Chapter 23 Cold Turkey
Cold Turkey
BUZZED BUNNIE WAS A GOOD TIME. I LOVED A BUMP of coke in a dirty bathroom stall, and I really loved my Lortabs, my preferred brand of hydrocodone.
It was like a cup of coffee for me—I couldn’t start my day without my cocktail of half a Lortab, a quarter of a Xanax, and a diet pill.
Once I felt my hazel eyes go green, I knew the concoction had hit my bloodstream and I was ready for the day.
I had been working up the right combination since I was twenty-one, and I could never imagine life sober. Nothing about that sounded fun to me.
I always told myself I wasn’t an addict. If I were an addict, I’d be just like my mom. I wasn’t. So I couldn’t be addicted.
Plus, I was functioning just fine. I was always in control of how much I took, because heavy amounts of drugs made me sick. I wasn’t like my friends who were taking eight to ten pills a day. Hell, no. I looked down from my high horse, thinking I wasn’t anything like them. I was better than them.
But the truth is: Of course I was an addict. I couldn’t function if these pills weren’t in my system.
* * *
J AND I HAD BEEN married and touring for a few months, and he was about to get custody of Bailee.
We were working together with a lawyer by then to get her full time from her birth mom, who was deep into drugs.
I hated the idea of a little girl finding my bottle of pills, or even worse, watching me wake up and need to take them every day.
How would life with us be any different from the house she came from?
How would I be any different from the woman she used to call her mom?
I wanted no part in adding to this kid’s already traumatic life. At the very least, getting sober would keep me from inflicting more of that kind of trauma on her.
Bailee was a huge part of my decision to get sober—and she was part of a massive, swirling perfect storm of reasons why it was finally time to face my addiction.
The truth is, I was falling apart on tour with J.
The trauma of my past was rearing its ugly head and pulling me into the dark.
I was taking anxiety medication but still having severe panic attacks.
My Lortabs were making me so sick I couldn’t keep them down, and the alcohol I was downing in increasing quantities only made my days horrific with anxiety and what I would soon come to realize was devastating depression.
Eventually, I’d hit that point with all my vices: the dosage would go up, but the high wouldn’t come. It would be all crashes.
I had always boasted that I’d never been depressed and only suffered from anxiety. I figured depression wasn’t real. I figured it was something people used when they just wanted an excuse to be sad. Who has time to feel like that?
When I scoff at something or think I’m better than someone or something, God always finds a way to humble me.
I believe wholeheartedly that God makes me go through situations so I know how the people I looked down upon felt, and boy, let me tell you.
This was going to become one of the darkest times of my life—and it would be a five-year battle.
* * *
I DECIDED ONE NIGHT WHILE we were on tour that the pills were doing the exact opposite of what I needed, and I could feel them polluting my blood. After all the years of being on them, something got a grip on me and I just didn’t want this shit coursing through my veins another second.
“I don’t want this in my system anymore. I don’t want it in my blood,” I said, looking over at J from the passenger seat of my rental car. “I’m not going to take it anymore.”
“Okay, honey,” he said, calm and gentle. “But you’ll never be able to quit Xanax.”
J had seen firsthand the severity of my panic attacks.
The 911 calls, the emergency room visits, and the tears that followed from feeling like I had zero control of my body, mind, and emotions.
And we both knew benzos alter your brain chemistry so you need them fast—and withdrawals can mean uncontrollable panic, hallucinations, body aches, brain zaps, depression, or feeling suicidal.
Take it from me: Xanax is a bitch to quit. It kicks on the way out.
But my soul was desperate for a change. It knew what it needed. Just like I knew to leave home at fourteen and never look back to save myself, my soul knew it was time to quit.
And we were weeks away from getting Bailee.
I told J that I wanted to be a better example for her.
I just couldn’t do that to her. Her coming into our home was a monumental catalyst for both me and J to change our lives.
His change would be gradual—it’s something I’d grow to learn about him.
My change was abrupt, like everything I do—I make a decision and off I fucking go.
For the first time ever, I felt my relationship was a safe place where I could heal. We had a clean slate, and he saw all my flaws and still kissed them ever so gently.
I went cold turkey. I was done with pills and cocaine, but it would be a while before I let go of the alcohol. Either way, nothing could have prepared me for sobriety. Not even Jesus Himself.
* * *
THEY SAY IN ORDER TO see the light, you have to go through the darkness.
A month into not taking pills, my brain was flooded with all the feelings I had numbed out my entire life.
Being numb to the world, you could walk through World War III and not even flinch.
Being sober—not so much. You jump at every sound, and the overstimulation of the world weighs heavy on you. I was scared of everything.