Sometime during the first night, a transvestite came in. I heard a man and thought "isn't this women's only?" He took the bed beside me, and smelled like a man, but in the morning I could see that he was a she. or whatever. He coughed loudly and said "there's the crack coming up." Everyone laughed. um ok. I guess that was funny, I really wouldn't know. I roll out of bed and linger. It's a tiny intake room full of 8 plastic beds and about 4 crack addicts. It's dark, so we can sleep and they bring us good food. The stinky crack injector is there, and she looks like what you would imagine she would look like. Not much happens for 3 days, I'm detoxing, which involves eating, smoking, sleeping, sweating, and reading. I'm the only one that reads. Thanks god I brought a book. By day 2 I'm bored. Detoxing off alcohol and oxy is not the same as crack and heroin. I beg to be let on the other side. Everyone else is argumentative and snotty. I am sweet and compliance. They won't even let me have coffee for fucks sakes! I eat, and drink tea, and eat, and smoke, and eat and sleep. Finally they let me go to an AA meeting on the other side. Ya! My first ever. How exciting. I read and for the first time in my life I have to say "hi my name is jenny and i'm an addict." That is soooo weird. Way weirder then anyone could ever imagine it to be, like everything suddenly becomes real and present. People cry. I don't.

Eventually I get let over to the other side, where I have a room to myself and have to wake up at 7. We have meetings and activities all day. Believe it or not, but I love it. I need the structure. I crave the responsibilities. I get to watch Criminal Minds one night on the communal tv (after I made the hardcore street crack addicts change the channel, nobody NOBODY gets in the way of my Matthew Gray Gubler) and they make me turn it off at 11. I welcome it! After a year of drinking 2 bottles of wine and passing out on my couch, it is refreshing. It is needed.

2 hard crack addicts. They know each other from the streets. They share stories of how to make a dealer think you're blowing him longer with a rock so they can get more from them. I have nothing in common with these women. One night, as we watch Criminal Minds and talk about the longest we've been up on crack at a time (clearly I only listen, one girl was 18 days), we decided to break a lock on the fridge in the kitchen and steal rockey road ice cream. Craving sweets like they are they drug, we eat so much until we think we will puke. We laugh and joke. These girls are just girls, they are my age, they have come on unfortunate circumstances and their demons are heavier then mine, but for a small moment in time, we are the same. We are on one level. We look in each other's eyes and know we share a life disease of addiction. Is their's worse then mine? Yes. If I saw them on the street, in the corner, in their rags, with a crack pipe hanging from their mouth and a dealer's dick in their hand would I say hi? Absolutely not. But at the moment, it didn't matter. We were struggling, in the same place, at the same time, and we needed companionship. During that 5 days, when I should've been the loneliest in my life, I for once, felt like one of everybody else.

I awaken in the darkness. I hear voices. Loud and whispers. I am drenched in sweat, disillusioned and have no idea where I am. The bed is hard and the air smells heavy and sweet, like sweat, rotten fruit and dirty clothes.
"she's coming in again. we can't let her stay long."
"she can only stay a few days."
"she's started injecting crack, which is dangerous, we have to give her a place for at least 24 hours."
I slowly open my eyes and see nothing but the inside of my blanket. Moving it out of my eyes aside I see shadows and remember.

a bath, the water, the vodka, the pain. the blade, it seemed like such a good idea, release the pain, the pain, and then suddenly the blood, oh god the blood, too much blood, i can see the vain underneath, it gushes, no no i don't want to die. that's not what i wanted. not this time. stop. oh god what did i do, please stop. and then the thread. the needle. sew it up. there was some show on tv about dogs, it was about 5 am, i don't know. the wound is closed. there is still vodka. i still drink.
next i know my mom is there. i show her what i did. i am stumbling and vomiting. she is horrified. i think it's great! who else can sew up their own arm so well? we are on the way to the hospital. i shake. i shake and i shake. i'm in a room. the doctor says my pancreas is inflamed. she says my sewing job is awesome. i'm so proud. my mom cries. she reads me the alchemist. i stick random things in my ears. eventually, i pass out. i wake up hungover and in pain. next thing i know, i'm here. women's only detox. i am here to stay. this is the beginning of the rest of my life. that's what i think.

but this is only the beginning of a long, hard, relapse filled existence that i call a life. oh how we can be so hopeful.

I will go back and write about everything that's happened since May, a lot, but really not that much. I'm still the same person, a tad more sober, with a hell of a lot less binges, but they do exist. A little on my personality disorder....

I am starting to see borderline as something separate from myself. It hangs beside me, next to me, and follows me around. It makes bad, rash decisions, even when my brain says otherwise. It creeps into my heart and grabs it and doesn't let go. I hate it. I hate borderline personality disorder. I realize that it is just a label, a page in the DSM-IV, that describes all the symptoms that haunt my life. It lingers in the shadows when I'm feeling good, and lurches forward when I'm not. It makes me feel inadequate as a human being, like people like me, who aren't whole, are not worthy to walk on this perfect earth, with the rest of the perfect beings, to feel love and to give love. Of course this world is tainted, and many live in worse misery but the borderline only allows me to think of myself. To see everyone else's lives as perfect but my own.
I hate borderline for making me drink myself into oblivion.
I hate borderline for making me act irrationally and follow my impulses.
I hate borderline for making me cut myself and have to cover the scars with tattoos.
I hate borderline for making me stay in an abusive relationship for four years that almost killed me and destroyed my chance at ever being able to love normally again.
I hate borderline for making me blame all my problems on my personality disorder....which may very well not even exist.