoline, my body springs upward, and I grab the print off the wall.  I flip the frame over, expecting to find a small bag of powder, but there’s only a small hook for hanging the print.  The pounding of my heart increases to a high frequency, and I drop, knees first, onto the floor.  Using my arms as a cradle, I begin to rock back and forth, tears streaming down my face. 

Eventually, I pull myself up from the floor and reach for the telephone, praying it is still connected.  My voice has a raspy tone, but Linda knows who it is.  “Can you come over?  Can you loan me some money to buy food?”  Linda has been my best friend most of my adult life and she knows me all too well.  “Gail, I’ll be right over.  Just sit tight and don’t leave the house.”  Like a trained dog, I sit at the kitchen table and just stare at the paperweight.  Finally, the sound of someone unlocking the back door and in walks Linda.  I begin screaming at the top of my lungs, “Where have you been?  What took you so long?  Don’t you care what happens to me?  Did you bring me some money?”  Linda calmly replies, “Gail, you just called ten minutes ago.  I got here as fast as I could, and no, I did not bring you any money.”   Linda sits down at the table; she’s been crying.  We’ve been friends for such a long time and I love her like a sister, but she’s a little weird.  Linda is the only person I know that has a real job and actually works for a living. When it comes to cocaine, she can take it or leave it - now that’s strange.  I’ve seen Linda do one line of coke, that’s it, just one line, and politely turn down offers for more the rest of the night.  For some reason, Linda can take it or leave it, coke that is, and generally chooses to leave it.   Linda speaks in a low, calm voice as she reaches for my hand, “Gail, you know I love you and you’re my best friend, but I can’t continue doing this.”  She raises her voice, “I won’t give you anymore money.  If you need food, I will bring it to you, but I will not be giving you anymore cash.”  In shock, I reply, “Linda, what’s wrong with you?”  She responds, “There’s nothing wrong with me; you’re the one with the problem.”  She pushes her chair back and stands up, towering over my body.  “Gail, can’t you see, you are addicted to cocaine?   You need help and I can’t give it to you.”  I jump out of my seat and get right in her face. “How do you know I’m addicted?  What made you the coke police?  Get out.  Get out of my house, right now!”  Linda looks at me long and hard as she walks towards the door.  “Gail, you’re the only one who can do something about this, and you better do something now, before it’s too late.”  She opens the door and throws a yellow piece of paper at me.  “Call this woman, call her right now!  She can help you, but you have to take the first step.”  With tears in her eyes, Linda walks out the door.  At that moment I hated her, I hated every bone in her body.  Her words will cost her our friendship.  One day she will be sorry for treating me this way.
Days and night slowly go by; there is no distinguishing the two.  I am out of coke, and bourbon.  I drink Nyquil around the clock to relieve my pain.  The telephone rings, and rings, but I just ignore it.  Every time I walk past a mirror, the image of that strange girl is staring at me.  She dares me to look back at her.  Once or twice, I thought I recognized her.  I am tired of trying to figure it out so I’ve hung towels over the mirror in the house.   I spend most of my time in the bathroom, where it feels safe.  I tuck myself in the corner between the tub and commode, and curl my body into the fetal position.  I rock back and forth, back and forth.  Most of the time, I cry myself to sleep, right in that very spot.  I don’t understand what’s going on.  What did I do to deserve this?  Why did Linda, my best friend, abandon me?  Why am I all alone? 

Feeling a little better today, I find a Banquet frozen dinner in the freezer and toss it into the microwave.  As I eat every bite of turkey and mashed potatoes, I remember Thanksgiving dinner at my parent’s house.  Mom would cook for days and there would always be a golden brown Butterball turkey and real mashed potatoes.  After eating all that food, I feel good enough to take a shower.  I walk into the bathroom and decide to brush my teeth, but first remove the towel from the mirror.   The image of that strange girl is still in the mirror. I stare deep into the eyes of the reflection and realize it's me.  Determined to get a better look, I turn around and remove the towel from the full-length mirror that hangs on the back of the bathroom door.  Stripping off my t-shirt and jeans, I stand erect in front of the mirror and notice how much I resemble one of those starving children that Sally Struthers talks about on television.  My hipbones are protruding on each side, there are dark circles under my eyes, and I look weak and frail.  Is this really me?  Do I really look like this?  Tears begin to run down my face. I grab a towel to cover the ugly nakedness.  Stepping onto the bathroom scales, the needle barley touches seventy-five.  An eerie sense of death flows through my body as I remember Linda’s words, “You are addicted to cocaine.” 

June 2, 1985.  It is one o’clock in the afternoon.  I go into the kitchen and pickup the yellow piece lying on the floor.  Staring at the name and telephone number, I contemplate what to do.  A few minutes later, I walk over to the telephone and dial the number.  A woman’s voice answers, “Southeastern Mental Health; may I help you.”  Sweat running from my brow; I generate enough nerve to ask for Vicky.  The woman responds, “This is Vicky.  Who am I speaking to?”  There was a lump in my throat, but somehow I managed to answer, “My name is Gail York and my friend, Linda, says I am addicted to cocaine.” 
For the next year, Vicky and I met once a week.  By the third month, I had become an active member of Alanon, then Alcoholics Anonymous, and eventually, Narcotics Anonymous.  It was a long, difficult struggle, but I finally admitted I was addicted to cocaine.  Twenty years later, I know that cocaine addiction was but a symptom of my disease.