Sponsored DISCLAIMER: This is a paid advertisement for California Behavioral Health, LLC, a CA licensed substance abuse treatment provider and not a service provided by The Fix. Calls to this number are answered by CBH, free and without obligation to the consumer. No one who answers the call receives a fee based upon the consumer’s choice to enter treatment. For additional info on other treatment providers and options visit www.samhsa.gov.Any Questions? Call Now To Speak to a Rehab Specialist
Losing License in Lindsay
By Timber Masterson
An over-the-hill Pee Wee Herman on a rusted out and rickety girl's 10 speed was the travesty you may have driven past, slowing only to make certain to splash a puddle of rainwater on me.
This is how I see myself these days of late as I tour around this small town on a third- hand bicycle. I've been reduced to this means of travel after having been bestowed a 90 day suspension of my prized Ontario Class G Drivers License.
It's tough enough for me to feel any sort of normalcy as a self-respecting human male, but now it appears I'm reduced to carrying my belongings in a shaky metal basket attached to this two-wheeled monstrosity. This machine has seen better days; one might say it's health is sub-par, poor or plain unwell, but alas, this is how I am traveling. Also, this whole ordeal places my flower-delivery job in the metaphoric toilet. No one wants broken, busted up daises delivered by a junkie cyclist.
My troubles began a few weeks back. Being wild for chemical relief, I thought it was a tremendous idea to blow what little clean time I had and find comfort in a nearby well-known hot-spot-for-drugs and proceed to inject fentanyl, or blue heroin, as it is called in these here parts. I obviously overshot the mark a little, as I was told later by the arresting officers, that I had to be revived by some Narcan by the n'er do wells and malcontents that inhabited the crack house that I chose to so visit on this Pleasant Valley Sunday afternoon.
The ambulance and police must have had the house under surveillance as it turns out I was followed unknowingly right to my vehicle where I proceeded to get in and drive, only to be stopped by Durham County's finest not two minutes into my ride.
I was under the waffling self-delusion that I was in a perfect state to operate my Toyota Matrix, but the police woman who pulled me over (along with ambulance AND fire truck) seemed to have other ideas. My humorous rhetoric through a hallucinatory haze, attempting to get out of the situation, would figure prominently in the report, this I learned further down the line as my defense lawyer - $3000 out the window, but thank you, mom - would read off to me days after the fact.
Not to second guess the unlikeable Lindsay law, who took zero in the way of shit, but really, were handcuffs necessary? There was the cutting off of circulation but what was more prevalent in thought was how unbelievably unthreatening I must have seemed whimpering away as the officer escorted me from my car to the back of a police cruiser.
I now had absolutely no power and was too wrapped up in my aborted fantasies to be of any help to myself.
I was forced to overhear the dull chatter of multiple officers and ambulatory folk joke and guffaw not two feet from my window in the backseat about the raising money for the upcoming snazzy police ball and super Spring fun fair which would occur in the weeks ahead. They obviously were choosing to ignore my cries for justice.
The cherry on this sundae of despair was when I was driven to the police station and thrown into an actual jail cell, used, I guess, to hold drunks and town thugs temporarily until their attorneys could be present to rally for them in vein. Seedy with disrepair, I couldn't not admit, this was my new home. It's not that I was expecting Lancome facial moisturizers and toners and cushiony down-filled towels, but a pillow would have been nice.
Hopes dashed and kicking myself for being such a moronic individual, my jailors failed to provide me with magazines or any reading material in my spectacularly brutal cell, not even a blanket, just me alone with my distorted and unhinged thought process, which by now was unravelling a soul-throttling monologue.
Trotting out an advanced vocabulary did me no good during these - what were minutes but seemed like hours - as I made many requests in my time spent there for various snacks and sundries, but to no avail. There also would be no delicious slumber for me on my cement cot as I was kept awake by my enjoyment of the foul-mouthed invectives spouted by my cell-mate (he, just on the other side of the wall), learning that, in an alcoholically-charged act, his neighbour called the cops on him, as he didn't like trash being dumped all over his lawn in response to some beef they were having. I attempted some light humour with my fellow inmate, asking if he knew anyone that would bake a cake and hide a file in it so we could escape. I'm pretty sure my zenith of wit fell on deaf ears as there was just a lot of unanalyzable garble from him, coupled with high screeches and vomiting after that. I would find no allies in the slammer, it seemed.
Another stop on my downward journey, finally after 90 minutes or so, I found myself removed from my revolting new home only to be put through a battery of tests; walking a straight line, touching my nose with my eyes closed, urinating into a cup; games played for prizes that would almost be fun if I had found myself at a demented and phenomenally sad carnival.
In an almost unwinnable battle, I was brought back to my darkened stark cell while they finished “processing” me, it was here where my near mad mind calmed down and I began to more clearly consider just what the consequences of my behaviour were, and also how I could have really hurt myself, or worse, some innocent child on a real bike. Universally horrifying were the thoughts that seemed to gear up and find me in this time, as I became regretful, and repentant, thinking of the risk I had taken operating my vehicle in the drunken siesta that I was in. I told myself next time I would do better.
So, now with 54 days until I can drive once again (but who's counting?), I am also faced with a court date that I must show up for and plead, what? Guilty, I suppose. Guilty for what exactly? Guilty for being too carefree, and irresponsible, not thinking and taking my own life in my hands, and that's just for starters. This whole ordeal has been horrendous, revolting and chaotic. I'd like to think I've actually learned something through all of this. I guess we'll find out soon enough.
Join the conversation, become a Fix blogger. Share your experience, strength, and hope, or sound off on the issues affecting the addiction/recovery community. Create your account and start writing: https://www.thefix.com/add-community-content.