Ripples.
By China Krys Darrington

Years back, I had a drug problem. I was wound tight around the spindle of addiction and could not escape its snare. I knew the 12 steps. I knew about recovery, but something had changed and everything I knew was no longer working for me. I knew I needed help, but felt I needed help outside my circle of awareness. A found a treatment center in Florida that claimed to help people who were having trouble with relapse and wanted a program that expanded on what they knew of recovery.

This is where I met Brian. The treatment center was small; seven people in all. We lived in two apartments in Clearwater, Florida and were shuttled over in a van to an office building twice a day where we had group sessions and individual sessions and learned things that could help us to recover. When I got to the treatment center I was zonked. I had just spent months on a crack binge that I couldn’t stop. My life was vaporizing and I needed help to get it to stop. I was passed out for the first three days of treatment. They would shuttle me up to the treatment building and I’d pass out on this little cot, and then back to the apartments where I’d pass out in my bed. I’d attend most of the sessions, but I couldn’t stay conscious through them.

Saturday came and I heard some lovely music coming from our living room. All six of the other treatment people were doing Yoga. This was the first session I participated in. I like Yoga. From yoga, I introduced myself to my flat mates and the others and learned about what were going to be doing. I began my 28-day treatment.

The center was a bunch of quacks, but I’m really grateful that I got a chance to attend. I reinforced my belief in the 12-steps of recovery and I also learned about mindfulness training. Mindfulness is just being present in one’s life. To be mindful of what the body is doing. To be mindful of what the mind is doing. To mindful of what the spirit is doing. When I’m practicing mindfulness I find that I take less for granted and it’s easier to make good choices.

So my introduction to mindfulness began in July of 2003. I began a Path, which has allowed me to heal from past pains and transgressions. It has allowed me to release my current suffering into the wind, to suspend my expectation of the world and the people in it. Mindfulness training has allowed me to include Buddhist principles in my life. I heeded the Four Nobel Truths of:

1. Life is suffering
2. The cause of suffering is attachment
3. There is an remedy to suffering
4. The 8-fold path is the remedy for suffering

I have learned that if I am unsure of a choice I can always apply the 5 Buddhist lay principles to the choice;

1. Refrain from harming beings
2. Refrain from false speech
3. Refrain from sexual misconduct
4. Do not take anything not freely given to you.
5. Refrain from intoxicants.

I began to make good choices. I began to improve my character and be accountable for my current feelings and actions and to make amends to my past actions, which caused suffering and harm.

Three weeks go by at the treatment center. All seven of us are in “group” together. We live together. We shop together. We have recreation together. We have grown very close. Brian is an intelligent, cute, smart-ass, much like myself. He’s been married and comes from a family that is fairly “well off”, but he’s got this incredible gaping hole of insecurity where he feels that he will never measure up to his other family members and that they are ashamed of him.

I have my own gaping holes of insecurity, tied to childhood sexual abuse and neglect and not having the proper role models to help my find the boundaries in life. I’ve learned to use my sexuality as a manipulation with others and to ignore my own inner conflicts and pain.

Take the drugs out of an addict and the feelings come back. This usually doesn’t sit well with the addict and I go searching for something that I can “get outside of myself with.” Sex has served this purpose very well.

It’s the last week of treatment. Brian is from Italy and is returning to Italy next week, after being discharged from treatment. I’m from Ohio and I’m going back to Ohio. The way I saw it, I needed a good orgasm to stop feeling so damn awful of myriad of bad choices I had made, and the best orgasms are always achieved in tandem with someone with equal desperation. He needed to feel wanted and free and I needed NOT to feel at all for a brief, but blissful, moment. It was perfect. He wanted me and I wanted it and we’d go at it once, maybe twice and he’d go to his universe and me to mine, left with no ill consequences and only fond memories of each other and our time at the alternative treatment facility.

It didn’t work out like that.

It didn’t work out like that at all. Not a fucking thing like I had it all planned out and the ripples and repercussions of that one choice, that one mindless indulgence can never be rifted, ripped or changed in any way, shape, or form from this point, or forever forward…. Why? Well this, dear reader, is something that you will soon find out, but for now, I ask you to stay with me on my terrible tale of trembling trysts and treachery.

We fuck.

I hate to be so blatant about it, but we did and that’s about it. We fucked and then he took me shopping. I let him buy me stuff because that is what was expected; from him, from me. Whatever. We all felt it was harmless.

Three days until we are discharged from the treatment center. Brian is supposed to leave one day before me, but since it falls on the weekend, it was decreed that although I’ve paid for 28 days of treatment, since the 28th day falls on a weekend, it would be okay for us to leave that Friday night.

My plane isn’t until Saturday night.

Brian’s has a flexible, first-class ticket, so he’s decided that he’s not leaving on Thursday, but is leaving “the day after I leave.” He then proposes that we spend our Friday night together in a hotel alone before I leave. I’m not sure about this whole proposition, but don’t want to outright reject it so I say “that’s a great idea, I’m not sure it will work. Let me check some things”.

By Wednesday night he’s already got a car to come pick us up, a suite reserved at a lovely hotel and transportation back to the airport so I can catch my flight on Saturday. He’s got it all figured out. I figure, since he’s footing all the expenses, why can’t I do this for him. What’s it going to cost me? A little sex, that’s not a problem. I can afford that.

So Friday comes. Brian is so excited he is about to pee himself. He’s excited that he’s completed treatment. He’s excited about this whole mini-trip. He’s excited about me. I’m still thinking that it’ll be fun, but I’m not considering the ripple effect. Ripple effect? What ripple effect?

Friday comes. I’m still thinking this isn’t a good idea. But I’m rolling with it like I’m all on board. We bit our farewells to the treatment place, get in the car and ride to the hotel. When we get to the hotel I am realizing that it’s the Newlywed Suite. Complete with champagne and all sorts of romantic goodies. Brian is drinking within 45 minutes of leaving treatment. Drinking isn’t my thing, but I’m not really trying to rain on anyone’s parade either and I’m thinking that if I’m going to get through the night, maybe a drink or three won’t hurt. I don’t suffer fools gladly, but with a little bit of liquor in me I rarely remember enough of the night to remember there were any fools around at all.

Champagne is gone and the evening starts to hit and Brian and I venture out to Ybor City in Florida. It’s a place I visited once, ten years prior, with my cousin Missy. We went dancing then. So I suggested dancing now. One step, two steps, red steps, blue steps. Just out of treatment where there were no twelve steps.

I remember bits of the night. I remember smoking cloves (which Brian has gotten me BACK smoking in treatment) and drinking green chartreuse. “A bit of the Green Madness” is what we call it back home in New Orleans around Mardi Gras, when I march with the Magnificent and Mystical Krewe of Chartreuse. A bit of the green madness, indeed. I remember the lady with the Tiffany’s necklace that matched my bracelet. I remember the empty club where we got the DJ to play about forty of our favorite songs, back to back over and over and just you and just I danced and made a grand spectacle of ourselves. I remember you buying me some cute clothes and a t-shirt I still have with an adorable little character of a grrrl DJ. I remember your grand idea of getting tattooed, and the parlor which was closing, but you convinced them to let us in and together we got new ink on our skin. I forget about that tattoo, since it’s outside of my line of sight. But I got it with you.

When we got back home to the hotel, the room was beginning to spin. We flopped down in bed and I knew it was only a matter of time before I passed out. I remember having sex, just bits and pieces of it. I remember I like it. I remember wanting you NOT to use a condom. I remember wanting passionately to fell you come inside of me. TO bask me in the incredible energy of the elixir that passion creates. An indulgence I rarely can experience. Actually, the next day, I wouldn’t remember that we had had unprotected sex. Actually, for the next year I wouldn’t remember this. But eventually, I would remember. Just a little bit at first. Just a little bit of harsh reality at a time.

You were true to your word, and you got me back to the airport with plenty of time. We were on different concourses so we said our goodbyes in the main terminal and as soon as you were out of my line of sight. I went back from smooshy-grrrl China, to business China. Making calls about who was picking me up and how was my daughter and all that. I’m very good at compartmentalizing my world. Brian, I figured has paid to be the center of attention for the evening and I made sure he had a heck of a good time. Not I was back on my clock and on my time, for my world.

I got home on a Saturday night. I was so happy to see my daughter, but I was having a tough time. I hadn’t gotten any aftercare plans in place. I still had all the mess of my lifestyle hanging about me. I still had using things and using people around me. I still had immense guilt and shame revolving around what had happened. I didn’t stay clean. While I’m living in the wasteland of a using addict, Brian is calling me from his sisters in Vermont. He’s visiting her for a few days before going back to Italy. He’s talking about missing me and wanting to see me again and in between puffs of toxic smoke I’m giving him verbal affirmations of “yes, it’s awful that we’re so far apart” and “great, I’d love to arrange a visit sometime” and “too bad it just isn’t the right time for us.” All the things to say to someone who you want to be gentle with, but I really wasn’t digging on that much either.

The next day was bad. The next day I had gotten some money and I couldn’t do the right thing with it. I went and copped dope and came back to my house to smoke it and my bell rings. I think I must have been waiting for someone because I ran right upstairs and THERE’S BRIAN. Standing at my front door.

“What are you doing here” I ask, stunned at what I am seeing.
“I came to visit you” He says and pushes his way in.

“You can’t come in, I’m getting high” I say, thinking that he’d be offended and would leave outraged.
“Great, let me have some”

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have the coping skills for this. I had ONE coping skill. Smoking crack was my safeguard against all other feelings, actions. So that is what I did. That is what we did. But it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel right at all.

I felt awful that I was right back where I was before treatment. I had some guy who needed to keep me high so that I could tolerate him. I was caught up and trying to get out, but making bad choice, after bad choice. Stuck in a moment that I can’t get out of. I was angry that I had every intention of making good choices, to get back with my daughter. To be able to provide her with a safe place to call home. Not this insanity that I created. This has got to go. It’s all got to go. And Brian, you had to go first.

Brian came to my house with $7000 cash. That’s how he got past the front door. Brian is an arrogant asshole when he’s high. But he had the money to be tolerated more than other broke crack heads. But I didn’t want his money and I didn’t want him. So I bought him his drugs, gave him ALL of his drugs and told him to go. I told him he had to go now. I then had to yell at him, that I didn’t want him. I wanted my daughter and that I can’t bring my daughter back to an environment with all this insanity and corruption happening. You have to go. Your money has to go. Your drugs have to go. I don’t want this and I can’t get clean and do the right thing with you and your money here.

I was mean. But eventually he left. I knew I had ripped a part of him open that day. I knew that it was a rip that would never heal properly. I didn’t know how infected that wound would get. I do now. But again, my fair reader. I dangle the future of our story in front of you. Please don’t jump to the end.

He left. I went crazy. After Brian I had no illusions of how corrupt I was becoming. I knew I was on an elevator going down too slowly so I cut the cable of slow descent and kicked my demolition up into high gear…then into overdrive. I descended so fast and so furious my mantra became “I’ll either hit bottom or die trying”. I scared everyone around me. I scared crack heads. I scared my dealers. I didn’t care, but I was sick of living like I was living. I was sick of living like an empty husk.

I knew I had to get myself into an impossible position to continue using. I knew I needed help from a power greater than myself. I remember distinctly raising my hands up and out and asking that if anything could hear me that I needed a little bit of help here. I needed a window of opportunity to help me quit using. I remember distinctly saying; “I don’t care what has to happen to get me out of this, but let it happen and let this insanity end.” Ripples. I didn’t know that those words would be heard. I didn’t know what I would have to go through to get that desire to manifest.

August 18, 2003. South-west side of Akron, Ohio. Bachtel Street. I went to cop dope and my dude wouldn’t serve me in the car. He wanted me to come inside. I had cash, I didn’t want to go inside. He said if I wanted it, I had to come inside. He knew I was fiending. I knew I was probably being set up. After five minutes or so, I made the bad decision of going inside. It was a bad decision. I got jumped. I got raped. But I also stayed alive and left with more dope. When I got back to my house my fear came back. My animalistic fear and terror of what just happened, multiplied exponentially by the paranoia of a crack smoker. Two weeks I didn’t leave the house. I sent txt messages to my dealers, who dropped by the house with my supplies and that was that. I made one phone call a day to the Detox center to see if there was a bed so I could get in line to go to treatment. Again. My relapse mantra; again.

“Oh no, I’m high…again”
“Oh no. We’re out of dope…again?”
“You want me to do what? Again?”
“I’m going to jail? Again?
“I’m never doing that again.”

So after it happened. After I left that house. After I got back to the safety and security of my house the fear came up. The fear of what had just happened. I understood what happened. It is just part of that world. Part of the crack game to exploit any weakness and prey on any vulnerability. Someone wanted me exploited and it happened on that day that I was in such a state of “need” that I walked into it, hoping I’d survive and leave with my hearts desire. That’s fucked up, isn’t it? Don’t think I didn’t know that the whole time. But, I couldn’t stop it from happening; “The Machine” was in control.

So I get back to my house and I’m terrified. I see monsters in every corner and I’m anxious and exhausted and terrified of letting go, because I think that it’s all going to start over again. So I smoke and I smoke and I smoke. I call once each day (or thereabouts, since “days” have limited meaning to the crack head world) to the ADM board to see if the Detox center has a bed. Day after day, no luck.

During this month long shut-in period, where I was to terrified to leave my home, I started smoking wrong. Every time I’d inhale my mouth would fill up with saliva and I’d feel like I was about to puke. Sometimes I would. And all that delicious smoke would be forcefully purged from my lungs and I wouldn’t get high. It was like some cruel joke, my entire existence wrapped around this stupid little glass pipe and a little hunk of crack and I couldn’t even get high off of it. So dedicated I was. Over and over I’d try. Over and over my mouth would be saturated with spit and I’d cough out the smoke, or puke out the smoke. What’s the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results? That is what I was doing. Oh yeah , and making that one phone call.

Somewhere in that month, with the strange new smoking pattern I had the idea that I might be pregnant. That might be why I’m sick. But crack wraps your logical thinking in this insulating blanket of numbness. It’s like wrapping yourself in one of those puffy, pink-insulating bats. Everything real is muffled and dull and it just doesn’t make much sense.

Finally I get a bed in detox. I go in and sleep on this uncomfortable plastic bed in the hallway until a bed becomes available. I don’t care. I know that if I’m at the house, I’m going to get high, and being uncomfortable has been happening for the past few months. No big deal. That evening I get a bed and I promptly pass out for 24 hours. Crack coma.

When I come to I have to fill out some paperwork for the nurse. One of the questions is “Are you, or do you think you might be pregnant?” I check “Yes” .

“You’re pregnant?” Asks the nurse.
“I don’t know. I think I might be.” I reply.
“Well we don’t have funding for pregnancy tests here and since you aren’t a medical detox we can’t test you here. Go get a pregnancy test when you get out.”
“OK” I reply.

Now I know that most of the people who work in the detox center have some direct experience with addiction, but sometimes they seem so friggin’ clueless. Crack heads don’t spend money on pregnancy tests. Crack heads spend money on crack. My disease doesn’t want me to know I’m pregnant, because then I’d have another reason that I can’t use. Please test me. Please tell me I’m pregnant. Please help me stop killing myself.

But ADM is Grand Central Station for all addicts in our fair county and if you want a referral to an agency, treatment center, program or counselor, you have to take a number at ADM. They get too many people just like me, every day of every year. And I didn’t have enough self-esteem at the time to tell them I needed I pregnancy test.

Three days in Detox. I get a direct referral to IBH but I’m going to be driving myself. Bad idea. My “hood” is on the way to IBH. I stop and pick up an ounce of crack on the way. This ounce of crack is in my car and I’m smoking while driving. Taking my time. When I get there they tell me they are done with intakes for the day. Come back tomorrow.

Strike 1

Next day. I’m still smoking my ounce, but I’m getting low. Just a few pieces are left. I head out to IBH for my intake appointment. I get through the first interview, with the medical nurse, and I ask if I can go out for a smoke. My intentions were good, but when I got outside I realized I didn’t have a lighter. I had to go to my car to get it. My car. Where the crack is. I head to the car and the dope fiend steals my car and my will and I drive away from the intake appointment.

Strike 2

I can’t believe what I’ve done. I’m on the phone calling Dana and Andrew and telling them I didn’t want to leave, but I left anyway. Dana calls me later that day and tells me that Ken (someone we know from the program who works at the treatment center) said my bed is still available and that I should just call and tell them what I did and to ask for another intake.

What the hell. I’m already the biggest loser in my own mind, so who cares if IBH thinks I’m not serious about my recovery. Who cares if they say no, they might say yes, and that would be good. I’d hate to have to start this process all over again.

I call and they tell me to come two days later, on Monday. I smoke over the weekend. I call my friend and tell them that I drove away from my last intake and will you please come and sit with me so I don’t do that again. I make sure I run out of crack. I wasn’t real happy about that one. I hate running out. Monday morning comes and the friend picks me up and we head out to IBH. Intake appointment #1, medical nurse. Intake appointment #2, testing. We get to that pregnancy question again. I again tell them that I think I may be pregnant. They ask when my last period was, I tell them eight weeks ago. They tell me they can’t admit me until they know if I am pregnant or not. I’m supposed to leave and go get a pregnancy test (a blood serum test) and to call them when the results are back. My friend is cool about taking me from IBH to my doctor, who has been clued in on why I need an immediate blood draw, and I have the blood draw by the end of business on Monday. I have the results in two days.

I am pregnant.

I’m devastated. I am convinced that I’m pregnant from the rape. I am so confused, but most of all I’m tired. I need to sleep.

The positive thing is that pregnant women get priority at treatment centers. So as soon as they found out I was pregnant, I was admitted the next day (if I would have gotten the test at detox, maybe I would have gotten clean a month earlier into my pregnancy)

I get in to IBH on October 2nd. The first two weeks felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders. Everything felt hopeless. I’d destroyed so much of my life. I’d corrupted so much of my hope. I’d betrayed the things I held sacred. But I’d committed myself to never giving up hope, and if this disease was going to kill me it was going to have to work harder at it. I wasn’t going down without a fight.

My first month in treatment I was just enduring all my feelings. It’s like being at the center of a dust storm. As long as I was whirling and spinning, I was staying one step ahead of these immense tragedies. I couldn’t feel them. In treatment, you take my drugs away and I stop spinning, and it takes a while for the dust to settle. While that dust settles it gets in your eyes and makes your cry. Get into your lungs and makes you hack. Gets into your soul and just makes you feel dirty. Crack is insidious, because using you know that you are fucking things up. Which makes you want to stay high, because of the bullshit yourare going to have to deal with when you come down. The longer you stay high, the more bullshit you create. Until there is a crossroads when you become absolutely terrified about being able to cope with the psychosis that happens when you stop. Many people get to the crossroads and say “well I’ve fucked up absolutely everything right in my life so this is what I HAVE to do now. It’s my only option left.” That is crack-head logic. And to a crack head, it’s the only sense in the world.

So the crack is out of my system and the reality of the damage done is starting to hit me. Both my homes are in the foreclosure process. I really have no hope of keeping them. My daughter has been living with her grandmother for the past months and grandmother is not hopeful that I’ll be able to pull back from this one. She’s closed down to me long ago. My entire support group in recovery has shown me that when I needed them most, they were unable to deal with my relapse and have stuck their heads in the sand to prevent it from messing with their delicate paradigms. I can’t get a bank account and I have tens of thousands of dollars of outstanding debts before I’ll be in the clear from this binge. I’m pregnant from a crack-house rape and I don’t know if I’ll stay clean if I terminate the pregnancy, but I’m not sure how I’ll do carrying this baby to term.

It’s a “just for today” program, and today I know that if I’m pregnant, I’ll stay clean. If I’m not pregnant, I’m not so sure about that. So today, I decide to stay pregnant. I do this for almost a month, and in this time I realize that I’m engaged in my treatment, but it’s a delicate balance. I’m grateful to this little baby growing inside me for providing the spark of hope I needed to start helping myself, but I’m not feeling the same instant connection I felt with my pregnancy with my daughter. I love it, but it doesn’t feel like “my” baby.

So I get adoption counseling, crisis pregnancy counseling, rape crisis counseling, post-traumatic stress counseling. I get drug counseling, addiction counseling, treatment and recovery counseling. I open up all the old wounds and start pouring antiseptic on them. Yes it burns but I’ve been burning for the past year. Lets open up all the pain and see what we can set right, right now.

A month into treatment and I’m allowed to go to outside meetings. At one of my first meetings an attorney friend tells me;

“I spent all day yesterday corralling an addict and shuffling them off to IBH.”

I thought he was just venting about his work when I asked “Do I know this addict?” Since I know most of the addicts in this area.

“Yes” he says. “Brian”

“Brian?” I inquire. I’m not putting two and two together. “Brian Meier?”
“Yes.” He says.

My mind drops. What the fuck is Brian Meier still doing in Ohio? I threw him out and he was going to Las Vegas. This is like two months ago, he should be back in Europe now. I’m confused. I ask him what’s going on. He tells me that Brian hooked up with some dancer chick and they recently got arrested on 32 felony counts. He’s his attorney and he’s trying to keep him out of prison, but Brian isn’t taking the charges very seriously and isn’t’ showing up for his appointments in court. Getting him into treatment at IBH was his last-ditch effort to save him from prison.

“There are lots of treatment facilities in our area. Why did you bring him to the one that I’m at?” My mind goes back to late July when he and I had our sex. Most probably I’m pregnant from getting hemmed-up at that crack house and raped, but if not, the one other person it could have been would be Brian.

My mind runs over the situation. Brian P. Meier’s comes from an affluent family with power and influence. The family hired the same attorney who represented President Clinton during the impeachment trials to represent their son. The family has no grandchildren. The family doesn’t seem to have many viable options for continuing the family name. I’m fairly certain that I can’t stay clean around Brian. I’m worried that if Brian is at IBH, I’ll talk to him, tell him about my pregnancy and he’ll convince me to do something stupid. I need to focus on my and my family needs and Brian needs to stay away from me for now.

When I get back to IBH, I tell the resident supervisor about this predicament. The clinical director is pulled in and I’m to keep separated from the males until they figure something out. The incident resolves itself when Brian walks away from treatment on Friday night. He comes back on Saturday morning, but IBH won’t let him in.

About a month later Brian is sent to Mansfield to serve a four-year sentence.

I complete treatment. I work steps. I heal. My life is slowly coming back together. I get into a 2-year transition-housing program, which allows me to keep my focus on recovery. I work minimally. I take care of my little girl; I make sure we get the counseling and support we need to heal together, as a family. I take this all very seriously. During this time my daughter gets a chance to meet her father and to start to have a relationship with him.

I let her be involved in my pregnancy and explain my adoption plan to her as best as I can. We have an Aloe Vera plan in a pot in our kitchen. From time to time, the plant has “babies” and from time to time we take those new babies and put them another pot. This pot is special and hand painted by Mia and myself. We put the new baby in the painted pot and then we give it as a gift to someone we love. And they take care of that baby and love it. I explained to her that our “pot” wasn’t big enough for another baby, but that we would love it and take care of it until it was time for it to come into our world, and then we would find a family who could take over. A family who has room in their pot for our new little baby, and plenty of love as well. I explained to her that my full-time job was taking care of her and us and that although I loved this baby, I wanted us to have what we needed and it to have what it needed and I didn’t think I could cover all those bases if that baby stayed with us.

So she met the potential families with me. And when we met my birthson’s family, we knew where our baby was supposed to be.

And together; the baby, Mia, the adoptive family, and myself we continued the pregnancy and went to the doctors and took care of me and made a birth plan. I had ultrasounds and learned that I was carrying a healthy baby boy, but ultrasounds don’t show if a baby is black or white and I’m still convinced that I became pregnant from a black crack-dealer.

On April 29, I deliver baby boy Jaden, as healthy as can be. When they put him into my arms I noticed that he was lighter that I thought he would be. And he had absolutely no hair. But newborns are blue and covered with reddish/white slime and I still couldn’t’ tell. Later that day when Andrew came to visit, I asked him; “Do you think he’s mixed” and Dru said he didn’t think so.

Two days later after he was all dry and soft and fluffy I knew that he was about the whitest baby I’d every seen. So that narrowed down my options. The week prior to my delivery Gary B., my former Beau was released from jail and had seen my advanced state of pregnancy and inquired about the possibility of the baby being his. I told him that I didn’t think that was possible since the last time we had sex was in May. He shook his head.
“No. That’s not right. What about that time at my mom’s house in August”

He was right. I had completely forgotten about that one time. So that added one more factor into the equation.

Brian or Gary. Either or.

But now that Jaden was delivered that was a moot point. Wasn’t it? I mean, I had made my adoption plan for my baby boy with the most wonderful and supportive family in the world. I hadn’t even considered keeping my baby and have made no plans for this consideration. No, I would stick with the plan. My baby would be adopted as planned. Having delivered I now felt that bond that I missed while I was pregnant. I knew I loved this baby with all my heart, but I’d been studying mindfulness and attachment and I believed in my heart that babies are not possessions and that love is love. I had been practicing knowing my limitations and to ask for help when needed. Well with what I had done financially I knew it wasn’t the best idea to add to my responsibilities, and so I went with what my heart was telling me, that Jaden was going to be where he was supposed to be and it was going to be okay. My head was making it much more complicated than that. My head was telling me; NO you cannot go through with this. This is YOUR BABY. You must find a way to parent him. You can’t let him go.

But I did. And it was hard. But it was all right.

Brian went to jail. Gary got a girlfriend. I didn’t hear from either of them again. I visited Jaden and got acclimated to my role as a birthmother. I healed from my relapse and learned to be accountable for my actions and my choices. I learned that I’m worthy, just because I’m me. Noting special, nothing sacred, nothing magical. I’m just me and it’s okay. I’m learning that I’m okay. I’m learning that no one has a right to exploit or abuse me, including me. Mindfulness training helps me feel my feelings with out attachment or judgment.

1. Refrain from harming beings
2. Refrain from false speech
3. Refrain from sexual misconduct
4. Do not take anything not freely given to you.
5. Refrain from intoxicants.

And the 8-fold path;

1. Right Understanding
2. Right Thought
3. Right Speech
4. Right Action
5. Right Livelihood
6. Right Effort
7. Right Mindfulness
8. Right Concentration

I am improving. I’m no longer attracted to sick people and sick things. I’m healing. I’m no longer attracting sick people, or sick things. My life is coming together a little more each day. I can’t handle too much, but I wave my hands and ask for help, when I’m feeling overwhelmed and I’m learning that there are people who will help me. There are people who want me to get better. My world is very, very different than it was a year ago. My world is much different than it has been my whole life.

I still get challenged. Other people in my life who haven’t done the work needed to heal and become stable challenge me. One of my biggest opportunities for growth is in dealing with my daughter’s father. If you recall I said that she got a chance to meet him and to begin to develop a relationship with him. Our first encounter, I sincerely believed that he had changed and was capable of being considerate of others feelings and perceptions. I learned quickly that that might not be the case.

In my psychology classes we reviewed an Axis II personality disorder called Narcissistic Personality Disorder in which a person has an inflated or grandiose sense of self and entitlement and lacks the ability to feel empathy with others and sees them merely as pawns for them to get what they want. When I was studying this chapter I couldn’t believe how much the diagnostic criteria reminded me of him. When I was in love with him, I was treating him like a human, who had problems showing love. I showered my love on him so he could feel safe, and only too late realized that he just exploited my resources for his own convenience and he just wasn’t that into me.

After Mia was born, I knew being a single mother was challenging, but telling him would be like hammering the nails in my own coffin. I didn’t think I could deal with his mechanisms and learn how to be a good mom. I chose motherhood. I chose to go it alone. I hoped for the strength to face up to him when my daughter got to the point where she was curious about her paternity. I knew I wasn’t going to lie to her about the situation, but do I lie and act like he’s a decent person when he’s not? No, but I focus on his good qualities and keep him at a distance so he doesn’t push my buttons. Also learned in psychology classes is how to deal with a person with NPD. Don’t. They are impossible to love. Unless they seek out treatment for ego-dystonic behaviors that are painful to them, they will NEVER seek out treatment for Narcissism on their own. They don’t think they have a problem. So, he cannot have a problem…over there…in another state. I’ll pay attention to my daughter and her needs and help her with whatever I can. Him, he’s on his own.

I’ve been mindful of that situation. I’ve been able to make my amends for my part in that awful relationship. I was impossible to love too. But not anymore. I’ve done much work and I can see by the energy that now surrounds me that there is so much more peace and serenity and wholeness in my life. It’s a good thing.

My life is a little “dull” sometimes, because my healing is just being present for my life. Just doing the little things without expectations, without inventory, just because it is the right thing to do. I’m back in school for the first time in 10 years. Working on that graduate degree I wanted before Mia was born. I work when I can, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my ability to be an active parent. I pay attention to my recovery and do the work necessary to force me to grow.

I am becoming.

So one day in August of 2005 at 4 am I get a phone call.

“Italy, Clearwater Beach, Florida and Minneapolis, Minnesota” states a deep, throaty voice.
It may be in the middle of the night, but I realize that this must be Brian Meier. I had heard he had been released from Mansfield and chose to live with his girlfriend in the area. I wished he would stay clean and be happy. I told my friend who relayed this status update, to keep tabs on him because I thought that he might be Jaden’s birthfather and at some point in the future, Jaden may want to establish paternity from him.

In August of 2005, I had recently begun the process of “making amends”. I couldn’t believe that I was getting an opportunity to say I’m sorry to Brian. I didn’t want to interfere in his life. I felt that I had caused enough pain, but here he was calling me. Now I don’t think that a 4 am call comes from a person who isn’t using drugs, so I’m not naive in understanding why he was probably calling. He wanted to see if I was still using. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I get a chance to clear up my end of the street.

So I did.

I rubbed my eyes and got up, out of bed and said “I’m sorry.” I told him that I was sorry for any suffering he experienced as a result of my unskillful actions. I told him that I had thought of him often and wanted to write to him while he was incarcerated, but I felt like I had done enough damage to him. I told him that I cared about him. I asked how he was doing. I told him the meeting him changed my life, but I didn’t tell him why. About 15 minutes into the phone call my daughter got up, having heard me talking in the middle of the night, and came to see what was happening. We concluded the phone call with me taking his phone number and him telling me to give him a call sometime. I thanked him for calling and tucked us back into bed.

The next day I talked about my feelings. I got “you can’t talk to him,” “He’s bad for you,”
and lots of other advice. I told them that I hold myself accountable to clean up my side of the suffering and I intend to do so. I acknowledged that I can’t change anyone, or anything, but I can be real and honest and authentic when I have the opportunity to do so.

About a week later, I tried the phone number. I got a message machine telling me I couldn’t leave a message because voicemail was full. When I tried the number again on later days, I got the same message. It became a habit while I was driving from work to meditation group on Thursdays that I would try and give him a call. Over a month passed when one Thursday his girlfriend picked up the phone. I was startled but I asked for Brian and she said he wasn’t in. I told her that I was China and I knew him from a while back and to please let him know that I phoned. About 20 minutes later he called me back. That time we talked for about 2.5 hours before he suggested that I pick him up for a cup of coffee. He was living right down the street, so I did. We went to Eat-n-Park and for another two hours just talked. During that talk I told him about my pregnancy and about my birthson, Jaden. I told him the circumstances and that I didn’t know for sure, but I thought he might be the birthfather. I showed him pictures.

I didn’t mean to tell him all that. I wasn’t at all sure what his reaction would be. The conversation just went that way. Later that evening, he gave me some photos of him as a little kid to look at for comparison. I still don’t know, but I was happy at the possibility of him being able to do a DNA test in the future if that’s what Jaden wants. I was also happy at the spark, which I saw in his eyes at the thought of his ugly life having created at least one beautiful thing. That spark is a necessary thing for an addict who is trying to do the right thing. Our lives are these depressing and desperate sucking things and hope is vital to overcome the abyss. That night I saw Brian grab onto a ray of light.

I dropped him off about six in the morning, before I had to go to work after pulling an all-nighter. It wasn’t my first all-nighter, by any means, but at 34 it really has to be SOMETHING for me to stay up all night. It was something. It was something that needed done for him, for Jaden and for me to heal.

That was the last that I had heard from him. No more phone calls. No more visits. He said he would try and see me at meetings, but I never saw him at one. The next thing I know I’m in a local coffee house and my girlfriend is telling me that she heard that “a Brian” died. It was like a kick to the gut. I called our mutual friend, who confirmed that it was, in fact, true.

Brian P. Meier died of a heroin overdose on Tuesday, October 25, 2005 in Cuyahoga Falls, OH. I believe he was 32 year of age. His PO was reporting that he was actually making a new effort to change his lifestyle and for the first time since his release from prison, he actually believed that he might be doing this for real, instead of just getting over on his PO. His live-in girlfriend stated that on Tuesday morning she left the apartment to do some errands and when she left, he was fine. When she got back, he was throwing up and losing consciousness. He stopped breathing, she started CPR, and she called the paramedics. They came and took him to the hospital but he never came back. He was gone.

Having overdosed myself, I know that I never knew what hit me. I was actually pretty pissed off when I regained consciousness in the hospital because they were fuckin’ with my high. It’s very easy to just “slip away” with narcotics. The only solace I have is that he probably didn’t experience any pain.

But he’s gone. His sister came in from out of state and got his body released from the coroner’s office and had him cremated that day and flew back to Europe to have him interned in Switzerland, where his family is originally from. No memorial, no goodbye. It’s over. See ya later. Bye bye.

The ripple effect is that I was selfish and feeling poorly about myself and wanted some sex and an orgasm so I could get outside of my dingy little world and puff up my ego for 10 minutes or so. I used Brian to achieve this. Then I didn’t have the balls enough to say “No, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to leave treatment together and have a “night on the town” before returning to the mess that awaits us back at our respective homes.” Then I didn’t have the guts to say “No, I’m not drinking champagne with you and I don’t think you should either.” Then when he showed up at my house I gave him crack and heroin for his first time. Then when I knew I couldn’t get clean with him and his money around I kicked him out, forcefully and with a lot of unskilled action. And he left, and went to a worse situation where he, in less than a month racked up a 5-year prison sentence and 32 felonies. While he was incarcerated I give birth to a baby who surprised me by being white and I realized he was one of two potential birthfathers. Then, after his release he ends up moving less than 3 miles from where I was staying and 24 months after we meet he calls me at 4 in the morning. A month later we meet, face-to-face for the first time where I get to say I’m sorry, I care, your worth it and I believe in you. I get to share, honestly and openly with him and I felt “clean”.

A month later…he’s dead.

I hope his suffering has ended. I hope that if he returns, it will be in a life with less pain for him. I will memorialize you Brian P. Meier as a human being as well as Jaden’s birthfather. I am sorry.

NAMESTÉ MY FRIEND.

Tweet this!