Originally I had “long” in the title, but I felt like I was lying – “novel length!!!” (the excessive exclamation points serve as a warning) is much more accurate and honest. I wrote this partially just to get it all “recorded” and partially because I feel as though sharing everything will help me move on more completely – some sort of therapy, I guess. So basically, I don’t expect anyone to actually read the entire thing (I wouldn’t), but to anyone who reads even part of it, thanks for listening 
DISCLAIMER
Per SDMB rules, I am required to remind everyone that possession of heroin is illegal in the US. In some jurisdiction, being under the influence of heroin, even in your own home, is also illegal. Possession of oxycodone (percocet, oxycontin) or Suboxone without a prescription is also illegal in the US. Being under the influence of these substances, even in your own home, may or may not be illegal in some jurisdictions as well.
I do not in any way condone using illegal drugs, or prescription drugs obtained illegally.
In the IMHO thread Your thoughts on death and dying. Are you afraid?, I posted about my “brush with death” after overdosing on heroin. I typed up a lengthy response to a comment made to me there, but to avoid hijacking that thread completely, and because I want to share my whole story, I’m starting a new one.
I know it’s hard to comprehend why someone would even try heroin in the first place, knowing how dangerous it is, so I’ll explain how I got started. I’ve had a soft spot for opiates since the first time I took a percocet at the age of 15. I simply loved the feeling of complete euphoria they gave me – I mean, how could you not enjoy euphoria? I didn’t have access to them often, however, so my love of percocets never had the opportunity to turn into a habit.
However, in April of this year, I was completely blindsided when my boyfriend of three and a half years ended our relationship. I slipped into a deep depression that was accompanied by extremely unbearable anxiety. The depression I could have handled, but the anxiety was so bad, so physically uncomfortable (painful, even) that it would keep me awake for days at a time. I couldn’t do anything but cry, pace around the apartment, and feel like absolute shit. I went to the emergency room three times in one week because I was completely convinced I was having a heart attack.
After a week of complete hell, I saw my psychiatrist, who gave me a prescription for 30 .25mg xanax. .25mg is an extremely low dosage. Too low to work for me. They were all gone in four days and I was right back to where I started - hell. I made another appointment, but it was for a month later. Instead of begging for an emergency appointment, or going to my family doctor, I was stupid – I decided to start self medicating.
At the time I had a “friend” who was “temporarily” living with me (we’ll call him Justin) who had some drug connections. The day after the xanax ran out, I demanded he go out and get me something (ANYTHING) to make the horrible feeling go away. He returned with some percocet. I quickly gobbled them down, and, of course, it made my anxiety disappear completely… and let’s not forget about that awesome euphoria. I began sending him out for percocet daily, and declared he would now start paying rent in the form of opiates. After about a week I switched me over to the stronger version, oxycontin. I continued to get high every day, with Justin, who had a habit long before I did.
Then the day came where we only had a small piece of oxycontin to split between us. Justin would be fine with his piece; he had begun shooting intravenously so he didn’t need as much. I was incredibly anxious, I “needed” something to calm the anxiety, but snorting/eating such a small piece would have no noticeable effect. Out of desperation, I did something I had sworn I’d never do – I shot up my piece of oxy. I was higher than I’d ever been in my life. Every oxy I got from that point on, I shot.
Oxycontin is often hard to obtain, however, not to mention expensive – Justin was spending between $40 and $120 a day on it. He soon switched himself over to heroin, as it’s much cheaper ($10-40 a day) and easier to aquire. Shortly thereafter stopped getting oxy for me, too – if I wanted to get high, I had one option.
I was very cautious of the heroin at first. It scared me. The first two times he gave me heroin, I snorted it, little by little, waiting in between lines to evaluate, to make sure I didn’t do too much. However, I soon decided that it just wasn’t strong enough when snorted, so the third day he came home with heroin, I shot it. Again, cautiously: 1/4 of the bag at a time. I did it this way a few times, until I was comfortable with doing a whole bag at a time.
So I shot heroin at least once daily for about three weeks. At some point, it stopped being about treating anxiety, and became just me getting high. After the few first times, I lost my fear of it. I knew how much was safe to do, and I wasn’t going to get hooked for real. I actually told people, “heroin is nowhere as big of a deal as it’s made out to be.”
Then came May 23rd. A guy I was seeing at the time – we’ll call him JB – slept over the night before. We slept in, then lounged around in bed for a while – I think we finally got out of bed around 3pm, just as Justin was coming home with our daily dose. Justin went into the bathroom to do his, while I sat down on the floor in the living room to do mine. I shot the same amount as always. I stood up, took five steps toward my bedroom and suddenly felt extremely high, but not dizzy or woozy or “off” in any way, so I wasn’t concerned.
I sat down at my computer, opened up an IM window, and then woke up on the floor with about a dozen paramedics and police officers standing around me. It was that fast. There was no time to think, “I don’t feel right. This is bad. Maybe I did too much.” No indication or clue that I was about to lose consciousness. No opportunity (or inclination) to let anyone know something was wrong. It just happened in a split second – I was feeling great, getting ready to type something, and the very next instant I was waking up on the floor. The time I was out didn’t feel like being asleep, where you have some sense that time has passed. Time stopped moving for me; I felt like I just ceased to exist for a while.
Justin told me that when he exited the bathroom, he found me slumped over, twitching, in the computer chair. I was bright blue. He was unable to wake me up. He called JB in, who determined that I was either not breathing, or breathing too shallowly for them to detect. He found a pulse, but it was extremely weak. JB called 911 and began administering CPR. I have absolutely no idea how much time passed between my losing consciousness and the paramedics arriving. I was told by the paramedics that when they arrived, I was still not breathing, and had NO detectable pulse at the point. They “bagged” me (their term, I don’t know exactly what it means but I’m guessing it involved forcing oxygen into me) for approximately five minutes, then I sat up, announced that I was ok, and asked if anyone minded if I had a cigarette (I’m very polite about smoking around non-smokers). I understood what had just happened, but was still extremely confused, and very annoyed that they were asking me so many questions I didn’t know the answer to.
They loaded me onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. I was still extremely high, so the reality of I JUST DIED hadn’t really clicked, and I was just hazily going with the flow. I was cracking jokes. I was the only one laughing at them. One of the EMTs told me he was about to inject me with something called Narcan, which he warned was going to take away my high. However, he failed to warn me that it would also send me into withdrawal immediately, and produce THE worst feeling that I imagine exists. I don’t know how much of it was withdrawal (I’m not sure if was bad enough to experience withdrawal at all) and how much of it was the Narcan, but I felt like I was having the worst panic attack in my life. With a bad case of food poisoning, while in a bathtub filled with icecubes. My heart felt like it was going to explode, I felt so weak I could barely move my arms, I was shaking violently, and I couldn’t stop yawning. As soon as all of this kicked in, I started sobbing uncontrollably, because it was the worst thing I’ve ever felt, but also because the reality of I just died. I just OVERDOSED on HEROIN kicked in. I was suddenly terrified.
We arrived at the emergency room. A nurse tried to give me fluids via IV and I started screaming because I thought they were giving me more Narcan. He managed to calm me down, place the IV, and assured me there would be no more Narcan. It felt like chaos; there were people all around me, asking me questions, moving me around, poking me with things. That died down about about 10 minutes, and about 30 minutes after that, the Narcan had mostly worn off. I was left feeling extremely tired and I still couldn’t stop yawning. I cried for a while then fell asleep.
After 5 hours in the hospital, I was collected by a police officer, who I’ll call Officer nice, because, well, he was very nice. He didn’t bother to cuff (humiliate) me, and we had a friendly chat in the cruiser on the way to the station. Once at the station, I was read my rights, informed of my charges, fingerprinted, had my mugshot taken, etc. Another officer (The Sargent?) told me that he was going to recommended to the judge that I be “RORed” (released on recognizance, ie, I wouldn’t have to pay bail) and that given my complete lack of a record, he was very likely to agree. He didn’t. My bail was set at $5,000. I had to come up with 10% of it. I didn’t even have five dollars to my name, so they asked if I knew anyone who did have $500 and would be willing to pay my bail. Of course I did. My dad. But neither of my parents had any idea that I was doing drugs of any kind, let alone shooting heroin.
“My dad. But I can’t call him and let him know what just happened. He’s going to completely flip out. This is going to break his heart.”
They asked, “you’d rather go to jail than call your father?”
For about ten minutes, I sat on my bench, sobbing hysterically. What the fuck did I get myself into and what am I going to do about it now? How can I possibly call my father and let him know his baby girl is sitting in a police station with four charges over her head because she just temporarily died of a heroin overdose? I was so ashamed of myself. I couldn’t deal with that was going on. I just cried.
Officer Nice calmed me down. He told me that he has children, and that if he were my dad, he wouldn’t be angry, he wouldn’t yell, he’d just be completely relieved to know I was ok. He made me feel much better. I mentioned not having had a cigarette in 6ish hours. He walked me outside, bummed a lighter off a fellow officer (I didn’t have mine) and talked to me while I smoked. Afterwards, I threw up.
Finally, I called my dad on my cell phone. I told him where I was and how much money I needed. When he asked what happened, I concocted some vague story about how I got pulled over and they found weed in the car. He said he’d be there in 45 minutes and asked for more details. I tried to be very vague and make things up. My phone kept losing signal and hanging up, dad kept calling back. Officer Nice suggested that I just shut my phone off and deal with it in person. I turned the phone off.
When my dad arrived, he asked me again what happened. I told him, “ummm, well, I lied to you.” Dad immediately turned to Officer Nice and asked, “what exactly is she being charged with, and how did it all come about?” I was saved. I didn’t have to say the words I was so ashamed to say. Officer Nice asked for my permission to share the information, which I obviously granted, and read the list of charges to my dad: possession of heroin, possession of drug paraphernalia (syringe), possession of marijuana, and being under the influence of a controlled substance. He explained that the drugs were discovered when 911 was called to revive me. My dad nodded silently, hugged me and took me home.
When we got to my apartment, he told me he wanted to know everything. I told him, essentially, everything that I’ve written here. He asked me if I learned my lesson. I said yes. He called my mom and told her the story. I could hear her crying on the phone, wailing, “no, no.” Too ashamed to speak with her, I had him tell her I love her and that I’d call her the next day. He wanted me to have a friend come and spend the night, to make sure I was ok. I lied and told him someone was coming. I just wanted to be alone. Having my parents find out I’d been using heroin was the hardest thing I’ve had to go through. He went home. I went to sleep for 15 hours.
Even after ODing, I didn’t immediately give it up. I went two weeks without it, at which point I wasn’t addicted physically, but the mental cravings were strong. It wasn’t that I had to do it, or that I couldn’t stop myself, but I wanted to do it again. I started up again, with Justin, of course. I secretly did it maybe 10 more times, then finally said “fuck this, I’m done.” The next day Justin called me 12 times. I never picked up. He left a bunch of messages about how he “needed a favor” (a ride to buy drugs) and that there was “something in it for me” (free drugs). When I listened to his last voicemail, all I heard was “BR’ER, THIS IS TOTAL BULLSHIT!!” before I hit “7” to delete. Infuriated and determined, I gave Justin’s phone number to my dad, who made it extremely clear that he was never again to contact me in any way for any reason. He hasn’t.
Giving up opiates was hard. My experience was that obtaining professional help for addiction is, sadly, very difficult. My insurance gave me two options: 1, an inpatient rehab center that didn’t do anything other than help you detox (and was thus useless to me as I had already stopped). 2, an outpatient therapy program that was little more than people telling you that you need to avoid places where you can access drugs, and to learn to cope with hardships better. No shit. That isn’t what I was looking for, it’s not what I felt I needed. I wanted something to help me not want to do opiates at all.
Specifically, I wanted a drug I had heard about called Suboxone, which is mostly used to ease one through withdrawal, but also blocks the effects of other opiates you try to take, and, most importantly to me – it fills up the opiate receptors in your brain, severely reducing cravings without producing a “high”. This sounded like a miracle and was exactly what I was looking for.
I contacted every doctor in the area who was licensed to prescribe Suboxone. I quickly learned that none of them accepted insurance of any kind. The average cost for an initial evaluation visit was $300, and $90 for each follow up appointment. I simply did not have that kind of money. I was heartbroken. My cravings were so strong, I was going to start up again eventually. I resigned myself to being a heroin addict forever.
I caught a lucky break, however. I found someone on Suboxone, and I was able to work out a deal with her. She provided me with Suboxone and educated me: how to take it, how to quit. It was the miracle I had hoped it would be, all my cravings disappeared, and after three weeks I was able to wean myself off.
It’s been about 3 months since I’ve touched heroin, and I was even able to take oxycodone that was prescribed to me without it creating a desire to start using again.
To wrap this all up, I’d like to acknowledge the comment by Phlosphr I mentioned at the beginning of my post.
Yes, I am a very, very lucky person, in many ways. I’m lucky that I didn’t do more than I did. I’m lucky that JB was there (to give me CPR, and because if it had just been me and Justin… well, I’m not 100% sure he would have done the “right” thing if it was just me and him). I am lucky the paramedics continued to try to save me, even if it appeared that I was a lost cause. I’m lucky I have such great friends and family who were able to support me while I recovered. I’m lucky that I got in and out of the lifestyle so quickly – because it’s hard to keep perspective on time, I’ll point out that there was only about a month and a half of daily opiate use, not counting Suboxone – before I lost everything, before I got a chance to get really bad, and really deep into it. I’m lucky that my story and experience is nothing compared to that of some.
I’m also extremely lucky I am the person who I am. I attended one NA meeting, and all I heard was “wah wah wah, my life is so hard, I can’t control my own actions, feel bad for poor me”. My personality such that I don’t want to be that kind of whiny bastard who refuses to (and pretends to be unable to) take responsibility for their life, who just wants everyone to feel bad for them. I didn’t have any silly notions that my drug habit was out of my control. Instead, I was able to acknowledge that I did heroin because, when I broke it down into the simplest explanation, I wanted to do it, not because I had to. I was able to realize that if I wanted to quit, to live, to stop playing russian roulette, all I had to do was just fucking stop doing it. In the end I did just that, and while I had a little assistance from Suboxone, I know I would have stopped without it, just not as easily. I quit because, luckily, I’m smart enough to see the truth about my habits, and I’m lucky I was born with strong willpower. I’m also lucky I didn’t end up like Justin, who, as far as I know is still a junkie – because he isn’t like me – he either can’t or won’t help himself, and is unfortunately in a position where professional help is barely an option to consider. I know the day when I am informed of his premature death is inevitable, and I’m very conflicted as to how I feel about that.
And no, I haven’t tamed all my demons, but I’m pretty sure I have this one permanently under control.
Like I said earlier, I expect that nobody will read every word I’ve written here (if you did, I applaud you, you deserve an award) – that’s ok. But I’d like to once again thank anyone who was interested enough to read at least a piece of my tale.
