The Green Room

My spiritual awakening began as a dream. On April 7, 2002 I was drawn out of a deep sleep compelled to write a poem about this dream experience immediately after it occurred. The details of the dream were so vivid, and there was this overwhelming sense of purpose to let the images pour themselves out through my writing which was complete in only 2-3 minutes. I named this writing; The House in my Dream , dated it and went back to sleep.

Months later, I finally “hit bottom” with an addiction to narcotic painkillers and other controlled substances that were killing me. What began as relief from the constant angst I felt at 12 years old had now become an everyday requirement just to function. I became willing to embrace any other form of existence other that that which had taken over my life. The choice was now narrowed and I had reached the fork in the road. I was either going to live or die.

I locked myself in the bathroom with my last bottle of pills and started taking them one after the other while I listened to the music on hold waiting for the voice to come back on the suicide prevention hot line. As I sat on the floor leaning up against the base cabinets with a glass of water and open pill bottle in my shaking hands, I couldn’t believe my life had come to this. I had no where left to go and I was too tired of what it was taking to keep up with the demands of my addiction. My eyes began to lose focus as I stared out my bathroom window at the 6ft block wall around my house through my poor dried up bougainvillea plant. I realized my life had become a prison and I couldn’t see any way out.

I was done. I finally conceded to my inner most self that I couldn’t do this anymore. All the lies and doctors’ visits, excuses and self deception about my “little problem” had to end. It just wasn’t working anymore. My motto of a “Vicodan a day to keep emotional pain away” turned into garbage bags full of empty pill bottles, dozens of trip to Urgent Care facilities, doctor’s offices and Hospital Emergency Rooms. Getting and using drugs had taken over my life. During the years of my addiction to narcotics, I had abandoned every other area of my life; my son, my business, my health, friends, family and most of all myself. My home was a disaster with massive piles of unsorted mail, filing boxes, bankruptcy paperwork, unpaid bills and paperwork piled high in my living room. The smell of cat and dog feces and urine in my house and garage were overpowering and getting them spayed or neutered was not on my priority list.

My need for drugs was overwhelming and I was finally defeated when upon my attempt to get just “one more refill”, one of my favorite doctors had just turned me down. I really didn’t want to call but I had to. I dialed the doctor’s office and my heart was pounding as I waited for the receptionist to answer. I only had one narcotic left and I could not function without them. I had tried to quit so many times before and never could. I would always end up in bed, shaking and unable to sleep, eat or even leave the house let alone run a business or take care of my son. She answered and I made my plea. Her answer was what I had almost expected; “Kara, we just gave you that prescription last week and it was for 60 pills.” I could tell they were on to me. I had to give it one last feeble attempt anyway. “I know, I haven’t taken them all, I just can’t find them….I just misplace them. Can’t you just ask doctor if she can refill it again just one more time?” I was pleading as I began to panic. The nurse put me on hold to check with the doctor.

I remember waiting for the nurse on pins and needles. Part of me was dying for that prescription and part of me prayed for this to finally be over. I knew as I waited that if she wouldn’t fill it, I might die. It truly felt like I wouldn’t be able to live without them. At that point the thought of leaving didn’t seem like such a bad idea. I just wanted my suffering and dependency to end but I didn’t know what to do. By the time the nurse came back on the line, my heart felt like it was beating outside of my chest and my hands had already began to sweat. “Kara, doctor said she will not refill the prescription and we have to place a red flag on your file” “A red flag?! What does that mean”, I questioned as my mind simultaneously began to scan its other resources to get more somewhere else. “It means that we will be reviewing your file to evaluate your narcotic intake”. I was speechless. It was finally over. I had been found out.

As I hung up the phone, the anxiety I felt was overwhelming. I didn’t know how to function without those pills. My mind started to race searching my memory for any place I might have hidden some pills in my house. I began searching from room to room in every cabinet and found nothing. I used to hide pills which I would miraculously find when I ran low but those hiding places were exhausted. I started to review my options; find another doctor, make myself a spectacle in another hospital emergency room with one of my famous migraine headaches and beg for a shot or just die. I decided I was willing to die. I was so tired and worn out. I grabbed my cell phone, wallet and last bottle of muscle relaxers and locked myself in my bathroom. I opened the bottle and started taking one every couple of minutes. It was only 11am, I had just taken my last Vicodan and I knew within the next hour I would be in severe physical pain. I opened my wallet and pulled out the State assisted health care card and called the Crisis Line. “I can’t live this way anymore, I can’t stop taking these pills”, I told the hot line volunteer. I was thinking that maybe someone could lock me up in a mental hospital. I thought my only hope would be getting locked up somewhere in a padded room where I wouldn’t be able to physically get out and get more.

The hot line representative informed me that drug addiction doesn’t qualify as mental illness and that the mental hospital might not take my insurance. She then proceeded to ask me “Are you planning on hurting yourself or someone else?” “Hurt myself or someone else?” That was the understatement of the year! I had been hurting myself and others since I could remember. She obviously didn’t get it and I wasn’t sure how to explain it. I didn’t even understand it myself. All I knew is that when it came to getting and using drugs everything else would be subject to suffer. I had to have them at all costs just to survive, so I thought.

She asked me another questions. “Are you in immediate danger?” “Yes”, I answered. “I’m addicted to pain medication and I just ran out and I can’t live like this anymore”. She paused a minute. “I’m not sure you called the right line… I don’t think we can help you with that. Have you called your doctor?” “Oh yeah”, I replied. “I’m taking pills right now. Isn’t there a way you can just lock me up? I can’t stop and I can’t live this way anymore”, I repeated now pleading with her. She told me there was a hospital I might be able to go to but it wasn’t for drug addicts, it was for the mentally ill. She wasn’t sure they would take me. “Can you hold just a minute?” I waited.

The muscle relaxers I had been gulping down were really kicking in. Previously, I had never taken more than a couple of these at a time. I just used them to mix with other pills for a heightened effect. I had gotten up to swallowing 20-30 various pills a day. My daily “pill cocktails” consisted of various combinations of narcotics, muscle relaxers and anti-anxiety medication. I became so dependent on them that I couldn’t get out of bed without taking something. I even began keeping pills by my bedside so I could just reach over without having to get up to take them.

As I was on hold, a call “beeped” in on the other line. I clicked over to my boyfriend at the time who was just calling to check on me. “I was just thinking about you, how are you doing”? “Okay”, I lied. “What are you doing?” he prodded. Well, I’m sitting on the floor in my bathroom on the phone”, I could barely speak by now. Doug and I had been seeing each other for almost two years. He would drink and I took pills and sometimes we would smoke pot together, it was a careful arrangement. Occasionally he would question me about my “pill problem” but the conversations usually ended with my turning the conversation around to point out his drinking problem to get him to back off. I remember once being so furious with him for discussing “my secret” with one of his friends who had been through a pain pill addiction and suggested ways to help me. I felt indescribable rage when Doug admitted to me that he had exposed me like this. I didn’t want his or anyone else’s help. How dare he violate me like that? I could have killed him. At that time, I believed I could figure it out on my own. He had betrayed me and our arrangement.

Less than thirty days later, my cheek now was pressed on the cold linoleum floor, nothing mattered. I was too tired to fight any longer. Pain had now passed the point of expression. My skin started to crawl. I just wanted it to end. In those minutes before Doug’s call I remember thinking that my only hope would be to get locked up and restrained in a padded room. I had to harness this demon inside of me before it killed me. Suddenly there was pounding on the bathroom door. “Kara, open the door!” Doug’s voice was concerned but stern. I could barely move. The muscle relaxers had taken a hold of me and my body felt like jello. His voice sounded like and echo and it was hard for me to respond. “Just a minute…”

I tried to get up. A rush of fear came through my body. I was afraid to open the door. The shame I felt for what I had become was overwhelming. Opening that door meant I might go back. The pounding on the door got louder. “Kara, if you don’t open the door, I’m coming in anyway.” I was frozen and couldn’t say a word. As I reached over toward the door handle, the door swung up. He used the little key we kept on the top of the door frame. “What is going on?” he asked with this look I’ve never seen on his face. Doug always joked about everything. He was a comedic/magician by trade and always had a line for everything and every circumstance, a way to keep people from really getting to know him. He was a master of illusion. I can’t live like this anymore. You were right. I have a pill problem. I have a big pill problem. My life is a disaster and I won’t live like this anymore. I just took a bunch of Soma and I’m out of Vicodan and I need to go to the mental hospital. If they can’t help me I don’t know what to do but I’d rather die than go on like this. He agreed and helped me get up off the floor. The volunteer returned to the line and gave me the name of the State Mental Hospital. I have the phone to Doug for directions.

I remember streams of tears being brushed gently from my face as the rush of air came through my rolled down window as Doug drove us toward Phoenix in his little green truck that brisk November day. It was sad to me that I had become so weak and unable to control my addiction any longer. My tears were filled with shattered pride, shame and embarrassment. I was finally being exposed for the fraud I had perpetrated: me. The one who “could always hold it together”, the “survivor”, “the phoenix rising above its own ashes” was now being taken to a mental hospital to be locked up. It would soon be over, one way or another. I was hazy and depressed, petrified yet somewhat relieved. The fight, I thought was almost over.

I stumbled ahead of Doug as we walked through the automatic doors of the entrance to the Maricopa County Mental Hospital. We were directed to a woman in intake assessment on the other side of the lobby. Not waiting for any prompting, I walked up to her desk and informed her that I couldn’t live “my life” this way anymore and needed for her to check me in as soon as possible. She took one look at me and asked me what I had taken. All I remember is admitting that I had taken about a half a bottle of muscle relaxers. She immediately contacted paramedics and the ambulance with three or four arrived in what seemed like about 30 seconds.

I lay flat on my back as they quickly checked my vitals and eye dilation. I remember feeling so disassociated with my body while this occurred. It was as if I was watching this happen to someone else. “Did she try and kill herself” one of them asked. “That’s what it looks like” said the intake nurse she’s taken a bunch of pills. “Do you see that?” one asked the other referring to the signals they were receiving from my body as they read their monitors, “We need to take her in.” They lifted my body on the stretcher while the whole lobby watched including Doug who was nearby with a look of disbelief and concern. I wanted to hide my face but couldn’t lift my arms. I was so out of my body at time during this experience it truly was as if this was happening to someone else. As they carried me into the ambulance, I remember telling them through blurred speech that I had a terrible migraine and could they please “give me a shot of something (narcotic)”. “You don’t need anything else in your system right now; we will be to the hospital in just a few minutes”. The gig was done. I had just really screwed myself over. I kept thinking of ways to jump of the stretcher and out of the ambulance but they had me surrounded. “How stupid you are”, my head told me. “Now you’ve really screwed yourself over and there is no way out”. I wanted to jump out of my skin but the muscle relaxers were too powerful, I couldn’t even lift my head. We arrived to the Maricopa Medical Center just a parking lot away from the mental hospital. It had only been a few minutes but felt like an eternity as I slipped in and out of consciousness even though the paramedics were doing their best to keep me alert.

Doug had followed in his little green truck and hurried to my side within moments. “We have a possible suicide attempt” one paramedic explained to the nurse as they rolled me into the emergency room. Those words stung my ears. I left for a little while and when I returned, a doctors face appeared in front of mine and he softly posed the question; “Why were you trying to kill yourself?” It was as if I was in some weird dream. I couldn’t tell what was real or if I was actually awake but as the word came out I realized this was actually happening. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself; I slowly pulled the word out, “I just don’t want to live my life anymore”. “Hmm…That sounds like you were trying to take your life, doesn’t it?” he shared with a deep and perplexed look. His kindness hurt. There was a strength he had which made me feel relief and comfort. “I just want the pain to stop”. “I have ruined my life, I can’t stop taking pills, and I have hurt so many people” He asked me to explain about the “hurting people” part as he ordered something made out of black chalk for me to drink that would neutralize the drug I had taken.

“My clients…there are these old people…I have a business… and I have lost their money. They trusted me and I betrayed them. I can’t stand myself for what I’ve done.” I continued to explain to him what a horrible mother I was and how many lies I had been living, all the doctors and hospitals and friends I had deceived to get drugs. I had let everyone down and hurt so many. He seemed to take what I was saying in and prompted me with questions I didn't expect or quite know how to answer. “How do you expect to pay all of those people back if you are not around?” “How can you become a good mother for your son or a good friend, if you take your life?” I explained again, “I wasn’t trying to take my life”, this time a little more strongly. “I just couldn’t stand the pain”. He explained that I “had come close” and suggested I ask myself those questions and see what I came up with. He gave the nurse orders for my treatment and told me he would be back later to check on me. The nurse came shortly with the chalk milk shake the doctor had ordered for me to help neutralize the chemicals in my system.

While the nurse helped administer this horrible chalky substance I was being forced to swallow he started asking me questions too. This was starting to get annoying because I felt like no one understood what I was trying to explain. “So... why were you trying to kill yourself?" he prompted so casually he might as well have asked what I had had for breakfast. I looked at Doug and he could see the frustration and embarrassment in my eyes. “Do I have to explain this again?!” I was getting angry now. “No, I was just wondering”, he smiled. This guy is a little odd, I thought to myself. Why would he act so nonchalant if he thought I just tried to kill myself? “I wasn’t trying to kill myself; I just can’t live my life the same way anymore”. “So why don’t you change it?” he suggested plainly as if surprised, I hadn’t thought of that simple possibility. “It’s not that easy”, I explained. “I can’t stop taking pain killers and my life is a mess beyond repair. Plus I’m just too tired.” He explained that God would help me if I asked for help and that I might be surprised at the results if I just gave it a chance. I felt a flicker of hope and my anger toward him just disappeared.

After I finished about half of the chalk milkshake, I convinced Doug to smuggle the cup to the bathroom and pour the rest out. I was much more awake and he agreed if I would just take a couple more sips. Soon the doctor was back and asked me how I was feeling. I told him much better and that I was ready to leave. He agreed as long as I promised to go directly back to the mental hospital and check myself in immediately. I was discharged with an “OD” diagnosis and the instructions, “return to emergency room if suicidal thoughts arise”. Doug and I got in his little green truck and drove back to the other parking lot. It was getting dark.

The nurse immediately recognized me as we walked back in the lobby and told me to take a seat while she got my paperwork together. It had gotten pretty busy in there by now and she told me it would be a “little while” before I would be able to get in. I agreed and Doug went to another building to find some vending machine food for us to have for dinner. I looked around at all the people in the room. I was grateful none of them had probably been there during my little “paramedic scene”.

My attention was caught by a man and woman who were sitting close by... He was a large, burly type of fellow with dark hair receding from a shiny balding head. He reminded me of “Lenny” from “Of Mice and Men” and was obviously a bit deranged. He kept rocking back and forth with the mantra “I don’t want to go in the green room…I don’t want to go into the green room”, almost in perfect rhythm. He was wearing a green t-shirt and jeans and sat close to this woman dressed professionally and I was sure she wasn’t his girlfriend. I later discovered that this was his “case worker” as I eavesdropped while they finished his paperwork. “What the hell is the green room” I wondered to myself, now alarmed. I leaned over to his case worker and asked. She explained that it was a temporary room you sat in for a few hours until they can locate a bed. I became frantic. Never mind the green room. I don’t want to be in any enclosed area alone with “Lenny”. Not that he seemed dangerous but thoughts of scenes from “One Flew over the Coo coos Nest” flashed through my mind and I started to have second thoughts about all of this. As I was contemplating my next move, the nurse appeared with “my paperwork” she held on a clip board in front of me. She leaned over as she explained what I would be signing. “This is where you put the names of anyone you want to be able to call and get information about you. This is where you put the names of anyone who you want to be able to visit. And this is where you initial and sign acknowledging that you are turning your rights to the State of Arizona”.

I took the clipboard from her and asked if I could think about it for a minute. “She smiled and agreed; “I’ll be right back. Let me know if you have any questions. Don’t go anywhere.” she directed as she glanced over her shoulder as she walked away. My attention started to waiver between the contract in front of me and “her” across the lobby. The words; “Don’t go anywhere” started to echo in my head and all of the sudden I felt claustrophobic. I wanted to run. Memories of escaping out of a juvenile facility when I was 15 came pouring in and that pounding rapid heartbeat began to happen. There had to be another way. In that instant, I felt a determination to find another way. There had to be some other possibility besides the “Green Room with Lenny.”

I sat the clipboard down on the seat next to me, glanced over toward the nurse to make sure she wasn’t looking and darted out the door. I found Doug by the snack machine just around the corner. “Let’s get the hell outa here,” he was surprised at my sudden burst of energy. “Are you sure”, he asked me, with a bit of a smile on his face. “Absolutely”, I exclaimed. He grabbed the granola bar and “Cheetos” from behind the plastic window of the snack machine, we ran out the door and sped away in the little green truck. I disappeared from that mental hospital and reappeared in a 12 step fellowship almost two weeks later. This time it took a magician.