It’s a Thursday night at the restaurant. No different than any other Thursday night, except that this is not my shift. Someone needed their shift covered, and I had a three year old and a six month old, so why the fuck not?
A couple of hours into a decidedly slow evening, I go over to greet a new table sat in my section. As I am walking I taste that old familiar taste. “No,” I thought. “It’s impossible.” I swallow it down and continue about my evening. Fifteen minutes or so later, their food comes up in the window. As I walk behind the line, the smell of burgers and pizza hits me in the face with the force of a sledgehammer. An overwhelming sense of nausea comes over me and I start to perspire as I grab the food to take it out to my table.
“Amy, are you alright?” My manager asks me. Wow, I had no idea it was that obvious. “No, not really,” I say. “My daughter is sick. Must have got a bug from her.” Nice cover. “It’s slow anyway. Finish up your tables and side work and you can go ahead and cash out.” I tore through the side work and was checked before the table was finished. I managed to get the table to pay and convinced a co-worker to bus and set the table for me.
I tore out of there, everyone telling me to feel better. Soon as I stepped outside the restaurant, I called Aaron. “Where you at?” I inquired. “Almost done. Headed to dude now, why?” “Ummm,” I wavered “I’m ill.”
And that was the beginning of repeating the hell that I had managed to escape. The shitstorm of an existence that I swore would never be my life again. After a little more than three years clean, after a few trips of getting high, I had a habit again.
I should have know, I did know, that I should have stopped right then. The ills would have been like a minor flu at that point, but I didn’t. The mental aspects of it remind me the torture of full fledged withdraws. I didn’t want to go through it. It was too much, taking care of a screaming baby, changing poopy diapers and feeding and playing with a baby full of energy when you barely have the energy to make the bottle.
So instead of pushing through, I kept using. For three years. I was too ashamed to tell my mom. To ask her to help with the kids as I got myself sober. What would she think? No, far better to become a dope head again. The logic we tell ourselves when we want to justify something that we know is wrong. So started the hell that was my life, again, up until I pulled my head out of my ass, joined a methadone clinic, and clean once and for all.