I was booked into the local county jail for possession of stolen property, and possession of paraphernalia. I would spend my first couple of days in a holding cell. In horrible withdrawal. Anxiety. Vomitting. Insomnia. Goosebumps. Cold sweats. Fear. Panic. Hell. I would then be moved into general population and it would be about 27 days before I would sleep, and about a week before I would eat anything. I was very sick. Shortly after being placed into general population, I would be summoned to the front of the dorm over the loud speaker. I was shackled and walked to the other side of the building. To the Detective Bereau. A tall white haired man sat waiting at a table with a thick folder in front of him. He motioned for me to sit down, and I complied. He opened the folder and took out four pictures. One of two checks. And three more: ” this is you walking into the bank.” “This is you at the counter, cashing these checks.” “And this is you getting into your truck and leaving.” Damn. What could I say? I was definitely not ready to face this, although I knew it was coming.  Two months later I was served with a warrant for C felony forgery, and two counts of D felony theft. The things we do in active addiction. After sitting in jail for 104 days I signed a plea that would sentence me to a drug court program. Part of the deal was that I live in a halfway house for 6 months. I shouldn’t have taken this deal, at least not yet. See, even though I had been through hell. Been burned up time and time again by this thing. Been to jail. In and out. Been to the bitterest of ends. For whatever reason, I was still not ready to recover. I still had reservations. My main drive behind taking that plea was to get out of jail, and hurry up and get back to the sickest of toxic relationships. And dope.

You see, that’s an interesting thing to me about addiction. I’ve only burned my hand on a hot stove once in my life. I think I was about six. I remember it well, I turned on the coils, waited till they were orange, and touched it with my left hand. I would never do that again. Most people that get arrested usually spend one night in jail, make bond, and that experience alone is enough to jar them straight. Not me. Not most addicts I know. For whatever reason we go, and go, and go until all reservations are cancelled. We must constantly touch that stove. Over and over and over. If an addict or alcoholic for any reason, in the back of his mind, even thinks he can take a  drink or drug with impunity, he will try. And for whatever reason, inside my poisoned addict mind, despite all evidence to the contrary, I still had a reservation for using drugs. It is not normal to be put into jail over and over and over for the same thing- drug use, and constantly obsess over using, both inside jail walls and out. This is addiction. Obsession. Compulsion. It must be painfully obvious that one cannot use drugs or alcohol without horrible consequences before one will stop using. When we’re beaten, we become willing to recover. I was not quite beaten. It was not painfully obvious enough yet. Though it would be soon. I still had to touch that stove one more time.


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