I fell in love with a girl

By Karen Collazo     

At 35 years old, I finally know what it feels like to fall in love—and, at first sight. I’ve lusted, crushed hard and really liked, but never loved. Then Patty walked through the door of the Women’s Narcotics Anonymous meeting. It was March and unseasonably chilly that evening. It was my first attempt at socializing outside in the real world. I had just been released from a two-week spiritual journey at Orchid, the Women’s-Only Rehabilitation Center in West Palm Beach. It was my first NA meeting and my whole body was buzzing with anxious energy.

Patty casually scanned the dimly lit room, as she quietly slid into the seat across from me. Our eyes locked like two gear arrangements joining in the precise gap that was designed to connect one to the other. In that electric space between us, I witnessed a single gossamer thread glide across the room. It leapt from her chest toward mine and cast a silky web around my heart. She had pulled me in without uttering a single word. I immediately thought: I have to know this girl.

It took three months, before I worked up the courage to allow the thread that connected us to strengthen its hold. We were at a meeting, once again sitting directly across from each other. I turned around to grab an Oreo Cookie, but was struggling. The speaker of the night had started to address the group and I didn’t want to make any noise. After a few minutes I gave up. Then Patty gets up to pour herself some coffee. There was a fresh pot sitting on the table behind me. She pulled two Oreo’s from the pack and on her way back to her seat, delicately placed one on my lap. That night, I friended her on Facebook and sent her a short message: I almost didn’t recognize you by your profile photo. You are most definitely sweeter in person. She replied: Do I look tough? Because I am.

On our first date, she told me her story. How growing up her mother used to beat her in front of her little sister. Her mother had been 19 when she got pregnant with Patty. She wasn’t in love with Patty’s father so didn’t want to go through with the pregnancy, but her grandmother intervened. For the next 17 years, Patty’s mother provided daily reminders that she was unwanted. Eventually, she fell in love with another man and had a daughter that was loved and cared for the way Patty never got to know. One day, Patty’s mother is rummaging through her bedroom when she comes across a love letter from a girl, tucked inside Patty’s jewelry box. Full of rage, her mother drives to Patty’s high school. She finds her sitting with a group of friends outside the main entrance. She storms over, with the love letter in one hand, and begins shouting at Patty. She belittles her daughter in front of her friends, yanks her by the arm and marches right into the office to withdraw Patty out of school. It was two months before graduation.

Patty’s mother had every intention of shipping her off to the army, but instead dropped her off at a shelter after learning that her daughter was too young to join. Abandoned by her family at 17, she found herself navigating without a map. Sadistic sex and heavy drug use were now her means for survival. She bounced around, from woman to woman, lost in a labyrinth of false connections with mother-figures, deceptive lovers and truly fucked up individuals. She fed off their heat, one day at a time. And just like every addict tends to do, she was constantly looking for the next high, before even coming off of the one she was on. I listened intently while the netting around my heart grew tighter.

Over Caramel Macchiatos, I concluded that we were absolutely destined for one another. We both had Sun and Moon tattoos on our right shoulder blade, which as it turns out, we got the same exact year. Back in 2003, she returned to Miami, after living in New York City for two years. That the same year I moved to New York. We were like to ships passing in the night. As the night wore on, I learned that her dog’s name is Cleo and what are the chances… My dog’s name is Chloe! All her best friends were Pisces and I’m most compatible with Scorpios. The morning before we met up, she had seen an Instagram post of the New York Times Best Seller, Luckiest Girl Alive, a novel by Jessica Knoll. That night I had brought it with me to Starbucks – to give to her.

Looking into her dark brown eyes, framed by long soft eyelashes, I was immediately reminded of a line delivered by Tak, in the movie 2046: “That day, six years ago, a rainbow appeared in my heart. It's still there, like a flame burning inside me”. 

But unlike the old-timers who’d climb a mountain, find a tree, carve a hole in it, whisper their secret into the hole and cover it up with mud so that nobody else would ever learn their secret... I didn’t think once about protecting my heart, like I had the tendency to do. I wanted to tell her that very first day, that I loved her.

As a little girl, I was exposed to the prince charming archetype. Once exposed to what “happily ever after” looked like, I developed an unhealthy fervor for stories with knights in shining armors. I read all the romance novels I could get my hands on and devoured every romantic comedy starring Meg Ryan. I spent family vacations in Spain, daydreaming about my future European honeymoon with Mr. Collazo, instead of enjoying the Goya paintings that hung before me at El Museo Del Prado. I envisioned him to be tall, dark and handsome. He’d protect me at any cost and stand vigil by my side as I lay in bed dying from a terminal illness.

And yet, here I was. Consumed by obsessive thoughts of loving someone who did not come close to the image I had held onto for so many years. She was broken and her edges were made of poetry. She had a boyish gait, thin figure and Morrissey hair. I wanted to love every inch of her body with my mouth. I wanted her to know what it was like to be wanted.

I wondered how many beautiful experiences I may have missed because I never considered the possibility. Then again, perhaps there was never meant to be a previous experience of this kind. In that way, my heart would be wholly available to her—like a vacant drawer in a chest, whose purpose is not stripped by the fact that it sits empty for so many years. It just needs to be filled one day.

A week after our first date, Patty shared where she was at in her recovery, with the twenty women sitting around the small wood-paneled lounge reserved for our weekly NA meetings. She spoke about recently coming to the conclusion that relationships were not a good idea. In the past, she explained, she’d jump from one to the other, not allowing any time to heal and letting these new partnerships consume her, body and soul. And when the union reached its inevitable expiration date, the unavoidable downward spiral that followed always led her back to her drug of choice. To a room of sympathetic women, and one rejected girl, she confessed that after a recent first date, she had almost given in to this predictable pattern.

I sat silent staring at my toes. I had painted them red in anticipation of our date and the bright blue sandals I was now wearing, strapped across my pale skin, created a very patriotic combination, which I found funny. My efforts to block the words were absolutely fruitless, though. This speech was meant for me and accepting it, the knot that tied our hearts together began to come undone.

Perhaps I had been too aggressive when we sat in my car listening to “Obstacle 1” by Interpol, and I grabbed her beautiful face for a deep impassioned kiss? “She puts the weight into my little heart,” the singer croons. In that moment, she hadn’t hesitated with her mouth, but her heart must have deflated under my grip. I confessed to her that I had not been in a serious relationship in thirteen years and that I only slept around to feed a primordial need, because I thought love was momentary. In hindsight, I should have added that I thought she was different. But, I buried that secret into a hole and covered it with mud.

Before she could even finish sharing, my little blue sandals walked out of that lonely room and led me to my car. I looked back, hoping to catch her standing right behind me, but she wasn’t there. No matter, I decided, I’m going to do what I know is best: love that girl. 

 

The Precipice

By Karen Collazo

When I hit the “post” button a few days ago, I knew that I was turning my back on a lucrative and successful career in advertising and exposing the false but very well-fabricated story of who Karen was. I even assumed that I would lose some friends in the process, because for many the disease of addiction is still viewed as a moral failing that can be controlled by will alone. What I did not expect was to receive all the love, support and personal stories of struggle that have been pouring in since Friday. I know I am on the right path, based on your reactions to my first blog post. And while I cannot represent the addict community as a whole, I’m honored to be able to tell my story and carry the message of recovery to those in need.

The heartbreaking truth about addiction is that it does not discriminate. Who is an addict? The blue book tells us that an addict is a man or a woman whose life is controlled by drugs; the getting and using and finding ways and means to get more. A person who lives to use and uses to live looks like everyone else: your sister who abuses Xanax, your colleague who binge drinks every day, your son who smokes pot regularly. And while they might not look like the stereotypical junkie, they are in the grips of a continuing and progressive illness. They are in pain and believe they cannot survive without drugs.

My story begins at the age of eight. Feeling less than, I began to seek comfort in food. As I got older, food was replaced with stealing, then drugs, then shopping and finally sex. To be viewed as a functioning member of society, I created rules for myself. These rules would allow me to hide my addiction for 15+ years. On the outside, I had everything going for me: a good job with a decent disposable income, a nice place in a good neighborhood, a new car, family and friends who loved me. But inside I felt insignificant, depressed and always alone. Rules like: only drink in social settings, only do hard drugs on the weekend, only binge eat on special occasions, were both a blessing and a curse. To the world, I was functioning. To me, I was enduring until the next high.

It took three therapists, some rule-breaking and a few panic attacks for me to admit that I had a problem. I had all the telltale signs of an addict. I couldn’t handle life without numbing my feelings. I couldn’t feel pleasure in everyday things. I constantly replaced one addiction for the other. I even tried a number of geographic changes, hoping that a new city would give me the backdrop for a brand new start. However, when I really examined my life with a magnifying glass, I saw that I had lost a lot of things to my addiction: the house I grew up in went into foreclosure because I snorted the mortgage payments up my nose, a very dear friend pushed me away for years, because she couldn’t stand by as I destroyed myself with alcohol, I even lost the chance to say goodbye to my mother, as she lay on her deathbed losing the battle against cancer, because I was fighting the demons in my own head. I wasn’t there for my sisters when they needed me the most. I lost a $100k inheritance to frivolousness. And countless other scenarios that played out over the years, I see now as obvious products of my disease.

While this sickness has been there all along, my turning point was being sexually assaulted at 15 years old. One night, I was invited to a party at an acquaintance’s house whose parents were away. At the time, I was desperate for love and acceptance. After years of being bullied, I had finally found approval from a group of friends who were acting out like most teenagers do. We’d skip school; buy alcohol with fake ids and experiment with drugs together. That night, I snuck out of my house while my parents slept soundly. What I didn’t know, was that when I walked into that house full of boys, I was walking into my first traumatic experience. I was encouraged to drink massive amounts of alcohol and coerced to have sex with one of the boys at the party, while everyone stood by and watched. Feeling like I deserved it, like I had it coming to me, I never told anyone what really happened that night. I was a slut who should have never gone to that party to begin with. At school the next day, the boys spread rumors around. They told everyone that I had given blow jobs at the party and my girlfriends turned against me. I was devastated. Back in my bedroom, I drowned my tears in a bottle of vodka that my dad kept in the liquor cabinet. It killed the hurt and alleviated my sorrow. Vodka was there for me when I couldn’t reach out for help.

In my 20’s, when I lost both parents to cancer, I turned again to the only tool I had for dealing with pain. Feeling like life had robbed me, I moved to New York, where for the next ten years I lived each day like it was going to be my last. I rationalized my behavior behind the pretense that this lifestyle was part of the fast-paced culture of the big city. But, when you took the glamour of New York away, there I was; just me and my inability to feel negative feelings. When my current therapist suggested I go to rehab, she positioned it as a spiritual vacation for my soul. It finally clicked for me. I had been struggling with anxiety and depression for so long that I had forgotten what it was like to feel happy and hopeful. In February 2016, I finally surrendered to the fact that I was a drug addict. And what I went on to experience in rehab will stay with me forever.

Getting Clean

Hi there, my name is Karen and I’m a recovering drug addict. I recently joined Writing Class Radio in hopes that having a creative outlet would help me better understand and come to terms with my addiction. For the next 90 days, I’ll be taking over the WCR blog and sharing my journey of recovery. If telling my story brings hope to just one other addict who is still sick and suffering, then opening up about my struggle will have been worth it. To protect the anonymity of those seeking recovery, names of people and places have been changed. While the eleventh tradition of Narcotics Anonymous states that we need to always maintain personal anonymity, I believe this shroud of mystery further perpetuates the stigma behind the disease of addiction. Addicts come in all shapes and sizes, but we share one common thread: we suffer from an incurable disease. Yet each new day we are provided another chance to arrest our active addiction and become useful members of society. This is my journey, my process and my story. The essay below came out of a prompt given to our writing class this week: Write about a time you started over… Enjoy.

The Fifth White Chip

By Karen Collazo

Yesterday, I picked up my fifth white chip. In Narcotics Anonymous, we use a chip system to denote how much clean time one has. The chips symbolize that you are gambling with your life when you pick up drugs. They vary in color, as you accumulate more clean time. The first chip you pick up is the white chip. It signifies surrender to a new way of life. It tells all the addicts in the room that you admit you are powerless over your addiction to drugs; you’ve come to terms with the fact that your life had become unmanageable and are ready to take the first step towards recovery.

After I surrendered for the fifth time, I got a huge bear hug from a fellow NA member that I consider a big brother. He always dons a healthy envy-worthy tan and is usually dressed in cargo shorts, sneakers, and a simple t-shirt. He calls me “kid.” After meetings, my big brother hangs around to “fellowship” with the other addicts. He says this is the key to staying clean. Once he stood with me in the parking lot of a church for hours, until the clock stroke midnight, just to help me stay clean for that one day.

“Kid, you did good today. Keep coming back till you get it,” he says with a big toothy grin.

I’ve relapsed four times since I got out of rehab on March 1st. I had 90 days clean when I relapsed the first time. The day I received my red 90-day chip, I got a round of applause from my NA family. On my way back to my seat, I was greeted with warm hugs and congratulated with excited high fives from the only people who have ever understood me. For everyone in that room, I had accomplished something worth celebrating. But inside, I didn’t feel victorious. As great as it was to reach enough clean time that I graduated from one chip to the next, I had arrived at 90 days with many reservations.

Feeling like a fraud, I went out and picked up. I took one bump of coke and was immediately lifted out of my dark foggy depression. Coke has always had a way of putting me on top of the world. Without it, I’m nobody. The problem is it’s never just one bump. Soon after that first twenty, the high runs out of steam and I quickly fall back into the deep well where I am trapped most days. Because it never ends well, you’d think it’d be easy to stop. But my brain doesn’t remember the bad part. It only focuses on the one good moment and chases that dream until I destroy myself.

I’ve played the tape in my head over and over, recounting how I relapsed this last time. I thought I was doing all the right things; taking as many of the suggestions as I could about how to live clean. But there I was, peeling out of a meeting to jump on the expressway and dialing my dealer on the way. They say that when you have a burning desire to use, you should reach out and share where you’re at with a fellow addict. We’re encouraged to get numbers and actually call people. The therapeutic value of one addict helping another is without parallel. But my addiction has been active for over 25 years, way before I even picked up my first drug. That old habit of isolating, rationalizing and giving in to an overwhelming feeling of worthlessness are deeply embedded in me. I’m scared I won’t be able to overcome this pattern I’ve grown accustomed to. I’m afraid I’ll never learn to love Karen enough to give her a fighting chance. They say it takes 66 days to break an old habit. If I do all the right things and work the program the correct way, I should be able to make this the last white chip I ever pick up.