Post #12 ~Part 6 - Homeless, Hungry, and Almost Gone

By this point, I was using every single day, sometimes more. My house had turned into a place where people came and went, most of them helping feed the addiction that was slowly taking over my life.

Not everything during that time was dark. Two incredible souls came into my life who showed me what true ride or die friendship looked like. They never gave up on trying to push me toward rehab. Their story deserves its own chapter later in this blog.

I also had someone I call my brother, not by blood but by choice, who has been in my life for over twenty seven years. He would show up again and again trying to pull me out of my addiction. My kids call him Uncle, and to this day he still stands beside me. But no matter how much I loved the people who were trying to save me, my addiction kept me using.

I remember calling my kids and seeing them with my parents. Every time I told them I was going to treatment, I meant it. I truly believed I would follow through.

But addiction always found a way to win.

One day I finally did go to treatment. My mom took me to the Metrolink station so I could get to The Clare Foundation in Los Angeles. I walked in ready.

But just like so many treatment centers, they told me they didn’t have a bed.

Come back tomorrow.

That was all the excuse addiction needed.

I went right back out.

I met some new people in Los Angeles, and before long they helped take my addiction to a level I never imagined I would reach.

By then my body was in constant pain. One of them had Dilaudid, but it had to be injected. I convinced myself it was okay because I had been given it that way in the hospital before. I made one thing very clear though.

“Don’t ever shoot me with meth.”

One day he said he was giving me Dilaudid again. But this time he had mixed it with meth.

At the time, I had no idea how dangerous that combination was.

When I told them I felt strange, he acted surprised and said, “Oh no… I must have given you mine.”

The woman there started yelling at him.

“You shouldn’t have done that. Especially in that vein. It’s too close to her heart for her first time.”

But instead of being angry or scared, I felt the best high of my life.

Or at least that is what I thought.

That was the moment I crossed a line I swore I never would.

I was walking with the devil now, and the worst part was that I did not want to stop.

By this time, using was no longer even fun. But I still was not ready to quit.

One night someone I was riding with did something that crossed a line even I could not justify. I told her exactly how I felt and demanded she let me out of the car.

For a brief moment, I felt proud that some part of my morals still existed.

But that pride did not last long.

That night I slept outside in front of Jon’s Grocery Store in Los Angeles.

Lying there on the concrete, staring up at the night sky, a thought hit me harder than any drug ever had.

What have you done with your life?

I had never felt so ashamed of who I had become.

The next morning I called a friend and got high.

And just like that, the shame disappeared.

By then I had lost almost everyone in my life. Even the new friends I had made eventually turned on me, and I went back to the world I knew best.

Around September of 2012, I was homeless, living under a juniper tree behind the Trap.

There was no fun left.

Only desperation.

And hunger.

I did not know it yet, but I was slowly killing myself.

One day, out of pure desperation, I called my twin sister Cyndi. She was one of the few people who never completely gave up on me. She would still check in just to make sure I was alive.

I asked her if she could take me somewhere so I could shower and get something to eat.

She said, “I cannot take you to my house. My husband will not allow it. But I will take you for food on one condition.”

“You let me and my mother in law pray over you.”

At that point, I was so hungry I would have agreed to almost anything.

She took me to her church.

Her mother in law placed her hands on me and began to pray.

And something inside me cracked open.

I started crying uncontrollably.

For the first time in years, I felt something I had not felt in a very long time.

Hope.

For just a moment, it felt like maybe God had not forgotten me.

That moment did not bring me into recovery.

But it planted a seed.

And somehow I held onto it.

Afterward my sister took me to Walmart and bought me a loaf of bread, peanut butter, and strawberry jam.

“This will last you more than a night,” she said.

Then she drove me back to my juniper tree.

The next morning I woke up violently sick.

I started walking through the desert, picking up rocks as I went, trying to distract myself from how horrible my body felt.

Suddenly I heard sirens behind me.

A police officer had turned them on just to get my attention.

Normally I would have lied about who I was. I had a warrant out for my arrest, and lying had always been my survival strategy.

But that day something in me changed.

For the first time, I told the truth.

I gave him my real name.

Then I said, “I probably have a warrant.”

I think deep down I already knew.

I was done.

Done getting high.

Done lying.

Done pretending I was not destroying my life.

I was exhausted.

And I was ashamed.

What I did not know in that moment was that this police officer was about to save my life.

Because by the time I made it to jail, my body was giving out from all the poison I was putting in my body.

What the doctors discovered inside my body that night proved something I did not want to admit yet.

I was closer to death than I had ever been before.

Next Post