Looking for a laugh this Saturday? The look no further, as I have something that I promise will provide the giggles. Ha Ha

“What’s up, you nasty junkie?” I rarely allowed anyone to speak to me with such candor about what I really was, let alone a man with a white, lab coat framing his physique. His long, black curls were tied back into a ponytail. He wasn’t an attractive man to look at, but he carried with him a kind of charisma that was electric. I knew immediately he had something I wanted and, no, it wasn’t just a prescription pad. He was a recovering addict himself. He was a doctor. He had risen up out of this self-inflicted depravity to become what I had always wanted to be– a doctor. And with this sense of responsibility and maturity, he was still cool. He wasn’t using drugs. That alone had to amount to something. I didn’t know it at the time, but his moral compass was highly fucked.

His office was lined with floor to ceiling windows, allowing the bright, Miami sunshine to flood the room with warmth. It made me wince, as my last shot had been to scratch the residual powder out of the plasticine baggy and I was easily beginning to get sick. His words weren’t particularly kind or generous. He didn’t exactly bring the happy, but he was right. I wasn’t bi-polar, ADD, depressed, or borderline. I was an addict. There was no pill I could take that would fix me, Ibogaine included. What I needed was a jump-start into the recovery process– a few months, without cravings, to work a 12-step program and have a spiritual awakening. Ibogaine could help me with this. Ibogaine could work. But it’s not a magic bullet. I must do the hard work. I was ready. I was willing. I would give this a try with my whole heart.

I probably first knew something wasn’t exactly right with this doctor when I stepped into his office. Situated on the second floor of an already thriving practice he was not a part of, he had the staff of one: a thin, pixie-like girl who chattered incessantly, acted the part of the office coordinator and nurse. Only she held no degrees for either. I was pretty sure drawing blood, taking blood pressure, and hooking me up to heart monitors was a job best left to the professionals, but when I questioned her I was told not to ask. Hey, my ethics were pretty questionable at the time. Who was I to judge anyone?

It was also in the way he spoke to me, only marking that in my file which seemed to be of the utmost importance. His careless, almost relaxed manner wasn’t loosening me up– it was freaking me out and making me nervous. He seemed to disregard most of what I was saying. Listen, I understand this. To a point. I know the old joke: When a junkie’s lips are moving, he’s lying. But I was here at the doctor’s! Revealing my deepest secrets. Baring my soul. Of course, I didn’t need his acceptance, but it was immediately set-up so that I would feel like I needed it. I craved the acceptance of anyone who would throw it my way. I was hardly discriminatory. I wish I’d known that his was the last I would need.

He quickly figured out that I needed to be in detox. Like five minutes ago. He offered the luxury of a very nice facility nearby where he would personally oversee my medical detox. He quickly described the place as being like a hotel with a four star restaurant and it was. It was like no place I’d ever been to. I was treated as a real human being, one with feelings and thoughts and opinions. I was respected.

He visited me every day after he closed his office. He often brought with him snacks or toys or clothes. In retrospect, I realize that this was slightly bizarre. He would enter the facility in his cheerful, breezy way and head right for my file. With barely a glance at the previous night’s notes, he and I would head into my room to sit on my bed and talk. For an hour, sometimes longer, he would regale me with stories of Ibogaine and the people who administered it, prior patients and their “horrible” stories, and bits and pieces of his own life. He was a fantastic storyteller, infusing his words with bright, colorful adjectives, keeping me on the edge of my seat in anticipation. He often told me that I would be somebody. That I had enormous amounts of potential. I wasn’t quite ready to believe him, but I believed that he believed.

The experiences I had on Ibogaine are too vast and detailed to recount here. It would definitely have to be a story unto itself for another time. For now, I had planned on focusing on my relationship with the Doctor. It’s long and complicated, often boring at times, but one that due to recent events, is begging for me to tell it. Suffice it to say, I had a 180 degree transformation on Ibogaine– a total spiritual experience, only completed by the appearance of God. To say it was amazing, would somehow not be enough.

Shortly after returning from St. Kitts, I had amassed enough consecutive days of “clean time” and I began working for the Good Doctor. This fit perfectly with my Plan for Life, as I had recently taken a break from my medical school studies. I wanted to be a doctor and he basically let me run the office and intake patients. At night, I kept the cell phone and pager and answered middle of the night phone calls from desperate addicts. I checked patients in, took their blood pressure, administered B-12 shots, and drew vials of blood. I fancied myself quite the professional woman. The doctor and I became closer. I thought of him as a sort of pseudo father-figure and he often told me I was his best friend. Meanwhile, he struck up a sexual relationship with MY best friend and his ex-patient.

I think everyone has a voice in the back of their head. I believe it’s the conscience, but it’s also been referred to as the gut instinct or hunch. Rarely does it lie, often it is the only voice of reason. During this time, my conscience spoke to me on a regular basis. It told me that this situation was inordinately fucked. A good doctor doesn’t screw his patients, ex or not. A good doctor doesn’t befriend his patients. A good doctor doesn’t hire his patients as employees. But I didn’t like what my conscience was telling me, so I ignored it.

A good time later, he had convinced my parents that I must go retake Ibogaine or I would surely relapse again. This did not fit with my belief system that Ibogaine is not a magic bullet. That in order to stay sober, I needed to attend 12-step meetings, work the steps, and get a sponsor. Ibogaine was great, but it wasn’t it. It didn’t matter. I had to go back. This time, while lying in my bed, essentially tripping my very face off, the good doctor kissed me. On the lips. I can’t begin to describe how violating this felt. I was incapacitated in a hospital bed. He had no right. Once I returned home to the States, I began to pull away from him. I knew that something was not quite right and I couldn’t justify hanging around someone with morals as low as his. The relationship he was in with my best friend had soured and he treated her like crap. He had disregarded her as a person, had imposed his will on her, and forced her into situations she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. But it wasn’t just that that made me begin to cut ties with him. I had met and had started dating my now-husband while I was working for this man. This doctor, this supposed healer, would tell me lies about my then-boyfriend, now-husband. He was gay. He didn’t like me. He was not good enough for me. On and on went the lies. I never once believed him and now he was just making me angry.

Shortly after the good doctor started dating a porn star, I decided I’d had enough of this circus and decided to quit, cut all ties with him, and get out while I still could. I had no idea that he would continue to pop up in my life, trying to ruin what I had now built. The last time I had seen this man, he nearly killed me. I highly doubt he was trying to. Imagine the lawsuit! But his incompetence, his flagrant disrespect for the Hippocratic Oath, and his drug use all combined to result in some of the worst things that have ever happened to me. Ever. And I’ve been through hell.

To be continued. . .

Should I turn the TV on again tonight? I dunno did it seem to disturb the baby’s sleep last night? I don’t remember. He’s been sleeping so badly lately that all the nights seem to bleed into each other. I don’t exactly remember if last night was particularly bad, but it surely can’t have been all that great either or I would remember it. So should I just turn it on? I guess. It does seem to keep you from freaking out totally when you wake up in the middle of the night from one of those horrendous nightmares. So that’s a yes then? Turn the TV on tonight? Yes, absolutely. Let’s do it.

Sadly, this was not, in fact, a conversation I had with my husband tonight. It was a conversation I just had with myself. And, yes, clearly I am asking myself my opinion because, erm, I don’t know. Apparently, I don’t already know it. Or something. Perhaps I’ve just done gone crazy.

Hurry. Please send help. I need Adult Conversation. And, apparently, my mommy.

Many, many years ago, during the depths of my addiction, I met a doctor who would change the face of medicine for me (many times over, in fact). It was the first time I really wanted to get clean. I wanted something different, a better life, and I knew it had to be without drugs. I had just been discharged from another treatment center, overdosed and ended up in the hospital, ran away to Chicago and was living in a Crack Motel selling my soul for just one more hit. Lovely way to start a story, hmm? My mother, headed to a conference on Plants that Heal, called me up to beg me not to die until she returned home. A fairly simple request for anyone other than me at that time. So many mornings I would wake up, crack open my eyes, and think, “Crap. Another day in hell.”

While at the conference, which was dealing with plants that might be beneficial in healing various diseases and illnesses like Cancer and Hepatitis C, my sweet, strong mother asked a question that would forever alter the path of my life. She raised her hand, not expecting anyone to have an answer, “Do you think there are any plants that might help cure addiction?” Much to her surprise, there came an answer. Clouded in mystery, a man simply told her that he knew someone who knew someone who knew a professor at the University of Miami who was studying just that. He told my mother he would call her when he returned home. In two weeks. An interminable amount of time when your daughter is 2000 miles away in a motel room dying.

Back at home, my mother sat at her desk, her head in her hands and wept. She felt she had reached the end of what she was able to handle. She could do nothing more to save me than offer her hand, which I patently refused. The phone rang and it was that man! He was finally calling with the number and explicit instructions that when she called, she must speak in code. My mother soon found a vast well of hope that would give her the strength to try helping me one more time. She was immediately put on with the doctor studying the effects of Ibogaine on addiction. Officially, Ibogaine is a sacrament taken by the Bwiti tribe in equatorial West Africa on High Holy Days. It is also a very strong hallucinogen which produces a dream-like state in which the user is able to see visions. These visions can be from times in his/her life or they can be a sort of spiritual experience. Whatever it is, it has a much higher success rate than the more traditional treatment modalities.

My mother and this kind, amazing, smart doctor devised a way to entice me to Miami to get me on a plane to St. Kitts. It is illegal here in the United States and has the potential to be quite dangerous for the wrong person. In order to be accepted into their treatment protocol, a patient must undergo a set of rigorous tests. Needless to say, I wasn’t immediately taken with the idea. I had tried everything and nothing had worked. I had given up. I had resigned myself to a life of pure hell and a fairly early death. I was not scared of death; I pretty much welcomed it. But all that quickly changed after I had talked with a few Iboganauts, as they’re called, who had taken Ibogaine and could tell me just how amazing and other-worldly it really was. I heard from them things like:

• I have a peace about me which I never had.
• It started in my solar plexus, this warmth, that just resonated in every cell of my being.
• I have seen God and my life is good. No, not just good, but spectacular.
• I now have a reason to live. A reason for being.
• I feel steady, sure of myself. I don’t want to use again.

These were things I had always wanted, always searched for, but could never get. These were things I wanted for my life. I simply had to try. I was going to make this my last shot and I was going to put everything into it. I left that Crack Motel on a sunny, warm, Chicago day and boarded a plane for home. I picked up my every last belonging and dumped it into the dumpster out back. I left a note for the person I had been living with:

Went to go find myself. Not sure if I’ll ever be back here. Good Luck with all this.

The next day I would meet the doctor, the man, whose life would become so inextricably linked to mine that no matter how hard I try to forget him, he just won’t disappear. An abuser so vicious he would be permanently filed in my brain under Worst Nightmare Ever. And all this from a man licensed as a care-giver.

To be continued. . .

My Snuggly Second Son,

All too soon you will grow up and come to realize that your letters are much fewer and further between than I ever intended them to be. What you may one day come to find out, should you have more than one child of your own, is that you will be far busier than you ever expected to be. At the end of the night, you may wish to do nothing more than curl up with your significant other and relax because you’ve just played 50 rounds of Cops and Robbers with your older son and fed, bathed, and pajama’d the baby. Oh wait! Maybe that’s just your mother. Or perhaps you will have a partner that might share the load of this work and you won’t feel quite as dog tired as I do now. Either way, you’ll come to find out that you don’t have as much time to record all the wonderful things your children do as you once thought you would. At least, I hope that for you. I hope you will be able to experience the heart-breaking beauty of your child’s eyes. The soul-tickling joy of your baby’s laughter. One day may you be in the presence of a parent-child love and you will finally understand. You will understand that writing these letters is only a glimpse into just how much I love you- that I could never fully transcribe the kind of feeling this is. But, again, I’ll always try. . .

January 20th, 2009 was the day that you finally crawled. After weeks of thinking about it and days of attempting to, but falling on your tummy, you actually made it across your bedroom floor. You were determined to reach my glasses, if only to put them in your mouth. You hollered the whole way, wanting me to pick you up, but I could see the immense satisfaction you held when you made it to the other side. I realized, as I watched you locomote across the floor, that this is what love is: Watching you do something difficult, something I could easily help you get or gain, but knowing how proud of yourself you would be should you do it yourself. I don’t think I’ll ever claim to know or understand exactly what love is, but I know this must be some small part of it.

These last few months have been about watching you discover. Your influence over objects, your power in the world, your feet, your brother. You have begun to notice it all and now, it seems, you want to be a part of it. There is a butterfly that hangs above your changing table. Every day you pull on its wings. Never fails to amuse you. During dinner time, you have found that with enough oomph you can make your sippy cup fly through the air. This cracks you up. Call my name, “Mama,” and you know that you are instantly picked up. Watch your brother and you are sure that you will be laughing in short order. It has been a great pleasure to watch you become an active member of your family.

You were the cutest damn dinosaur Halloween has ever seen this past Candy-Hoarding Season. We went for a huge hay ride all throughout the horsey part of town, stopping at almost every house for candy. There was a lot of people and even more kids, but you stayed quiet and nursed contentedly in the back of the trailer for most of the ride. Towards the end, you had decided that you had enough and we packed up your sugar-shocked brother and headed home to count all of his loot.

The rest of the Holidays passed in a most relaxing manor, so rare for holidays with our family. You weren’t quite yet up to the task of opening presents, but you were most definitely dazzled by the lights and noise of several of the toys you had gotten. Like your brother, your grandparents definitely over-indulged you in masses of toys. A ball-tivity center, several music-playing, crib toys, small race cars in fun, bright colors, and lots of stuffed animals were just parts of your stash. For the last few weeks, it has been easy to distract you with one of your favorite toys: a baby basketball net. It cheers you on when you make a basket and you are particularly enchanted with the figure of a little baby on the backboard. I think you like him the best.

You may or may not be interested to know that you’ve outgrown your entire stash of cloth diapers! So many nights I worried my nails to nubs, concerned that you weren’t getting enough milk. Because of a breast reduction when I was 19, we had a rocky start to our nursing relationship. We have visited many lactation consultants and many doctors, but we’ve finally found the right combination of Domperidone and solid foods to make it work. And it really does work because it’s the only thing that’s guaranteed to calm a crying spell or put you to sleep. In fact, it’s the only thing that puts you to sleep and it’s what you do all. night. long. It’s a good thing I’m a pretty heavy sleeper. It brings me immense amounts of joy and relief to be able to bite your chunky thighs and breathe in the baby scent trapped in your neck rolls.

This is the new face you like to make. Along with it, you say, “Ohhh.” Just like you know exactly what I’m talking about. Even if you don’t, and I suspect you do not. But! It’s really cute and it makes me feel like you are paying attention to everything I say.

Yesterday, as my mom leaned in to give your a kiss hello, you made a smacking sound with you lips. “Mmmwah!” It sounded just like you were giving her a kiss back and until someone proves otherwise, I will believe that is exactly what you are doing. You were quite proud of the new noise you could make and all of the excitement that followed when you did it, and you spent much of last night Mmmwahing. I truly believe that you can feel all the love and good feelings that your family has when we’re around you. I also believe that you are giving it back to us because you know how good it feels. Here’s a secret: Your grandfather, Cookie, turns into a total mush-head around you.

Your father has been in the hospital for the month of January to help himself become a better father. This means that your grandparents (Cookie and Granny) have been coming over in the evenings to help out with dinner and bath time. The bath has just become an extension of the play room. The entire family piles in the bathroom to watch you and your brother play in the tub. Between fits of giggles, I manage to clean your near-bald head and scrub your delicious neck rolls. The Bug’s bath toys are a joyful diversion while I manage to clean up your brother. It’s a special time and I can see how much love you have for each other. So consumed, you brother is, with making you laugh.

If there was one person who might possibly be more proud of your accomplishments than I am, it would be your brother. He positively rejoices when you achieve anything new. Crawling? He was your cheerleader every step of the way. He’s currently showing you how standing up and walking is done so that you’ll be shortly ready to enter a marathon. You should be aware that I am not ready for you to walk just yet. I’ve only just barely gotten over the fact that my! baby! is! crawling!

See? He completely adores you. As does your mama.
I love you, sweet boy.
Mama
xx