Once a junkie, Always a junkie?

Every time. Every single time. I will never understand how my car knows when I am going out of town. It's like a vindictive, cruel, mean girl classmate from high school that just so happened to hate me then, and continues in adulthood to go out of her way to destroy my trip, my day, and my life, only for her to of course go home to her handsome husband, obedient children and spotless house. I crank the engine one more time, hoping that maybe God doesn't have a twisted sense of humor after all, and instead of the engine screaming at me to get this show on the road, I hear a faint click. Those that are not as experienced in the art of breaking down during the most inconvenient times possible, would probably assume the battery was dead. But upon further investigation, and first hand knowledge of what it sounds and looks like, I knew it wasn't the battery. It was the starter, which made things so much worse than they would be if it was indeed the battery. It means I can't just simply humiliate myself by asking random strangers for a jump, but instead I must wait for my car as it vindictively delays my weekend plans, and selfishly doesn't even go dutch on the $636.00 it ends up costing me.

After silently and eventually verbally begging my car to not do this to me again, I slam my palm into the steering wheel and grab my phone. The battery is blinking saying 7 percent, and I curse myself for not bringing my charger, because after all, I was only gonna be gone half an hour. I looked at the clock. 5:37 A.M. Who am I gonna call this early in the morning? My first attempt was my roommate, Lauren. Considering she had called me relentlessly at 4:00 A.M. on more than one occasion, to pick her and her array of one night stands up at random gay bars all over the city, with no concern for the fact that I actually had a job to go to in the morning, one would think that she would be at the ready to return the favor. But one would also be wrong. I made the attempt. I called and called and called. I was greeted with endless ringing and a generic voicemail telling me that this mailbox was full and to try again later. Unfortunately for me, later wasn't an option. So I did what all single 30 something year old women do when their car breaks down. I cried a little bit realizing that being independent stinks, because after all if I had a boyfriend, I wouldn't have to worry about having no one to call, and then googled towing companies near me. It was a pretty standard tow call. "Moonlight Towing".

"I need a tow truck."

"Ok, missy, where are you located?"

"I'm sitting in the parking lot of 333 Windsor Blvd."

"What kind of car are you in?"

"2002 Red Grand Am. Virginia tags."

"Ok, you gonna stay with the car?"

"Uh, yeah. Where else am I gonna go?"

Ignoring my lame attempt at humor, he said, "Okie dokie darlin. I'll be there in about 35 minutes. Where am I taking it to?" "A garage. I dunno which one, but I know it's my starter. So wherever you think is best." I realized I had been living in Charlotte for over 4 years now and had more car trouble than anyone I knew, but it seemed that every time I broke down, I was in a different part of the city or a different city altogether. If I had went to only one garage with all of my automotive tragedies, I would have easily put at least one of the owner's children through college and paid for his first wife's boob job and his second divorce.

"Well, the only place open this early is gonna be Mitchem's. He's a little pricey on the labor but he does good work and he's fast."

"Ok. Mitchem's it is."

We ended the call and as I sat there waiting, observing, I allowed my mind to wander. My gaze searched and settled on the big blue letters positioned above the door of the building I was parked in front of. Queen City Treatment Center. A dark haired girl seemingly younger that I was, walked out the front door carrying a metal lock box wearing Tweety Bird pajama pants, purple socks, and flip flops. She seemed rather bored of this once daily routine, now bi-weekly. She stared at the ground as she made her way to the Bojangle's across the street and got into a rusted box style Jeep Cherokee. As if on cue, the moment her car door slammed shut, an older gentleman, with an obvious limp and facial scars slammed his car door and headed in the same direction that the girl had just came from. Through the glass door I could see a line of people waiting patiently. They make their way one by one to the payment window, and pay for their daily dose of survival. While they wait, they read the fliers on the billboard on the opposite wall. How to tell if someone has overdosed. Fake it till you make it. The 12 steps and 12 traditions. A list of local NA and AA meetings. How to administer narcan. How to obtain narcan. I was so distracted by each individual walking into or out of the front door that I didn't even see the large red tow truck pull into the parking lot and a small, gray haired gentleman with a scruffy beard and stained overalls jump out of the drivers seat and start walking toward me.

13 minutes later, I'm in the passenger seat of the tow truck trying to ignore the smell of engine grease and sour milk, when my wingless angel boldly looked at me and said, "That was the worst place possible to break down. Do you have any idea what that place is? Who those people are?" I looked at him a bit confused when he followed up with "I mean, I'm not one to judge but that just ain't a safe place for a young lady to be stranded. That's a drug clinic. You know, heroin addicts and meth heads. Ain't nothing but a bunch of no good junkies if you ask me. They outta just let them weed themselves out instead of giving them a place to gather." He shook his head, clearly expecting me to give the same disgusted reaction he had just expressed. Without even thinking, all I could say was "Really? Hmm." As he proceeded to tell me how his step son was a "worthless" addict and has robbed him and his wife blind, I stared out the window wondering if I should tell him the truth. That truth was that 5 years earlier, I had checked myself into a rehab very similar to the one he was so unapologetically appalled by.

The first time I walked into the Life Center of Garret, I was only 98 pounds and ready to stop existing. I watched the staff go through my things with a fine tooth comb, treating me very similarly to a prisoner. I tried to answer their questions truthfully, but the oxymorphine I had snorted just 2 hours earlier was already starting to wear off and I could feel the withdrawals creeping up behind me, waiting to pounce. Soon the sweats would come in waves of hot and cold and my stomach would tie itself into a knot the Clovehitch killer would be jealous of. My muscles would start to freeze and spasm, while the bugs under my skin began to come to life. Not even water would be able to take residence in my body, before being evicted violently by my stomach, continuing to heave long after it was completely dry, reminding me that I am not in control. Sleep would soon be a thing of memories and death would be welcomed but not allowed. I had been through this part of the "getting clean" process many times, usually not intentionally, but I had never seen what was on the other side of it. Recovery. The unicorn of drug addiction.

I was an accidental junkie. After I had my daughter, I suffered from severe pain and after 6 surgeries, I had lost my uterus, my chance of having more children, and my ability to get through the day without an absurd amount of pain medication. Eventually a dependency turns into a full blown addiction and you find yourself stealing your mother's engagement ring and snorting the profits, all the while justifying your actions by reminding yourself that it's not your fault because you have a disease. You're a victim!

I spent 8 years in active addiction, and I had become quite comfortable with the fact that I was going to die a using addict. That is exactly what would have happened, if not for the fact that I ran out of lies to tell. After being confronted by my mother about my lapse in judgment and social ques, I just went blank. I had no excuses or explanations. I braced myself for the backlash. Surprisingly, my mother, with tears in her eyes, said "Do you want your life back? Because I would really like to have my daughter back." I was so confused. After all, this was my life. My first night at rehab, the Dr. walked into the room, looked at me and very firmly and defeating and said, "98 percent of all addicts, especially heroin addicts, relapse. So there is no real reason to explain anything. I'll see you again....if you live that long." She was the one person that made a living fixing people like me. If she didn't have enough faith or belief that a clean and sober me was possible, why bother? With that said, my mom took out a second mortgage on her land for me to give this "get better" thing a try and I was stuck here for 14 days anyway, fail or succeed. So I decided to go through the motions.

For the next five years, I lived second to second. I lived in my car at one point. I walked away from everything I had ever known in search of a part of myself that I wasn't even sure still existed. There were days I felt like I was seeking sunken treasure in the middle of the desert. I was forced to open my eyes and face my fears without the help of my heroin hero. I was knocked down, and left for dead at times. But I didn't use. I felt the feelings I so desperately didn't want to feel. Soon, I started to tell stories of the addict that lived in me, as if I were speaking about an old friend who had gone her own way. Somewhere along the way, my memories during that time stopped being mine. They became animated warnings to other addicts that I got to share. I had stopped existing and starting living.

As we pulled into Mitchem's garage, I realized that "those people" were so much more than "just a bunch of junkies if you ask me". I had spent the past 13 years being ashamed of everything that I was. After all, I was just another junkie, right? I only had a 2 percent chance of not relapsing. Until I didn't. I was given a second chance and I took it. Every person that walked out of the treatment center that morning was someone's child. We all shared something that doesn't always come easy to everyone. We shared a desire to live. We shared hope. We shared a belief that we could be more than just junkies. We shared the faith that we would be part of the 2%. As I eased myself out of the tow truck, I wiped a tear that had someone found my eye, and I realized that if I was ashamed of them, I was ashamed of me too. If I was unwilling to admit where I had been, how would I ever get to where I was going. As I paid the tow bill, and began to walk into the garage, the tow truck driver shouted "Hey Miss. I don't believe I caught your name." So I told him, just as I had told many strangers along my journey of redemption, while sharing stale coffee and hopeful regret. "My name is Katie and I'm an addict."