I really love what I do and I enjoy traveling as well, although it does wear on you when you've been gone more than you're home. In each of the venues I've presented in - present venue excluded - I have breezed in, presented from a perspective of "person long in recovery" and been able to maintain a sense of detachment through the process, even tho much of what I talk about relates directly back to my time addicted to heroin and cocaine, living hand to mouth in abject poverty and wondering where I'd be putting myself to bed next.
But Sacramento is not just close to my "place of fire," it is directly in the flames.
I came here often when looking to cop larger quantities of crank, heroin and crack. This is where I witnessed the most brutal stabbing of my life, done by a "friend" to a Hispanic gentleman who'd asked one too many times for my friend to share his dope. He was stabbed so violently he was actually pinned to the wall momentarily, until my friend yanked the blade out of him and we took off at lightspeed. I do not know whether the man died and I didn't stick around to find out anything else, either.
It's where I entered a certain very busy dopehouse of crack heads who also seemed to be running a daycare. Kids were climbing around the ratty chairs and playing in a filthy kitchen area, where cockroaches covered everything in sight. People gowed to the floor and tweaked beyond sanity were occasionally screaming at them to "watch out, this pipe is hot," don't step there, I'm trying to bag this dope for the customer," and "put that uzi down, it's loaded."
I shit thee not, nor do I embellish; the truth is far more disturbing than anything my dope addled mind could make up about this place.
It's where I knew every pullout and side road up Highway 70 from Sac to Twain, California and have most likely smoked cocaine and shot up dope in each one of them.
It's where I drove 100+ miles an hour down the middle of the two lane sections of highways - on numerous occasions, shoving people onto the shoulders and veering wildly away from me -dopesick beyond belief and racing to get to my connection, not caring whether I killed myself or anyone else in the process.
It's where I was forced to stop on my way from High Desert Prison to San Quentin Prison in a special prison transport car, shackled at the waist and feet, wearing my paper prison jumpsuit. The Corrections Officer driving me and another guy stopped at a gas station and paraded us out in all my weed-growing criminal glory to use the facilities in front of shocked and frightened civilians who looked at me like I'd just murdered my grandma. Of all the insults I've suffered to my psyche, that one has stuck with me for an inordinately long goddam time.
 |
| (Thanks to Adventure Rider for a good image) |
It's...funny, in a horribly sad way I guess; I flew into Los Angeles earlier this week and had what I would say was an exceptionally good time at our training and in the city. But this morning, as I prepared to travel to Sacramento, the energy and karma turned bad, and I mean bad. My flight info was wrong. I couldn't print my boarding pass. I had a funky seat on the plane. Someone drunk or stoned fell into me as we left the plane and rammed me into the overhead compartment so hard it damn near knocked me out. I stood out on the curb in the blazing sun waiting for the hotel shuttle to come and began to feel sick to my stomach.
This is gonna sound crazy, but the doors of my old hell seemed to be reopening before my eyes.
I'm far enough into my recovery to recognize what to do when that portion of my self awakens, and I wasn't in danger of using, or chasing some ludicrous old dream. But being here made me sick, literally, and everything about this place just...sucks.
There is an understanding among health care providers, especially those who work in mental health, homeless services, and domestic violence, that when recalling the memories or hitting certain triggers of some of those experiences it is possible to retraumatize the individual one is caring for. There is also the knowledge that for many workers in these fields, especially those who come with their own baggage of past trauma, our very work can retraumatize us. There have been many instances or my own retraumatization over the past several years as I've worked with folks who were going through exceptionally hard times that, comparatively speaking, came very close to some of my own.
It's why, when I was considering my post graduate degree choices, I decided not to work in substance abuse/addiction therapy. I did not want to spend the rest of my life rehashing the misery of my own drug abuse through the stories and experiences of others. In retrospect, as I sit here this morning with feet planted firmly in the flames, I know unequivocally that I couldn't have made a better choice.
Even the hotel we're staying at is...strange. We're at McClellan Air Force Base and it has been decommissioned and turned into a hotel of sorts. I'm in what must have been a set of barracks but they're so far away from the main hotel you damned near have to hitchhike to it. I'm in a room that was probably some low-ranking officer here at one time. I think the heat and AC is controlled somewhere outside of the room because it sure as hell isn't responsive to the controls in the room. The kitchen is incredibly slow (although the food is actually very good) and it took me two hours to get a piece of cheesecake. These aren't big deals, for sure, just minor annoyances. But it's one minor annoyance after another after another. It's as if everything that I attempt to do is sending me a message. Nothing works smoothly, there is no "pleasant" experience in anything at all here.
I mentioned this to my very wise and loving woman this afternoon and she said something that has helped immensely in coping: "think of it as the Ancients or Karma or whatever making sure that you know you're not supposed to be here, that this is no longer a place for you. Do your job and get out."
This is why I've had the longest single relationship of my life with this woman. Her words made it tolerable enough for me to remain calm and collected. The period of my life that Sacramento and California in general was part of is gone forever, and I say unequivocally "good fucking riddance."
I leave on Friday morning to Reno, Nevada, my old home, and a visit with family and gobs of grandkids. I can hardly wait....
