This is part two of my story.
In 2008, I began attending college in Boston, MA. I surrounded myself with the “party kids” during my freshman and sophomore years. I, of course, thought I was the life of the party. I was constantly going out, drinking, partying… it was everything I pictured college to be. I began dating a guy who I fell for hard and super fast. We spent most of our college years at each other’s sides, but unfortunately our relationship took a turn for the worse when both of our partying started to spiral out of control. Although we loved each other, the drinking and drug use turned us into different people. Hurtful words, violent fights, and even aggression soon became normal for us.
When the relationship came to a tragic end during my first semester of senior year, I quickly fell into a terrible depression. I felt like I did not know who I was anymore. I remember feeling like I wasn’t good enough for anyone or anything. I would have reoccurring nightmares for almost a month straight and felt completely alone. I eventually started to pull away from my college friends and started to hang out with the local scum bags of Boston. I did a lot of drinking and a lot of coke, and lost all of my motivation.
I some how pulled myself together just enough to finish college. After graduating in May of 2012, I found an amazing Marketing Internship right in Boston and planned on working my ass off, get a job offer and get my own apartment to live in. However, when your a borderline alcoholic and a raging coke head, keeping a job and saving money aren’t the easiest things to do. I ended up losing my internship and continued partying for the whole rest of the summer. I went on a 4 day coke binge. I barely slept or ate and I became extremely strung out. I ended up showing up at my older sister’s apartment (she lived in Boston as well) and started spilling my heart out, telling her my entire life story and how I drink too much and that I was a coke head and that I possibly needed to go to rehab. She listened to me, told me she loved me and said she will help me get help. After I left, I went home, slept for a day and a half, woke up and I knew I made a terrible mistake. I was not ready to go to rehab, and I still believe that at the point in my life, I did not actually need rehab to stop… a good ass kicking maybe, but not an actual rehab facility. When I tried to stop my sister from telling my parents, it was too late. She was convinced that I needed to go away. She told my father who immediately called me and asked what I wanted to do. I felt backed into a corner. They all believed I needed to go, so I eventually agreed with them.
About a week later, my father drove up to Boston to pick me up and bring me back to Long Island where I would attend my very first rehab, Seafield in West Hampton. I did not know what to expect going in there. I had no idea it would be so strict, especially when it came to speaking to members of the opposite sex. I felt completely out of place there. I most definitely felt that I did not belong. While I was living in Boston for the past 4 years, Long Island was being hit with a heroin epidemic that I was fortunately far far away from. For 6 days I hung out with girls who only wanted to talk about heroin and how great it was. I slowly started to become intrigued. On the 6th day of my stay at Seafield I ended up getting kicked out for writing a note to a guy. It was 11:00pm and I was not about to call my parents. So I called my friend, who was abusing heroin at the time, to come get me. She was the same close childhood friend who I got drunk with for the first time. The minute I got into the car, I looked at her and begged her to let me try dope. After some persuasion she gave in and ended up shooting me up for the first time. Never in my life, up to this point, have I ever been interested in shooting heroin. But after almost a week of only hearing junkies glamorize the drug, the minute I left it was all I could think about. Its like the quote from the movie “Blow” (one of my favorites of course)… I went into rehab with a bachelor’s in cocaine, and came out with a masters in heroin. Well not exactly a masters at that point, but it was the beginning of the end for me.
My heroin addiction didn’t exactly kick off the moment I got kicked out of my first rehab. I gradually started messing around with pain killers (basically synthetic heroin) and eventually began dating a guy that I met in outpatient rehab. It was all exciting at first, both pretending we wanted to be clean, but I had no intentions of not getting high. I was about to be 23 and up until this point never really believed I had an actual drug problem. My new boy friend was 9 years older then me and was battling with a heroin addiction for over a decade and I was curious and intrigued about this drug that was so enticing. Going quickly back to the beginning of my story, the “bad girl” life was always something that seemed exciting and more interesting to me. So the heroin lifestyle was something I got addicted to as well. I remember the early days of my heroin use. Basically, I was an inexperienced opiate addict dating a very experienced heroin addict. I had money, not a terrible habit, a boy friend who was older and way worse than me, I had my own car, a nice job, and most importantly no one knew I was using heroin. I remember it being fun. Hanging out with my guy and getting f***ed up, the high was amazing and I seemed to love everything while being on dope. But soon I was in for a rude awakening.
I am still alive and well, but my story does not end here…