"Yeah," I said.

She sat motionless.

I wasn't offering any explanations. Personally, I didn't want to talk about it. Never wanted to talk about it.

No sense in dwelling on the past. What's done is done.

"Can we move on?" I asked, irritated by the uncomfortable silence and the forced memories.

"Ah, y-yeah," Sam stammered as she squirmed around in her chair in an attempt to regroup herself. She returned to the questions on her sheet.

"When was the last time you used?"

"My last hit was around four or four-thirty this morning." Since she'd asked about "using" and not "drinking," I didn't mention the gin I guzzled during my walk to Ken's office.

She made a notation on her sheet.

"And I'm way past due for another one," I said smugly. I'd long since become proud of how hardcore I was; I took sort of a perverse pride in being more widely and deeply into drugs and alcohol than anyone I knew. The dope world was one I knew well, and using was something I was good at-the only thing I was good at. So I guess I was showing off now that I had a chance to talk about it. At the same time, I truly believed I was beyond redemption; there was no coming back from the wretched hell I'd spiraled into.

The checking-in process was wrecking my nerves, what with all of the childhood-memory recalls and the questions. No wonder I was having trouble deciphering whether I was talking to myself or talking out loud. I needed a drink, a hit, a toot, a . . . something.

I looked up and was surprised to see Sam staring at me, as if she were trying to read my mind. I smiled sheepishly and gazed down at the carpet. Neither of us said anything for a few moments.

Finally, Sam broke the uncomfortable silence. "Well, that's why you're here, isn't it?"

I'm here to learn to do it right.

"So, there won't be any more 'hits,' right?"

No more hits!

She stood up and announced that the questioning was over. And not a moment too soon, as far as I was concerned. As we walked out of her office, Sheila stood to greet us. Sam politely informed her that there was nothing else she could do; I was now in the hospital's care, so she could leave. Sheila gave me a long, warm hug, and told me that everything would be all right.

Once Sheila disappeared out the front door, Sam gently nudged me and said we had to finish checking me in.

She shuffled me off to another room where the physical part of the check-in began. In a daze, I did what I was told to do and sat where I was told to sit while a nurse checked my blood pressure and took my temperature. For the whole time, I remained silent and my facial expression remained blank. My mind was going numb from the sudden tedium after all of the day's craziness, until it was time for me to be weighed. I stepped on the scale and watched the thin black needle swing back and forth until it finally stopped just before 100.

"I weigh ninety-nine pounds?" I was in shock. I'd never weighed myself. Oh, I knew I was thin; I just never realized how thin.

"Ninety-eight," the nurse corrected me. Her disinterested facial expression never changed as she wrote the numbers down on her chart.

"Shit!" I said. "I'm a skinny shit!"

"Oh, girl," she said casually, "I've seen them thinner."

"You've seen people thinner than me?" I asked in disbelief.

She nodded and finished her checkup.

I was then passed on to another nurse who showed me around the unit and introduced me to the staff. She also informed me of the rules: drinking alcohol or using any drugs would result in my immediate discharge. Any and all prescription drugs would be handed out by hospital staff.

Oh, so y'all DO have drugs here? I was starting to perk up; maybe rehab wouldn't be so bad.

Continuing with the rules, the nurse told me that I was not to leave the facility for any reason. When I did leave, I'd have to get a pass. Passes were given by merit, not as a matter of right. I had to attend all 12-step meetings held at the facility. I would also have daily "group" meetings, as well as daily one-on-one counseling sessions.

Shit, I wasn't this busy at work!

The nurse still wasn't finished. We could receive or make phone calls only during certain times in the mornings and evenings, and all calls were limited to ten minutes. When I wasn't in a meeting, group session, or individual counseling, I would be given, and expected to do, various reading and writing assignments. Visitors were allowed only during visiting hours, and all visitors had to sign in and were subject to being searched.

To be sure I wouldn't forget what she'd told me, the nurse gave me a paper with all of the rules written on it. I had to sign another paper to acknowledge I'd been informed of the rules and received a copy of them.

After being allowed to take a shower, I was taken to my room. It was a plain hospital room: two twin beds, one dresser with eight drawers (four on each side), and a nightstand for each bed. Normally, there were two women or men in each room; but my roommate wasn't coming for a day or two, so I'd have the entire room to myself for a while, which was good. I wasn't in the mood for company. I plopped down on one of the beds and looked at the clock on the dresser. The bright red numbers informed me it was 4:15 P.M.

With a sigh, I asked the nurse what else I had to do. She said the rest of the night was mine to do what I pleased. She suggested I unpack my things and put them away and then try and get some rest because the next day would be a busy one.

I unpacked my raggedy clothes. Once my things were put away, I lay down and tried to get some sleep. I tossed and turned and tossed and turned. I knew I was exhausted; I hadn't slept in days. My body was tired, my eyes were tired. Hell, even my mind seemed tired. But, try as I might, I couldn't sleep. Frustrated, I tried counting sheep. When that didn't work, I tried counting blunts. Then beers. Then lines. After a while, I sat up in the bed. The small radio clock on the nightstand informed me it was 12:30 in the morning. It had almost been twenty-four hours since I'd had anything to drink or use.

What the fuck are you doing here? I asked myself.

You need help, I answered.

Help with what? Girl, you're fine.

No, I'm not.

Yes, you are.

No, I'm NOT! I haven't slept in days and I STILL can't get to sleep!

Girl, you're FINE. You just need to learn control.

Oh, what the fuck do YOU know!

I realized I was losing it. Not only was I talking to myself, I was arguing with myself.

I was agitated. The room was too quiet. My thoughts were too loud. Suddenly I noticed that the room had grown cold. I put on a sweater. Minutes later, I was burning up. I threw it on the floor. My legs felt cramped, so I jumped up and began to walk around the room to stretch them. Then they started shaking and felt weak, so I sat down.

What's happening to me?

I'd never felt that way before. I looked down at my hands. They were shaking too. But that didn't surprise me; I'd seen them do that before-usually first thing in the morning before I'd had a drink. Experience had taught me that it was only after I'd had that first drink that my hands would stop shaking. All of a sudden I really needed a drink. It wasn't just a desire for one; it was more like an intense compulsion.

"I gotta get outta here! I gotta get outta here!" I started shouting over and over again.

Seconds later, the door flew open and two nurses came running in.

"Are you all right?" one of them asked as she placed her hand against my forehead. The other immediately grabbed my arm and began to take my blood pressure.

I don't need my blood pressure taken, you idiot! I wanted to scream. I need a drink!

"Some-something's wrong," I stammered. "I don't feel so well."

"How long has it been since you used or drank anything?" one of them asked.

What the fuck does that have to do with anything?

"I don't know. Sometime early yesterday morning," I replied irately.

My heart was pounding a mile a minute, and the shaking in my hands was getting worse. I'd started sweating profusely, and my legs were wobbly. Something was happening to me, and I didn't know what it was. I was scared.

"You're probably starting withdrawals," one of the nurses said.

"Starting?" I asked.

"Yeah, sweetie. It will get worse before it gets better."

Where had I heard that before?

She suggested I try to get some sleep.

"I tried to sleep!" I yelled. "I can't sleep! I've been trying for hours now!"

One of the nurses darted out of the room. The other tried to convince me to sit down. Once I did, she began rubbing my back while softly talking to me. She explained that part of getting clean meant that my body would have to go through a physical withdrawal period-a period that obviously had already started. When I asked if such a thing was normal, she replied that different people "kicked" differently: some could go days without drinking and using before experiencing any withdrawal symptoms, some only hours, and still some never felt anything at all. She surmised that, since I was starting withdrawal so soon, I must have been using "quite a bit for quite a long time."

The other nurse returned with both her hands full: one held a small plastic cup filled with water; the other held a small paper cup containing two small pills. She handed me the paper cup with the pills. I didn't ask what they were; I didn't care, as long as they were drugs. As she handed me the plastic cup of water she said that the pills would "help me sleep," or at the least, help me relax.

I quickly tossed back the pills, and then lay down and stared at the ceiling. Slowly the pills took effect and I drifted off to sleep.

It seemed like no sooner than I'd fallen asleep the lights flashed on and a nurse was happily informing me it was time to get up.

"What time is it?" I asked as I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes.

"Six o'clock!" she replied joyfully.

I was not joyful. I was tired.

"Listen, I haven't slept in four days. I couldn't get to sleep last night. And the minute I did start catching some shut-eye, yo' happy ass busted in here and woke me up. Now, I'm tired and I'm sleepy, so I'm going back to sleep. If you don't like it, you can put me out. But, you'll have to do it once I wake up, 'cause if anyone wakes me up again, I'm goin' the fuck off!"

I turned over and put the covers over my head. She scampered out of the room.

I later learned that she had spoken with the head nurse about how to handle the situation. The head nurse talked with the nurses who'd given me the pills the night before. They confirmed that I hadn't been able to sleep and seemed to be in the beginning stages of withdrawal. Then the head nurse spoke with Sam, the woman who had checked me in. She confirmed that I had indeed been up smoking crack for four consecutive days. It was then that she told the nurses that it was probably best to let me sleep, especially since I wouldn't be able to digest any "recovery" if I was dog-tired.

I slept all that day and into the night; I slept straight through without waking once. The nurses took turns checking on me. I didn't change positions; I didn't go to the bathroom. I never moved. I was dead to the world.

- By my third night, I began to see things-spiders, specifically. Hundreds and hundreds of little purple spiders with red legs. They were marching all over the place singing, "We will, we will, rock you!" Each time they sang "rock," they'd throw up a small crack rock. At first, I watched in amazement as they began marching up the curtains, dresser, and nightstands while throwing their little rocks in the air like confetti. I even began swaying to their music and singing along with them. It wasn't till they began marching toward me that I lost it.

"Get away from me! Get away from me!" I screamed, frantically swiping and swatting at them. There were too many of them. Soon, they were marching along my arms and legs, crawling up my back, even going into my ears.

My screams of "Get away from me!" quickly changed to "Get off of me!"

Hearing my screams, nurses rushed in and found me clawing at my body.

"Get 'emoff me! Help get these lil fuckas offa me!" I continued screaming as I clawed and scratched at the spiders that, unbeknownst to me, only I could see. My fingernails were digging into my skin so deep that, in some places, they had drawn blood.

Having seen this scene before, the nurses immediately jumped into action. To keep me from hurting myself any more, they tied me down and gave me a shot, which I later learned was some sort of sedative. As the medicine took effect and I began to drift off, I remember shivering in fear, crying, and begging to the nurses to untie me because, if the little spiders returned, I wouldn't be able to get them because my hands were tied down. The nurses pacified me by promising that, if my spiders returned, they'd help me stomp the shit out of them.

Slowly, the DTs reduced in intensity and occurrence, though it took several days before they stopped completely. I went from seeing invisible spiders and clawing at myself to hiding in a corner, curled into a fetal position and bawling uncontrollably to sweating so much that by the end of each day my clothes would be soaked completely through. At night I had to lie on top of towels to help absorb the sweat.

During my first counseling session, after the DTs had stopped for good, I learned that the DTs were a part of the alcohol (and sometimes drug) withdrawal process, and that they're often accompanied by hallucinations. The counselor warned me to remember the whole horrible experience whenever I thought about taking another drink. I wasn't sure if a fear of DTs would stop me from drinking, but I surely wouldn't forget them.

One of my first assignments at Mesa Vista was to write a good-bye letter to my drug of choice. I refused to do it because, as I explained to my counselor, I really didn't have a "favorite" drug-my favorite was whatever was free. To prove my point, I listed all of the different drugs I used at least occasionally. Once I finished my list, I proudly showed it to him, expecting him to be impressed. He reviewed the list and handed it back to me disinterestedly. He explained to me that I was what they called a "trash-can junkie"-someone that would, and did, do any drug. I actually liked this label because it described me accurately. Still, he said I could pick only one drug for the letter. I still refused, and we argued back and forth about the issue. Finally, we came to a compromise and agreed to a slight change in the assignment: I would write two good-bye letters-one to every drug I'd ever done, and one specifically to crack because it was the one I preferred when I had money, and it was the one that had brought me to my last residence: a Dumpster.

Writing those letters was an eye-opener. I spent hours on them. I finally got brutally honest about my using. I talked about the effect they'd had on my life, my mind, my body, and my family. The letters helped me see the progression of my using as well as its treacherous end. As I got deeper into the letters, it all started becoming clear: there was no longer any denying it because it was laid out in front of me in black and white and in my own handwriting. Job or no job, school or no school, married or unmarried, I was definitely an addict. By the end of the second letter, I was crying so hard, my tears were smearing the ink on the paper.

The revelations in those letters helped me fight cravings to use. While I was in the hospital I didn't get many cravings, but the few I did have were immediately put to rest when I reread the good-bye letters. But the letters alone weren't enough to completely stop my cravings. Luckily, the hospital's rehab program was so intense that, most of the time, I was too busy to have a craving-between attending group sessions and individual counseling sessions, doing my writing and reading assignments and going to meetings, both on and off site-my day was so full, I usually plopped into bed totally exhausted. The totality of it all-the hospital's controlled environment, the intense daily schedule, and the camaraderie and support of being with other patients fighting the same struggle-helped me successfully fight the few cravings I did have.

Besides writing the letters, I had to write about the effort getting high took. At first, I didn't think it took effort, but the more I wrote, the more I realized that staying high wasn't easy. It took work-constant work and hard work: locating dope; trying to avoid getting bunk dope; hustling and bustling trying to get the best deal; ditching cops; lying, robbing, and stealing for get-high money; the necessity of suspiciously watching doper friends as vigilantly as they were watching me.

- It was at Mesa Vista that I started attending 12-step meetings, though it was a few days into my stay before I got to one. I first had to get over the DTs to the point where I could sit still and concentrate. As soon as I was better, I was put on a strict recovery regime, which included attendance of all 12-step meetings "on site," which was a separate, classroom-size building located on the rear acreage of the hospital. None of the 12-step meetings were sanctioned by the hospital, which simply meant that the hospital wasn't responsible for any of the 12-step meetings. The meeting groups just rented space from Mesa Vista, and each meeting chose its own format, etc. The majority of the attendees weren't even hospital patients.

To get to the meeting building from the hospital, you had to go through a delightfully tranquil Japanese-style garden. The garden was one of my favorite places in the hospital. It was filled with marvelously fragrant flowers, a Japanese pond filled with colorful fish, and several benches placed here and there for patients to use when visiting with family and friends, sitting and meditating, enjoying the melody of the chirping birds, or just taking pleasure in the warm Southern California sun. Also in the garden, close to the meeting facility's entranceway, stood a large beautiful tree. Its thick brown branches stretched out over the garden like a maze suspended in air, providing shade to anyone who sat under them.

At first, I didn't want to go to any meetings. I remembered the 12-step meeting Daddy had taken me to, and I remembered that it didn't work. In fact, that same night I'd gotten high using their book to cut my dope on. But when I tried to ditch the meetings, a counselor told me that I didn't have a choice-they were mandatory.

The first meeting I went to only intensified my initial hesitance. First, the room was full of white folks. Although there were several minority patients in rehab with me, everyone from the "outside" who attended the meeting that night was white. There were men and women of various ages, shapes, and sizes-but all of them were white. As I stood in the building's doorway, looking around, I couldn't help but see one particular guy on the far side of the room. He was a burly fellow with a wide friendly smile-a smile he gave to everyone who walked through the door, including me. His dark brown mustache and goatee all matched the dark brown hair on his head-at least the hair that stuck out from under his hat. Although it was his friendly smile that caught my attention, it was his hat that kept it. He wore a red baseball cap with "SICK FUCKER" in bold white letters on the front. My eyes bulged when I saw it. But they damn near jumped out of my head when I noticed what he was doing with his hands. He was playing with a rope, and it looked like he was trying to form a noose at one of the ends. It was at that moment that I refused to move any farther into the building. All I kept thinking was that those white folks and "Sick Fucker" were going to use that noose to hang me from that big ol' tree in the garden.

One of the patients standing behind me gently nudged me in the back and whispered for me to "keep going." I looked behind me and was shocked to see a line of patients waiting to get inside. I thought about stepping aside, letting them enter, and then making my way back to my room. But just then, one of the nurses began making her way to the front of the line to find out what was causing the holdup. Seeing her moving so fast and the annoyed look on her face told me that I couldn't turn back. Yet I didn't want to go in. Before I could think of an escape, the nurse was in my face. Through clenched teeth, she instructed me to find a seat. I had no choice. I had to go in. But, I decided to keep my eye on Sick Fucker.

Twenty minutes into the meeting I was glad I hadn't turned around. In fact, I was thankful the nurse had forced me inside because I actually enjoyed the meeting. Even though I was one of only a few black people in the room, I still felt connected to everything being said. I understood each hellacious story of detriment and degradation caused by drugs. As people talked about their using behavior, I was forced to remember my own similar accounts of things that drugs had compelled me to do-things I never imagined I'd do, and things I'd swore I'd never do.

At first, I suspected that Daddy or Ken had paid the people in the meeting to be there and to say the things they said in order to convince me that I had a drug problem. But as I listened to them and their stories, I knew they were talking from experience. These people weren't acting. They were bona fide dope fiends-just like me.

Out of everyone at the entire meeting, I liked Sick Fucker most of all. He said he'd been clean for several years. He welcomed the new people (he looked at me when he said that) and told us that we never had to use again. That sentence blew me away, especially since he said it with such plainspoken seriousness and sincerity. But I didn't believe he'd really been completely clean for years. Everybody I knew did something. I was sure he did too. Still, he was funny and friendly-even his burliness made him appear cute and cuddly, sort of like Santa Claus. By the end of the meeting, I was no longer afraid of him. I was no longer afraid of the rope. In fact, I was no longer afraid of any of those white people. I actually wanted to hang with them.

As usual, I took it too far: that night I decided that black folks were my problem. Every bad thing that had happened to me had been done by a black person-the sperm donor, Pete, Diane and her sick-ass daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Bassinet, the Gangstas, the Rollin' 60's who shot me, the dope men, the dope friends, Tommy-every single one of them had been black ("business arrangements" didn't count-that was business). I convinced myself that if I stayed away from black folks and just stuck with white folks, I could get my life together. I'd be all right.

After that I loved going to the meetings. I especially loved hearing everyone in the room scream "Hi, Cupcake!" when I introduced myself. As crazy as it sounds, I used to cry when I heard the theme song from the television show "Cheers": Wouldn't you like to go where everybody knows your name?

And they're always glad you came . . .

For years, I'd longed for a place where I could go and be a part of it; where people knew my name and were glad to see me. The dope man didn't want to know my name, and he was only glad to see me if I had money in hand. I didn't want other dopers to know my name, and they were only glad to see me if I came with a free high for them. In fact, in street life, no one was ever glad to see anyone coming-unless you had money, dope, or both. But the people at the meetings were different. They all knew my name and always seemed so damned happy to see me. And I didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of.

A couple of weeks after starting treatment, I began to get passes to attend meetings off site. I didn't have a car, so I was forced to go with a patient that did. A white girl named Karen had been at Mesa Vista a few days longer than me and loved going to outside meetings. Figuring that, as a white person, she knew where the white folks hung out, I trailed behind her every chance I got.

One day, as we hopped into her car, she announced that we were going to a new meeting.

"Cool," I replied as I strapped on my seat belt. Since swearing off blacks, I was always down for meeting new white folks. As she drove, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the ride. As a result, I didn't pay much attention to where she was going. The next thing I knew, she pulled up in front of a little brown building on Imperial Avenue in an area of San Diego known as Southeast, where the majority population is black and Mexican. The sign on the front of the building read "Southeast Alano Club" in large letters.

"What the fuck is an 'Alano Club'?" I asked as she gleefully hopped out of the car.