Crystal Clean (19 page)

Chapter 1
9

Mario and I talked after my arrest. He’d been in the business a long time and he knew that I couldn’t afford to stop working. He asked me if I wanted Garnett taken care of.

A couple of days after my arrest, my parents received an envelope with the return address simply, “A. Friend,” in Garnett’s handwriting. Inside, was an enlarged picture of my mug shot, and nothing else.

The next morning I was driving home from the jail after writing a bond. It was early enough that I had to use my headlights, but light enough to see the row of reality signs along the side of the main street leading to our house. Each held my enlarged mug shot with the caption, “Got Meth?” in bold letters beneath my face.

As I collected all fifteen of those signs, I thought about Mario’s offer. Craig told me about the men who came from Mexico to handle situations. No one knew their names. A call would be made, details arranged down South and three men would come, staying just long enough to clean up a mess, then they were gone. Sometimes, they left nothing behind.

Mario and I had grown close in the time we’d been working together and although he never spoke too much about business on the other side, I did know that he was part of a cartel and that he knew the men Craig spoke of. I didn’t ask beyond that. I assumed I was better off not knowing too much.

So when Mario asked if I wanted Garnett taken care of, I knew he could make it happen.

“I don’t know,” I told him. “I’ve thought about it and this is what I’d like done: I want him kidnapped, taken out to the desert, and stripped naked with his hands and feet duct taped. Then...”

“Keem,” he said, “no, no.” He’d learned English well since we began working together. My Spanish, to my disgrace, remained about the same. “We don’t do that. That’s...that would...” He searched for the right word.

“Be beneath you, right?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s all or nothing.”

“Yes. These men, I pay much money. Not to come all the way here for...” He shook his head. “They come, this man will go away. Forever. No one can find him. You understand?”

I understood as much as I needed to. “How much?”

He shook his head. “No, Keem, no. I do this for you. You no worry, okay?”

And I thought about it, but not for long. In my mind, giving the okay would be the same thing as pulling the trigger. I don’t believe in
God
, but on the off chance that there is a hell, I know that my penance for that action would be to
be chained
to Garnett for eternity. There was no way I was going to risk that.

I was getting tired. Tired of people, tired of running around and tired of me. Proust said, “No exile at the South Pole or on the summit of Mont Blanc separates us more effectively from others than the practice of a hidden vice.”

It seemed like everything happened so fast:  moving up the way I did, and everything with Allany. I didn’t know how to stop. I couldn’t imagine giving everything up and living a normal life, whatever that might look like. What would I do? A regular job wouldn’t pay all the bills. My lifestyle was far from extravagant, but I couldn’t just give everything up and start from scratch. I had nothing saved. With the money always rolling in, I never worried about tomorrow. I never thought seriously about what would happen if it all ended. I spent thousands on gambling every month and more buying things I didn’t need. My meth addiction, compulsive shopping and gambling; all of it was me trying desperately to run. Away from myself, away from my demons, away from all the pain and hurt I’d kept inside for so long, but was afraid to feel.

I was running out of ways to run away from myself.

But there was something else. Something more insidious. I loved meth and couldn’t imagine living without it. I’d been using for so long that even if I could, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back to life before meth.

I was in my car one day, driving home from doing a deal with Kelly, and I popped in a CD that I hadn’t listened to in a while. K’s Choice,
I’m Not an Addict
was the first song and it was like a slap in the face. I’d heard it dozens of times, belting out the lyrics as I drove around with the top down.

I’d sung the song a capella while in the shower and doing yard work. But on that particular day, it was as if I were hearing the song for the first time. And as Sarah Bettens smoky voice grew more intense, I felt like maybe there was a reason I’d put that
particular CD in the player after having not listened to it for so long. As cliché as it sounds, the lyrics that day felt like needles trying to tattoo themselves into my skin.

It was a short drive home, and when I got there, I sat in my car listening to the song again. I must have played it four or five times before I finally went into the house. That was the first time the word “addict” floated through my mind in close proximity to the image I had of myself. I wouldn’t allow them to connect, but they shared the same space.

It would be nice if recovery were as simple as that. You hear a song, make a connection, have an epiphany, get sober and live happily ever after. Recovery is not that simple, but I remember that day vividly as being one of the many beginnings of finding my way back home.

I knew on some level then, and certainly now, that my drug use was, at the very least, fueling all my problems, but it was the only thing that made me feel good. When I smoked, all my troubles evaporated and I felt smarter, prettier, funnier and invincible. I think that’s why anti-meth campaigns say, “Not even once.” There’s a saying in recovery that once is too many and a thousand is never enough. That’s definitely true with meth. Aside from the physiological effects, meth is almost indescribably good. I don’t know anyone who’s tried it and not wanted more immediately.

The truth is, nothing is this world will ever make me feel that good, and nothing will ever rip my life to shreds the way meth did. There’s a high price to pay for seduction. These days, I’ll settle for serene happiness and an even keel. I’ve been on the ride, and if anyone had told me what was waiting for me at the last drop, I’d have never bought the ticket.

Some people call meth the Devil, the Devil’s drug or evil incarnate. Everyone is entitled to his or her opinion, of course, and this is mine:

To vilify anything is to shun responsibility, and responsibility is power. To hold the belief that meth is anything other than what it is
-
a man-made drug
-
is to give it power while robbing you of your own. I believe that meth is the most vicious, addictive drug known to man, but that’s all it is: a drug. The only “evil” involved, if that’s what you want to call it, lies in our own ego. We wage the war against ourselves.

Getting sober is hard. It hurts, mentally and physically.
Staying
sober takes true courage. The courage to heal not only the pain caused by addiction, but also all the pain that led to addiction. It’s a process and it takes years. I was sober for a year before I realized I actually
wanted
to be sober.

Dismissing meth as “The Devil’s Drug” lessens the addict’s responsibility and robs her of the opportunity to find courage in herself she never dreamed existed.

Chapter 20

When facing drug or alcohol charges, the defendant is required to undergo two different evaluations to help the court determine sentencing. The first is a drug and alcohol evaluation. The second is a P.S.I., or pre-sentence investigation. The evaluation is exactly what it sounds like. You meet with a certified drug and alcohol counselor who assesses your proclivity for addiction and sends the results to the court.

The P.S.I. is more involved and is only required for felony cases. The interview is like a condensed autobiography. They want to know about your childhood, how you were disciplined, and family history with substance use/abuse. They ask about the socio-economic status of your family of origin, extended family ties and how you feel about an array of subjects. The interview takes a couple of hours. Prior to that, you have to have at least three people write a letter to the court about your character. They want to know if you, soon-to-be-convicted-on-a-felony-drug-charge, have any redeeming qualities.

Both of these evaluations required me to take an inventory of my history of drug use. Later, I would have to repeat the exercise in rehab, as part of working the twelve steps of A.A., and as part of a requirement of probation.

The first time I huffed gas I was twelve. I started drinking at thirteen and smoking at fourteen, the same year I first took speed. The first time I smoked pot I was fifteen. I took my first hit of acid in my junior year of high school during a ten-minute break between morning classes. I didn’t take shrooms until my senior year. After that, I drank my way through three semesters at the University of Idaho. I tried crank a few times when I was nineteen and became an almost daily user when I was twenty-seven. At twenty-six, I started using cocaine on a daily basis. When my coke dealer suddenly left town and I was without other resources, I quit drugs by default and stayed clean for four years.

My chemical history, in black ink against stark white paper, stripped of all excuses and glorification did seem excessive. The first time I had to write it all down, I may have missed a few shots here and a hit or two there and as detailed as the inventory was, it still wasn’t accurate. I hadn’t left anything out, but when I wrote “alcohol four or five times per week,” for instance, I was speaking
of days, not actual drinks. If I were to break it down that minutely, I don’t know that I would or could ever finish the inventory. Do I count a bottle of Jagermeister as one drink or two? Is it different if I drink it straight out of the bottle as opposed to my usual six or seven double shots when I’m at a bar? What if my brother and I are passing the bottle back and forth? Does each swig count as one drink? It’s the same with Crown Royal. If I make my own drink and fill the glass three quarters of the way with booze and just a splash of mixer, it’s technically a drink, right? What if I’m so coked up that I keep ordering shots with beer chasers and forget to drink them and just keep ordering more? It was a dilemma.

For the five years prior, my drug of choice was meth and my preferred method of ingestion was smoking. I didn’t just smoke it; I consumed it with every fiber of my being. And it consumed me. We were lovers intertwined from the core and meshed together like strands of DNA.

The evaluation was first.

I remember feeling defiant about having to do everything the court was requiring me to do, but there was something else, too. I hoped that the evaluator would
do
something. I wasn’t sure what I thought they might do, but I was secretly hoping for rescue. Part of me wished they would see how broken I was and not let me leave, but somehow help me instead. I was still sure my drug use was ancillary to my bi-polar disorder, but I felt certain that a professional would recognize that. I would have been pissed off and indignant on the outside, but secretly relieved, even if the outcome of the evaluation was commitment to a psych hospital. I felt so alone, so broken and so lost. What I truly wanted was for someone to notice me. To that end, I decided to be as forthcoming as possible during the evaluation.

I think the drug and alcohol counselor thought I was being evasive and trying to minimize the quantity of meth I was using.

“When was the last time you used?”

             
“What time is it?”

             
“It’s 10:15, why?”

             
“About twenty minutes ago.”

             
“You used just before coming to this evaluation?”

             
“Yes.” I have always considered myself an honest person.

             
“How often do you use?”
             
“Every day, all day long.”

             
“And how much would you say you use in a week?”

             
“I have no idea.”

             
“You have no idea. Mmm hmm. Well, what about in a day? How much do you use in a day?”

             
“I really don’t know.”

             
“Come on, you must have some idea. You don’t seem like a stupid person. You know what you’re buying and how much of that you’re using in a day, right?”

             
“No.”

             
“No?”

             
“No.” I was uncomfortable with this. Not because I wanted to hide anything, but because I knew what I was going to say next was not what she was expecting. Not by a long shot. I tried to come up with a way to explain it to her so she would understand. I was trying to figure out a way to soften the blow.

             
“Okay, here’s how it is. I always have as much as I want of the very best there is. Always. So I always get the best of the best. I don’t weigh it. I just take out what I need when my pipe is empty and reload.”

             
“But you know how much you’ve bought and even if you’re selling some of it, you should have some idea of how much you’re using, Kim. Would you say a gram? A teener?”

Some of it
?

             
She didn’t understand what I was saying. She was so professional looking sitting with her notepad and pen, glasses perched on the end of her nose, and her legs crossed. She was petite with a kind of Kathryn Hepburn thing going on:  charcoal gray slacks, tailored white blouse and tasteful, low-heeled burgundy mules with a matching burgundy sweater casually tied around her shoulders. Blonde hair pulled back into a neat French twist. Pearl earrings and a wedding band were her only adornments. She was studiously beautiful, clean and pure. I felt like I was going to somehow taint her
-
as if I were about to spray liquid shit all over her.

             
My intention wasn’t to shock her, but rather to be as honest as possible because while a small part of me thought I might actually need help, I also thought she would be impressed at how well I function considering my daily chemical intake. I thought she would agree with me that my main problem was actually depression and that meth was simply my way of self-medicating.

             
I had to talk to her and I couldn’t tell her the whole story because I was being evaluated for a felony possession charge and I wasn’t about to volunteer to make my situation worse by confessing to one of the collective “them.”

             
I sighed. “My best guess would be somewhere around an eight-ball a day.” Roughly three-and-a-half grams. She jotted this down in her notebook.

             
“Do you think you have a problem with alcohol?”

I paused. “No. I mean I have...at times...drunk a lot, but I’m not an alcoholic.”

She set her pad and pen down. “Do you think you have a problem with drug abuse?”

I answered immediately. “Yeah, because normal people don’t do this. I know I’m self-medicating my depression.”

She just looked at me.

The whole assessment took about an hour and then I was dismissed. In my car, I started crying. I wanted someone to notice me, and I thought if it were to happen, this would be the time and place. I was hoping she would just commit me to Intermountain Hospital, the psychiatric hospital in the city, and someone would finally take care of my depression and me. But she didn’t. She just jotted everything down in her little notebook and sent me on my way. It’s not illegal to
be
high. It’s only illegal to posses drugs or be under the influence while creating a public nuisance.

I don’t know what I would do to change the system. What I do know is that people fall through the cracks all the time, and unless the addict is ready and asks for help, forced intervention won’t work. Even if she had somehow intervened that day, then what? I wasn’t ready. I wanted to be taken care of, not necessarily quit using meth. I was in denial, thinking my only real problem was depression. I wasn’t ready for sobriety yet. The professionals in the system know how addiction works. I felt betrayed that day, leaving the evaluation. I felt like the system let me down and was allowing me to slip through the cracks, but the reality was, it would have been a waste of time and money for them to step in at that point. I had to come to sobriety on my own. Ask any addict/alcoholic or their family. It doesn’t work any other way.

I cried all the way home, and I cried while I loaded my pipe. When I took that first hit and held it deep in my lungs, I stopped crying. I started to get pissed off. The more I smoked the angrier I
became. At what, I don’t know. Everything seemed so pointless.

A couple of days later, I received the results of the evaluation in the mail: 
“From the information made available during this evaluation, it is clearly evident that Kim has a significant drug abuse problem. Her assessment test scores were all very high and she reported drug use had affected at least three of the six major life areas. Kim reported she was using methamphetamine daily and had been for four years...It is imperative that she becomes involved in an inpatient program as soon as possible so she can get off the drugs. It has been affecting her health, employment, and now she is in the legal system. I recommend that Kim attend a very intensive inpatient substance abuse treatment program as soon as possible. The program should include a yearlong aftercare and relapse component.”

The prosecution received the same results from the P.S.I.

Nothing changed after the arrest, except that I began deteriorating, mentally. I’d been taking my medication sporadically for a few months, but hadn’t bothered going back to my doctor when the prescriptions ran out. A common problem with people who have bi-polar disorder is that once we start feeling good, we decide we no longer need our medicine. We’ll stop taking it and by the time we realize we’ve made a mistake, we’re so far down in the spiral we can barely function, and even making a doctor’s appointment seems overwhelming.

That’s what happened. My meth use increased with my depression and I began shutting down. It’s a strange feeling when copious amounts of speed leave you nearly catatonic, but that’s what was happening.

I cried until the tears wouldn’t come anymore. I’d come home in the middle of the night and curl myself around Andy, feeling his warmth radiate, feeling his
alive
ness, and I’d envy him.

Allan and I barely spoke anymore. He would come home from work, fall asleep on the couch watching TV, then wake up and go to bed.

I lost interest in gift baskets and shopping, so I closed the office and moved everything to the house where it stayed, stacked in boxes. I even lost interest in gambling.

I didn’t want to see people; I didn’t want to talk to anyone. All I wanted to do was smoke meth and sleep. At night, I would go to my bar and play pool in the back corner by myself until closing time. I started renting hotel rooms more often so I didn’t have to be in the house alone with Allan there. Being alone is unbearable
when people are present.

I felt more alienated from Andy, too. He was growing up and wanting to spend more time by himself with his games and movies. He loved going places with Allan on the weekends, but never wanted to go anywhere with me. I know now, and I probably did then, too, that he was being a normal adolescent boy, but at the time, it felt like everyone I cared about was rejecting me. Feeling helpless and lost, I did the one thing I’ve always been able to do, regardless of how dark I feel. I wrote.

Journal entry -
October 2006

This isn’t my home. This is a place where I’m waiting to die. I’ve lived here almost four years and I’ve never even completely unpacked. My sentencing is in December and I don’t care what happens. I don’t know if I’ll get sentenced to prison or if I’ll receive probation, and I just don’t care. I don’t know that I’ll be around long enough to find out. I want to die.

I’ve lived with depression all my life and nothing I’ve felt before has ever come close to this. I’m in a dark, dark place inside myself where everything’s still. Usually my mind races with thoughts, ideas and the constant chatter of my inner dialogue, but all that has stopped. My head is filled with thick, clotted, black ink as dark as the inside of a coffin. Nothing moves inside me. I can’t even cry. All I do is sit and stare stupidly at movies most of the day. Sometimes I stare at the wall.