Authors: Joe Putignano
Acrobaddict (41 page)
After class, I opened up to Jonathan and told him about my past. The deep stretching and breathing of the class brought forth the truth, and that poor guy listened patiently as I vomited my story all over him. I imagined that happened to him often after a session, as we become vulnerable in pain. When pushed to our physical limits, there is a moment when we have to let go and surrender to the agony. I told him I was a heroin addict, with almost four months of recovery, and was trying to reclaim my life. He was honored I told him the truth. He opened up a little about his own story and about how and why he became a contortionist.
I saw him again for another class, and we talked about the art of contortion versus the sport of gymnastics. Many people viewed contortionism as a freak-show skill, but Jonathan was preserving the traditional artistry of strength and flexibility. To him it was a beautiful, moving mosaic pattern, following the connections of breath and body. When someone can feel that internally, then they can transport their emotions and experiences outward into their performance and practice.
We began talking privately, and emailing and texting. I was cautious because of my failed track record of making relationships work with Matt, Alejandro, and Jason. I needed to focus on recovery, but nature had other plans, and we started seeing each other. At first we were just having sex, but our relationship developed into genuine, caring feelings for each other. I was in recovery, with no agenda other than to enjoy spending time with him. I wanted nothing back from him and stopped taking classes—I was too stubborn and wanted to stretch my own way. I could feel myself moving in a more positive direction.
Rehearsals for the opera started up in a small dance room underneath the giant complex of the Met with stories circulating of the vastness and history of the yet unseen stage. The other gymnasts and I were extremely honored to have this job, and we took it very seriously. The choreographer ran us through the dance with the corps de ballet, and then we practiced the acrobatic stage combat—a small fight scene with armed guards, flipping, jumping, and battling our way off stage. It was a good time, and I could see why people wanted this as a
full-time career. My boss at the
Times
gave me time off for rehearsals and performances.
With two jobs I was making more money than ever, and that made me nervous. Money never lasted long in my life. I sometimes believed my drug problem was purely financial and the problem was never having enough money to use as much as I desired. My addict’s reasoning was more money meant more drugs. But I couldn’t use now, could I? About to do my first paid performance in front of 3,800 people, how could I manage to do that high? The more energy I put into those thoughts, the stronger the overwhelming desire to use became. I tried finding loopholes in my recovery life, places I could slip off to without anyone noticing, and then began creating alibi scenarios in my head to cover myself if I were caught or suspected. I was already too deep in the thought process and knew using was inevitable—my disease of addiction was stronger than the recent successes I was experiencing in life. Without thinking of the consequences, I relapsed back into my familiar warm highs.
Jonathan only knew me in recovery, and I would now have to act sober around him while high. We had only been dating for two months, and I was working so much I thought I could easily hide my heroin use from him. He lived five blocks away, and Kimi’s street was between the two of us, making for another bizarre love triangle. If I shot up I would just avoid Jonathan and try seeing him the next day. He would call me early in the morning to meet for coffee, and I always answered the phone as if I had just woken up from a coma, then met him downstairs at the newest cafe. I wanted to show up with the light of morning in my eyes, but instead consistently crawled out from my crypt, slightly detoxing, cold, sniffing, and sitting uncomfortably on the hard chair. I felt horrible that I was never fully present, but I couldn’t pull it together in the morning. He would sit there, somehow tolerating an hour of my negativity as I cursed my existence into a coffee cup.
The next month I was in and out of recovery as we continued rehearsing the show. At first I was fearful to show up high, but quickly got over that after no one seemed to notice. In a way it helped—I could no
longer feel the impact of the hard floor in my ankles. Opening night was approaching, and I had to decide whether to get clean now or do the show high. It would take a few days to detox and I couldn’t perform while dope sick, but could probably perform while high; it was one thing to be on stage numb, but sweating, throwing up, and shivering would be impossible. With a month until opening, the window of opportunity was closing—get clean or stay high.
My repeated relapse reignited my self-hatred. After all my hard work, I so easily lost my recovery. Yet I continued going to twelve-step meetings, attempting to combat my addiction. It was such a simple concept—surrender to win—but I was stuck in a dark cycle of having a few days clean off dope and then going back out. Between rehearsals, the newspaper, and my needles and spoons I trained extremely hard, trying to become a contortionist. Some days I stretched while detoxing, which I don’t recommend to anyone. My spine would burn from the lack of opiates in my system and I would push myself in backbends, trying to rip my muscles apart and lengthen them. I was so driven to transform and become this other thing that even though I was dope sick, I still tried to stretch with aching bones, fighting through pain and addiction with my desire to get clean.
I was back again, running out of options for a cure. I tried self-help books, veganism, organic teas, Dr. Phil, voodoo, the South Beach Diet, Oprah, twelve-step meetings, vitamins, witchcraft, contortionism, and anything else that seemed like it could help me. I was desperate for answers, and a friend recommended a psychic and said maybe she could give me some direction. I always had a thing for psychics because of my deep love for the supernatural, and thought maybe she could provide some insight. In desperation, I went to see if my life would soon end in a grave of my own digging.
I expected to meet a one-eyed woman covered in organic corn husks and crystals with a circle of light around her head, but instead I met Amie, a petite woman from Washington. She had a big smile and welcomed me into the place where she was doing her readings. I wasn’t high, but detoxing on my methadone cocktail. She asked
before we met to think of three questions I wanted answered. I didn’t care about wealth, success, love, or happiness—I just wanted to know if I would ever get into recovery. That question was written on my face. She took one look at me and said, “People think you are someone with good looks, and you are, but you’re something much greater. They don’t see what’s behind the vehicle; they don’t see into your soul. You don’t see what’s in your own soul. I know you’re a gymnast, but that isn’t your quest, that isn’t what you were sent here to do. You’re a writer. That’s your job, and you have something to tell the world.” She said, “Let me see your hands,” and I flipped them over. “Yes, I was right; this is what you will do someday.” Hearing that news was inspiring and invigorating, yet I didn’t care. All I wanted to know was when my next battle with a syringe would take place and if it would bring a peaceful conclusion either through life or death.
I said urgently, “I’m a drug addict and I can’t stay drug-free. Will I die or will I make it?”
She said, “You have two roads to take. If you keep going on this road it’s going to get much worse. I know you’ve already camped out in hell, but what lies ahead for you is going to make your skin crawl, and you won’t return from it. If you keep using you are going to be permanently damaged. You know, the Devil has a thing for you because you have such a strong light. He wants to devour that light and hold you forever.”
“What is the other path?”
“If you go back to twelve-step meetings and don’t give up, and keep trying, the spirits tell me that you will find a life of recovery by the time you are thirty.”
Those words sent rivers of hope into my blackened heart, but I didn’t think I could endure recovery. I didn’t think after all this time I could ever find myself again and carry on with the rest of humanity—I wanted to die.
I
N THE HUMAN BODY, THE INNER, LARGER OF THE TWO BONES OF THE LEG IS COMMONLY KNOWN AS THE SHINBONE, OR TIBIA, WHICH HAS ITS ROOTS IN A SIMILAR
L
ATIN WORD
. O
VER TIME, THE TIBIA ALSO CAME TO REFER TO A PIPE OR FLUTE DUE TO ITS RESEMBLANCE IN SHAPE TO THOSE MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS
.
Sigmund Freud believed that every person has an unconscious desire to be satisfied, still, and quiet, to have no needs or problems, and to be at peace. He called this state a death instinct, or having a wish to die. I was living life only to experience death. I was trying to find transcendence, peace, and silence, not knowing that those things defined the death instinct. The great promise of death is to release us from the struggles and burdens of our lives. I once believed nirvana meant a pure heavenly state, but its actual meaning is “to blow out”; attaining this goal is to extinguish the candle of our lives.
My own death instinct, expressed through my drug use, had created deep trauma in my life. But I was trying to escape trauma by using drugs, creating more trauma with my escape, and so it became a never-ending cycle. I had been using for so long, living in a constant state of extreme highs and lows, disappointment and depression, that my mind began to disconnect from reality by creating its own fantasy land. I believe that is the moment in an addict’s life when the line between sanity and insanity dissolves, when mental illness develops, forever engulfing us. The more times I traveled to that illusionary world, the less I was able to come back to the reality in which I was actually living. Even though externally it looked like I was going to
the same places and doing the same things, my inner life began to take on an Alice in Wonderland feel. I didn’t realize I was slowly going crazy, and that I was giving myself permission to do so by thinking,
If I’m this strung out all the time, I may as well surrender to the illusions of my mind
. I began to watch the world around me change.
My using was getting out of hand again, and it was reflected in my work. I would often shoot too much heroin and nod out at my desk. The worst part about shooting too much heroin was the nausea. I considered myself a “functioning” addict (an oxymoron, I know), which meant I usually knew how much to take. But sometimes I paid the consequences for misjudging the amount I needed in order to go out in public and be a good citizen of the world. The heroin would make me sick to my stomach without any warning, and the bathroom wasn’t near my desk, which meant I often didn’t make it. I would have literally two seconds to make it to the toilet, and it wasn’t close enough. I never got caught throwing up in the hallways, which I did on more than one occasion. I would just go back and tell my boss that someone got sick on the floor, commenting on how “wicked nasty” that was.
I had recently moved to another department, a new and rewarding move for me. I had more responsibilities now, and I desperately wanted to prove myself as an employee and as a human being who was capable of this job. I wanted my colleagues to like me, but, more importantly, I wanted to someday stay clean and have a future at that company.
My new department was on the news desk, located on the third floor. It was the hub of the newspaper, full of intelligent and hardworking editors and writers. They put out the first page of the newspaper every day, recreating several different editions as the news changed before the deadline, which it often did. I felt like I was working in a shark tank, with time’s sharp teeth constantly circling us, waiting to attack.
I was the least educated person at the news desk, with everyone else having graduate degrees from universities such as Harvard, Yale, and
Columbia. All I had ever done was switch my major from cocaine to heroin. I can’t even begin to describe how unworthy I felt, and I was always terrified that someone was going to ask me for information about some current event or political policy—there were no politics in my world. There was only the decision to shoot heroin or not to shoot heroin. The only thing I’d ever gotten a diploma for was as a patient at a mental institution; I had graduated from living on the streets to having a bed in the homeless shelter. What could I possibly have to offer?
My job was to rewrite the tiny weather blurbs or “ears” that appeared at the top right of the front page each day, which would say something like “Cloudy, little rain, windy,” etc. I had around twenty different weather blurbs to do per day, which covered the entire country. I received the initial weather report from Penn State’s meteorology department and then revised it to fit into the little square of space.