*This Part III of my Group Therapy melodrama. You might want to check out Part I and Part II before reading this one.
In the which Rabid (before she was Rabid) has Group Therapy with the police department.
Anadrol and Percocet are a lethal combination. Anadrol is the among the strongest of androgenic steroids available. It was approved by the FDA for purposes of treating osteoporosis, anaemia and muscle growth in the underdeveloped. If a normal person (not undernourished) takes Anadrol, they will become "as big as a house." Bodybuilders use this Anadrol (among others) in four-ish week cycles to become as big as houses. They inject the drug for a few weeks to increase size, then diet down to a competition state. As far as I know, most bodybuilders cannot compete while currently using a steroid because the steroid causes them to store too much fat. Too much fat means the striations and whatnot cannot be seen. Gotta see the striations. Did you notice the convenience of this steroid cycle business? Bodybuilders are "clean" when they compete and will therefore pass the drug test and proclaim themselves "natural." Total freaks if you ask me, but whatever.
We all know what Percocet is, right? It's a pain pill. A strong one with highly addictive qualities. Not as addictive as Morphine, mind you, but almost.
Jimmy (the EX) was using both. Obviously it had a considerable impact on my life because I had invested hours at group therapy for depressed women and Al-Anon. During one of my sack-lunch-Al-Anon huddles, I had a light bulb moment, one in which I seriously heard that "ding" that goes along with the light bulb flash (just like the cartoons.)
"I just realized," I said aloud, "that I'm not the one with the drug problem. And I'm doing all the work! That's messed up in so many ways." The other Al-Anoners clapped their hands and hollered, "Yeah for pre-Rabid! Yeah for pre-Rabid!" (It's "pre-Rabid" because it was before Rabid.)
Now this is when I had a heart-to-heart with Jimmy. I gave him an ultimatum of sorts that expressed how difficult it was to live like we were living. And that I would prolly leave if he kept up with the drugs. He screamed and kicked and rationalized and all that other stuff before he said, "Okay, I'll give it a go." I remember being scared to death for this conversation. Come to think of it, I remember being scared to death for the entire three years that we were married.
At the time of this conversation, Jimmy was using upwards of 25 Percocet a day. I don't know which dose, prolly any dose he could get his hands on, but 25 Percocet at any dose, is a serious amount Percocet. He decided to quit cold turkey. Which, as many of you know, is not a great idea. I spent about four days cleaning up his puke, wiping the cold sweats, and doing my best to control the endless thrashings.
After it was all said 'n done, I ended up doing this detox crap a total of three times. (And, yes, I earned the privilege of saying that I too did the detox. You should try it some time! All the cool-cats are doing it these days. It's like Doing the Hustle only there's no Van McCoy. Or disco bulbs. Or flashy platforms.)
Jimmy was clean from the Percocet for a few months. He refused to give up the Anadrol cycles, because, like, he had a competition coming. Oh and he was still doing the dope, which, you know, is just little kid stuff compared to the others. Life was still a bit scary, but okay.
One weekend in the Spring, my dad (Mikey), asked me to accompany him to Jellystone. Spring-time brings the baby animals in Jellystone and Mikey wanted to go watch 'em and take some pictures. We had a great time, he and I. We always have a great time.
I returned late on a Sunday evening. When I walked in the door, Jimmy was slurring his words, rolling his eyeballs, and scratching his nose uncontrollably. Jimmy was loaded. Load. Ed. So much for three months on the wagon, eh?
I went bezerk. We had a giant argument. Jimmy ran off and returned with a gun (Glock 19, for those of you interested), threw a bullet in the chamber and shoved it into my gut. "If I'm such an effer, why don't you just kill me now!"
How do you go more bezerk than bezerk? What's the word that describes that, 'cause that's what I did. I went bezerker. Then I ran out of the house, screaming "Help! Help! Help!" Jimmy ran after me, and in a Percocet-induced roid-rage, wrapped his meaty hooks around my neck and whispered, "You're going out."
I went out. He dragged me in the house and kept me there, against my will for a day.
Now this is where you, dear reader, are prolly thinking along the lines of "Oh goody. This is where we get to hear about Group Therapy with the police department!" Oh not quite yet, that comes later. I'm rather sad, and grossly ashamed, to admit that Group Therapy with the police department didn't come for a whole 'nother year.
The next day, Jimmy insisted I call in sick. So I did. You know, out of fear for my life and whatnot. Jimmy left late that night to work or fetch substances and I called my friend from work. Lou Who, my Guardian Angel for Life, retrieved me right directly, and kept me safe for a couple of weeks.
Jimmy and I spoke on the phone and I agreed to meet him in the presence of a third party. He picked some mousy, fraidy-cat therapist and we met. Long, boring story made short, I went back home, put my head down, and went to work. And work I did. Work, work, work. I loved my job. I loved the people I worked with. It was a good family to have. There were many times that I'd venture home, see Jimmy's car, say "ah crap," then return back to work. Many times. I think my boss liked me a lot that year. I was kicking some serious ass at work.
Since I was working so much, Jimmy felt neglected, and began schlepping around with a girl he worked with. They were both personal trainers and into their hot-tight bods, so they were a good, natural match. Well. OTHER THAN THE FACT THAT THEY WERE BOTH MARRIED! I found out about it on my birthday.
I told Jimmy that he and I were officially over. He said, "no we aren't, sister" and refused to leave. At this point, I turned into the praying type. I pled and pleaded for a whole week, that the Good Lord Above would deliver me from the bondage of that matrimony. I was too scared, insecure, and fragile to do it on my own. Please, please, please. Get. Me. Out.
One Sunday, we were having another one of those you-need-to-move-out-no-I-don't arguments. I flipped, which is perhaps three steps beneath going bezerk, tossed his muscle-head t-shirts around, and threw a soft mushy peach at the stove. Jimmy called the cops. Said, "My wife is abusive! I'm scared for my life!" Etcetera, etcetera. (What I wouldn't give for a copy of that phone call...)
So the door bell rings, and with hysterical sobs, I answer the door. Surprise! It's the cops! Jimmy comes around the corner wearing nothing but a pair of cut-offs, you know, so that the cops could see all those striations he works so hard for. One nice police officer took Jimmy to one room. The other nice police officer took me to the kitchen and asked for my story.
"I want a divorce," is what I said first. Then I informed the nice policeman (he really was nice, by the way) that I was living with an abusive drug-addict who had a girlfriend -- one who refuses to move out. I also whimpered on about how the house was mine; that it was mine before we were married.
The other nice police officer watched Jimmy pack his shit so as to say sianara while the other nice police officer escorted me to my daddy's house. Daddy opened his arms and held the blubbering idiot that I had become. I was blubbering, not because I was sad, but because the whole thing was so dang humiliating. (So humiliating that I'm telling it to the few thousand individual IP addresses that visit each month. Hehehe.)
Daddy told me he'd get me an attorney. Also told me everything would be okay.
Turns out he was right.
*I have two versions of this story. Both versions are accurate, but I've left out some stuff of a spiritual nature -- stuff I want the kiddies to hear but don't want strangers making fun of. If you're interested in hearing that version, let me know at therabidrunner (at) gmail (dot) com.