When D came home, he set his gray, thermal lined zippered lunch container on the kitchen table. It was pay day. This I knew. I was a little antsy wondering if the inside of the gray container contained empty Ziploc bags from the remnants of his lunch, or a full Ziploc bag encasing rocks of crack cocaine.
I dreaded pay day Fridays. I was always faced with decision to use or not. I wished there was a place I could go. A friend’s house. But I didn’t have any friends left. I needed a way out. It’s not easy being an addict, living with an addict, and trying to stay clean. Once I started using, I was trapped and I knew it. He knew it. Which is why he wanted me to use with him. He wanted me to go through all the bullshit with him so I couldn’t point the finger of blame at him. Of course, I could blame him for bringing it into the house, buying it instead of paying the rent, but if I sat there and smoked that entire bag with him, I could only do so much blaming.
As I sat there staring at the unopened lunch box, I was only pretending to listen to his voice. My nervousness took precedence. I was anticipating that first hit, but hoping to god that box contained nothing more than empty wrappers. That first hit is what sucks you in. It goes down smooth and it feels good. It’s like a wave of cool rolls through your body from the head down. You’re on a cloud and floating. Your head is weightless. For a minute you close your eyes, lean back, and smile because it feels so good. After that it’s just chasing the first hit. Nothing feels as good as the first one. If you have enough dope you can only get as high as your body will let you. But if you don’t have enough, the rest of the time is just stressful as you ration down the size of your hits. Not fun. That’s when the part of your brain kicks in that either tells you to quit and let yourself come down, or find a way to get more. I was the former, D was the latter.
He opened his lunch container. He pulled out a sack of familiar white chunks. He opened the kitchen cupboard and pulled out a large purple dinner plate. The darker the plate, the more visible the rocks. He opened the bag and I heard the familiar clanking sound the rocks make when they land on the plate. Oh my god, I thought. My head fell into my hands as I tried to decide my fate. I wanted to say no. I wanted to run. Why didn’t I? I really had no where to go. I was so angry at him for doing this, but god I wanted to feel that first hit. I sat at the kitchen table, paralyzed and wide eyed, watching him get everything ready. This is usually when I would want to take over. Getting the paraphernalia ready is like a ritual. Some people care more than others. But for me, it had to be done just right. I liked everything clean and organized.
He handed me the loaded pipe. I took it. Put it to my lips. Lit it. Inhaled. Pulled the lighter away. Exhaled, and fell onto that cloud. I didn’t care about anything anymore.
I have experienced a lot of trauma from the sexual encounters that would take place at this point. Well, not at this particular point, but rather, when the dope was nearing an end or was gone. Often, knowing there was a possibility of being mistreated, I refused to engage in sexual activities when we used. I just wanted to sit there and enjoy the high. And I would state this in the beginning, begging him not to get sexual. But sometimes, it just happened. I hated porn, and do so even more now. I could handle a little soft girl on girl action. But watching girls get reamed from behind and giving blow jobs to men with huge cocks was not my idea of fun. Drugs do strange things to people sexually. It turned D into a freak. I detested the things he would do, and more so how long it would take. He wouldn’t do anything too crazy at first. In other words, he was gentle. He would be watching the porn and then ask me to do what they were doing. I hated it, but I did it so as not to anger him.
When the dope was almost gone, along with his erection, he insisted on ‘finishing.’ This is when I knew I was in for a few torturous hours. With fear in my eyes, I watched him walk toward me. His eyes were hallow. The D I knew was gone. Something evil occupied his being. Sometimes, I was already in bed trying to fake sleeping so he would leave me alone. I had gone to bed long before while he was in the living room making non-successful attempts to get more dope. On these occasions I pulled the covers tight up to my chin and curled up into a ball. He pulled the sheets off me and forced himself on me. I would beg and plead for him not to. I sometimes could fight him off with my legs, but sometimes I just couldn’t fight him off.
I found a spot on the once white ceiling where the three walls met in the corner to my right. That spot was my escape. It’s where I went until the nightmare was over. I can still visualize it. The whole thing. The corner in the room, and what happened in that room. So many times. And up until a few months ago, I slept in that room every night and saw that corner as a reminder. I remember looking at him and seeing the devil in his eyes as I writhed and wriggled to get away. I told him he was the devil. I said it over and over and over until he got off me and left the room.
It’s not easy for me to admit I once was a drug addict. I know it’s not an excuse to say “Well I could stop and he couldn’t” although that is the truth. I didn’t want to be placed in those positions, and I mean than both literally and figuratively. I tolerated the porn and the abuse it bred out of fear. When D was high he was a completely different person. I could see him transform in front of my eyes. It’s like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Everyone react to drugs differently. I didn’t really change. That’s what was so scary for me. I never knew what he was going to do. One time I found myself being choked and smothered. Another time smacked to the floor and my face stepped on. I have the permanent reminder on my lip. Another time I was forced to sleep a drug dealer on my own couch out of fear of both of them. D was in the bedroom while I was getting fucked so HE could get high. This was all arranged without my knowledge. What was I supposed to do?
I think now my friends from my old Martial Arts Gym now understand why I was there.
I went to see a new Therapist today and not much to my surprise I have a “to the T” diagnoses of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s no wonder I quit my job and moved. And I prefer not to be around people. I am doing the best I can to get well. I am shocked at how long this has taken. I thought I was better, but I guess I need to process all this before I can move on. Some of it I will tell, some of it I will scream, some of it I will write, but it’s all coming out.
I’ve seen a lot of Rape in the headlines lately. Mostly articles about the political standpoints from Republicans, who are a challenged breed with little or no understanding of female issues. That being said, it doesn’t matter what I was doing at the time, whether I was high or not, or what I was or wasn’t wearing. It doesn’t even matter the relationship I was in with the person who did this to me. What matters is that I was forced to have sex against my will. Screaming “No” and fighting to exhaustion. I didn’t deserve it.