'Bitch!'� The hairy beast was perspiring with rage, but I found all his threats frivolous though, deep down, I always feared he would follow though and seriously hurt me for simply pushing him too far. The previous night, was, in fact, ridiculous and uncalled for, but it didn't matter either way. Even when I was a perfect angel for months on end, this belligerent beast was set out to make my life as miserable as his was'�And is.
I woke that afternoon with a thick black cloud of pain and regret lingering over my head. Rat Fink was still here. Wait. He's still here? Why is he still here? This fact and the beast's rage was causing me to panic. Evidence of the rapine that was the previous night was strewn across the floor. Needles'�An empty bottle of Viccodin'� A used condom'� Vomit'� Clothing'� Oh, God! I don't know whether I want to be sick, or if I want to cry. Wait. I can't cry. I mustn't let the beast think that he can get to me like that. What was I thinking? As the clues suggested, I gathered I partied too hard and Rat Fink manage to creep inside me while I was blacked out. That whole bottle of Viccodin is empty? I guess I wanted to forget, or I simply wanted to sleep, after filling my veins with white terror, only to end up too sick and frightened to be alone.
More pain'� More disgust'� I want the rodent to leave, but that vile beast has already called for backup, so I may need to use him for a quick getaway. Breathe, Lisa, breathe. Your fine'� You have no drugs on you'� Just paraphernalia'� My stomach feels as if it's been vigorously squeezed and jostled, and the acid is burning away all my insides'�Hard to move'� Just want to lay back down'�
The backup had arrived, questioning the beast, prior to interrogating me. One of the policemen look familiar. He looks me up and down, until our eyes lock. I can only assume he recognized me as well, before his face dropped as if his muscles had previously been supported by clips and strings that had suddenly come loose, his chin cringing in sorrow and disappointment. The cops are insisting that I be hospitalized and I refuse, not knowing that death is lurking before me. 'You look like death,'� they say, noting that I'm emaciated, my skin green and my eyes jaundiced. With no other feasible way out, I surrender and willingly step into the ambulance.
The ride is execrably long and jarring. The sirens are yelping in urgency, making my insides clench and turn, once again. I had smoked a cigarette prior to retreating into the ambulance, and am now deeply regretting it, for I'm sure this is not helping my nausea. One of the cops is sitting in back with me asking me all the routine questions. What did you take? How long have you been using? Are you prescribes any medications? Do you have any allergies? Have you been hospitalized before? Talking is only making my stomach tense further. At this point, I'm wishing there was a remote control for life, that I could merely press the rewind button and make this all go away. My abdomen continues to swell, twist and crawl up to my throat, flooding my mouth with slimy, bubbly saliva. Not again'� There is nothing left to regurgitate, other than bile and stomach acid. I tell the policeman of my intense nausea, as he freaks out on the account of there is no bucket for me to wretch in. Now I'm feeling even more ill and need to spit, for if I swallow the slimy mess inside my mouth, I will surely make myself vomit. Thankfully, the driver is slowing down in attempt to ease my discomfort and we finally make it to the Medical Center.
I open my eyes, having no idea how long I've been unconscious, or at what point I had passed or, or fallen asleep. I now have chemicals and saline running through my veins to clean me out and keep my hydrated. Feeling abnormally torpid, I scan the room to find that I'm in the I.C.U., shielded only by one wall and curtains, literally tasting all the germs, negativity, and pain around me. That hospital smell'� An offensive mix of bacteria and cleaning fluid is leaving me disgusted. I notice a middle-aged Jamaican woman sitting in the corner on the front-left side of me, peacefully reading a novel, not giving me a second look, or even greet me or ask me if I'm alright. Despite my immense fatigue, I'm kept awake with recollection of the beast's aspersions and the newly remembered visions of Rat Fink on top of me. Eager to not think, I lay back and close my eyes. Finally, a friendly looking nurse walks into my area and greets me with a tiny cup of pills. 'How are you feeling, honey? You really did a number on yourself!'� She proceeded to tell me that my acetaminophen levels and liver enzymes were through the roof and that I was in danger of liver failure. This didn't phase me for some reason, maybe because the drugs were still in my system. Maybe, deep down, I knew I would be ok. Or maybe, after all that has happened, death doesn't seem like so horrifying. Nonetheless she handed me the pills and informing me that four of them were methadone, and one of them, clonodine. I argued that not only am I too nauseous, but I'm also on a different opiate blocker and did not want to change my regimen. She kindly retorted that the Medical Center was not licensed to give out the medication I was on, and assured me that the pills would only help me feel better. Reluctantly, I took them, despite the horror stories I had heard about Methadone withdrawal, which she also insisted would be painless. Ten minutes go by and, to my horror, I'm beginning to feel queasy, once again. I regurgitate slime into one of those bean-shaped containers and am left with a sour, acidic, metallic taste in my mouth. The friendly nurse comes to my aid and verified that most, if not all my medication still absorbed, as she slowly injected my I.V. with and anti-emetic. Within five minutes or so I'm starting to feel good again, almost too good. I was floating, more comfortable, now, able to trust the nurse just a little bit more. And so, after sneaking a cigarette in the bathroom, I drift back off.
I'm being woken up. It's the nurse and I smile, still high from the methadone and clonodine. Then, I look up and, to my repulsion, it's Rat Fink! He had come with one of his friends, who looked at least five years younger than him. That sick bastard. I'm nice and ask them politely to leave so I can go back to sleep, though the situation was incredibly unsettling to me.
I continue to spend the next couple of days in the ICU, doped out on Methadone and Clonodine ; and on a saltine cracker diet. They were beginning to get on my case about smoking in the bathroom, although the friendly nurse wasn't too bothered by it. For those couple of days, she was the only staff member who paid me any mind, or asked me how I was.
They moved me up to the pediatric floor, which I believed to be inappropriate due to my condition, but didn't bother to expend the energy to argue about it much. For over a week I was there, in bed, high as a kite, doing nothing but watching television and sleeping. I felt so disgusting and sweaty, by then, that I had to force myself to get out of bed to take a shower in one of those uncomfortable little room showers that simply felt dirty.
Meanwhile, they began to wean me off the Methadone. It wasn't so bad, at first. I just didn't get high or sleepy until night time when they served it with the Clonodine. Unfortunately, this didn't last. As they started to get me off it all together, while I didn't get physically ill so much, it made me so restless and anxious that I could not sit still, no less sleep. It was this constant feeling that I needed something, this need to get up or do anything but what you're doing. This constant tickle in your arm that won't go away'� Muscle pain'� Sweating incessantly'�I finally had a tantrum and insisted they discharge me, thinking that I can score some kind of downer until the withdrawal isn't so intense. With that, they discharged me the next day.
Now, there is a happy ending to this story, but that's a whole other story. In short, I was unable to stay clean, at first anyway. I found the withdrawal way too intense and ended up relapsing to ease the discomfort. That's no excuse, I know, but when you go a week without being able to sit still or fall asleep without flailing and perspiring violently, you end up a little more insane than you were before. On the contrary, after a couple of weeks of using everything and anything I can find, I found a steady heroin connection and used that for a few more weeks. It didn't take long before I decided that I hated how I was living, and desperately wanted to be pure and clear-headed once again. With that, I began a suboxone maintenance program with a new doctor and, at this point, have been clean for over nine months. Without any intentions of picking up ever again, I'm now in the process of experiencing rebirth emotionally and spiritually. As for the beast, I remained in a living situation with it up until recently, but I'm free now and am very, very happy. As for Rat Fink, my ex-boyfriend intervened and, well, I've heard very little of him since.
In conclusion, this story is a mere tidbit of what I've put myself through, throughout the course of my active addiction. I have no regrets. On the contrary, all the demons I've battled have aided in molding me into the strong, lively person that I am today. I only hope to continue growing into the mold that is myself and to one day use my experience and hope to encourage others to get through their own predicaments and dilemmas successfully.

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