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This week was the 40th anniversary of Woodstock and I was reminded that there was a period in my life when all the heroes in my life were celebrities who had died of drug-overdoses. In my mind, I identified with Janis Joplin who splashed her pain so unapologetically all over the stage and drank alcohol with the essence of one pouring antiseptic on an open wound. Now that I look back with a sober mind, I chuckle and find that pretty telling. Upon reflection I have come to understand my veneration of such open and blatant self-destruction and my emulation of such tendencies as really a cry for help from a person (me) who felt utterly and hopelessly powerless to be comfortable in my own skin.I
In my unconscious mind, I hoped that somewhere, someone would swoop down and save me from myself. My low self-esteem was a torment no matter how many times people tried to talk me off its ledge. There aren’t enough compliments or expressions of love in the world for someone who doesn’t love themselves.
Friends would say to me, “you look pretty” and I would actually disagree and try to talk them out of their opinion. If someone gave me a compliment, I would counter with numerous other reasons why they were wrong and how I actually didn’t deserve their accolades.
The truth is that somewhere in my heart, I wanted to believe them. In a way, I was fishing for compliments, but like a black hole of need, anyone’s kind words got sucked into the void and would never register in my heart or head. I took a compliment as a call for debate. If we went back and forth with “point/counterpoint” in regard to my good/bad points, perhaps, eventually I would be talked into seeing myself the way other people saw me and I would suddenly agree…”hey! You’re right! I do deserve love and happiness!”
I didn’t understand that like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz… I had the power to free myself all along.
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Nine years ago, I came home from work to find my answering machine filled up with messages. Some were from people I hadn’t heard from in a long time saying things like, “Tara. Call me. It’s about Katrina.”
Since Katrina and I are both in recovery from addiction, my first thought was, “please… someone just tell me that she relapsed.” In my gut I knew that the truth was far worse and it was soon confirmed. She had suffered an aneurism and was now laying brain dead in a Staten Island hospital.
Her name was Katrina Devita. She was 42 years old when she died suddenly. More than a friend, she was a mentor.
I met her when I was 25 years old, deeply caught in the hopelessness and pain of active addiction. She had about 5 years clean and I was unsuccessfully struggling to put 24 hours in a row without using drugs together. She had had her own struggles, having once been homeless on the streets of Chico CA, at the time that we met she was studying to be a nurse while raising two kids all by herself.
I didn’t like her at first. She was nosy, bossy and had a lot of strong opinions. Come to think of it, we had a lot in common.
My 25-year-old self was filled with sadness, anger and self-destruction. I didn’t want to be in pain, but I didn’t know how not to be in pain. My attitude at the time was, “Life sucks. Convince me that I want to live.” I was a lot of work.
Perhaps because she saw herself in me, Katrina stepped up and became my Guardian angel. Never in my life had someone understood me so deeply. I remember talking to her on the phone for the first time and wondering if she was psychic. I didn’t understand how she could know me so well. Now I know that she understood my pain. I was not so unique as I thought. She had been where I was and knew that path. She was further down the path and had been fortunate enough to take road of recovery when she came to the fork in the road. Now she was holding a lamp and trying to guide me in that direction.
I didn’t go too willingly but she never gave up. For two years I struggled but Katrina never abandoned me. She spoke to me endlessly on the phone, she sewed my ripped clothes, she fed me and let me crash on her couch when no one else would have me. I became her shadow and all the while she spoke to me about the way life could be if I stopped hurting myself.
What ensued was an EXTREMELY long growth process and the direction wasn’t always “up!”
As we got to know each other more, our conversations naturally got deeper and more personal. I allowed myself to trust her – something I had stopped doing out of necessity and survival.
It is often said that religion is for people who are afraid of Hell and spirituality is for those who have already been there. This was the case with Katrina. I remember telling her that I didn’t think I would ever get clean because I didn’t believe in God.
“Native Americans believe that when we throw a rock across a river, we change the course of the river.”
She replied.
