Elisa Hallerman PhD - Soulbriety: A Plan to Heal Your Trauma, Overcome Addiction, and Reconnect with Your Soul

I m alone, in the back of a taxi headed to Bennys apartment. Its midnight, but he is expecting me. I made an appointment. By appointment I mean I called him obsessively until he woke up and agreed I could come over. I ask the cab to wait; I just have to run in and grab something. Bennys door is open and I walk in. As always, the one-room apartment is dark and smoky, with that weird kitchen smell of garlic and spices. I sit on the bed, not even aware of how gross that is. The bed that seems to take up the whole apartment. Benny is dressed in a black robe and he looks seventy years old and I wonder how long hes been doing this. He walks into a tiny alcove on the other side of the room and puts my baggies together. Carefullyby which I mean painfully slowlymeasuring a gram per bag. Im buying three grams, each in its own baggie. We both know I might as well get an eight ball, which is one large bag with just half a gram more than Im buying. But for some reason, needing that much makes me feel ashamed. It feels like too much to do alone. In my mind, its reserved only for a group event. Not that Im doing parties anymorethose days are over. Though I dont admit it to myself, Im too sick for that. I just want to be alone. I wont even use at home anymore; I cant bear the shame. This is a one-woman party, just me and a hotel room and the only thing I care about anymore. A handful of gram baggies it is.

I need something now, I say. Benny ignores me. It feels like it is taking hours to get my tiny packages ready and my body is screaming for it. After an eternity, he finally turns around and I push the cash into his hand. He slowly turns over the coke and says goodnight. But Im not leaving yet. Like a woman who hasnt seen her lover in a year, I ravenously open one of the baggies, pour the white powder on the countertop and do a line. Right there in his disgusting, dirty kitchen. Who knows whats been on that countertop, how many other addicts have been in there doing the same thing just tonight. But none of that matters.

Relief. Imagine being held underwater, holding your breath and not knowing when or if youll be released. Every alarm bell going off in your body, the struggle and the panic and the fear. Then, with the touch of a button, youre released. You rise to the surface and gasp. The first line of coke is that first lungful of air: salvation mixed with gratification. My dopamine level skyrockets and everything feels like pleasure; the adrenaline kicks in and I become superhuman: superior, worthier, and more desirable.

Five minutes later, Im back in the taxi, and the high is starting to dissipate. More coke will bring the feeling back, and it feels like I must continue or I will die. I need another bump. Like, now. The ride to the hotel seems endless. Should I risk it? I decide not to. I try to look composed as I walk into the hotel and up to the reception desk. My body is lit with excitement and shame at the same time. I ask for a room and she hands me my key. Does she know what Im doing here? Does she even care? What