Crystal Clean by Kimberly Wollenburg Page B

how to make that happen. As much as I wanted to be with my family, I also wanted meth, and I knew I couldn’t have both. Meth didn’t judge me regardless of how much I needed it. Meth was always there and it always made me feel good. Meth won.
    “There was just too much tension between us, Mom. Especially with Dad and me. If we want to be okay, if we still want to be a family again in the future, I can’t be there right now. I’m sorry. I’m all right, though. Everything will be okay soon.”
    “Where are you getting the money for a hotel?”
    “I got my taxes back.” God damn it. I wanted her to quit asking me questions so I wouldn’t have to lie to her. I hated lying.
    “Tell Andy I love him if you don’t think it will make him feel worse about me not being there. And Mom, thank you for taking care of him.”
    “You can come see him, you know.”
    “Really?”  In my mind, leaving Andy with them and sneaking off in the middle of the night was unforgivable, and I assumed they felt the same way. It hadn’t occurred to me that they would ever let me back in the house. I still couldn’t believe my mother was talking to me, saying she missed me. I couldn’t believe she didn’t hate me. I hated me. I assumed everyone else did too.
    “Of course, Kimbo. He needs to see you.”
    “Okay. Let me figure something out and I’ll call you. I love you, Mom. Thanks for not hanging up on me.” I was crying again and so was she
    “Why would I hang up on you?”
    “I thought you guys would hate me and never want to see me again.”
    “Sweetheart, I could never hate you. You’re my baby, and I love you. I just want everything to be okay. I’m worried about you and I want you to be safe. Are you taking your depression medication?” Shit. Again with the questions.
    “I’m taking them, but I’m almost out.” I hadn’t taken my meds in at least two months. My prescriptions ran out. But I was self-medicating as usual. Meth was all I needed.
    “You know your father and I told you if you ever need your medication, we’ll pay for it.”
    “I know, Mom.” That’s the one thing they would always help me with, but I couldn’t ask for help. If I were drowning, I wouldn’t take a hand offered to me. I’d just keep saying, “I got it. It’s okay. I can do this,” and I would go under, gurgling the words as my lungs filled with water.
    “I love you, Mom. I’ll call in a couple of days.”
    “I love you too, Kimbo. You take care of yourself.”
    The first thing I did when I hung up was get high, smoking furiously until I was numb. I did little else but stay on that bed smoking meth for the next three days. It didn’t occur to me, then and for a very long time, that I was an addict. On some level, I think I knew that meth had a hand in my circumstances, but I was in such denial that I never allowed those thoughts to surface. I convinced myself that all my problems were the result of a string of unfortunate circumstances, and the more meth I smoked, the easier it became to believe my own rationalizations.
    I truly thought that if I ever wanted to stop using, I would be able to. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. But I saw no reason to quit. I loved doing drugs and the main fringe benefit of dealing was the never-ending supply. I had all I wanted of the best stuff around. I figured the people who had meth induced psychotic breaks either had inferior product or couldn’t handle their high. I thought I was different. I thought I was safe. I didn’t shoot up, I took care of my teeth, I ate, although infrequently, but I certainly wasn’t emaciated, and I slept almost every day, at least for a couple of hours. I could handle my high because for me, it was my typical state of being. I wasn’t like other people. I used meth as medicine so I could feel normal. I didn’t see myself as having a drug problem. My problem was depression and always had been. That was my battle. I was just lucky enough to have fallen in with