Quiet Room - Lori Schiller [51]
He was an emergency medical service technician. He had a girlfriend he lived with. Or maybe she was a wife. He wasn't clear. But that kind of made it more exciting and romantic.
For a while, Raymond gave me something fun to look forward to. He was a bright spot in my life that was otherwise nothing other than miserable. My head was full of pain. I was confused and lonely. There was something wrong with me, and I didn't know what. I worked so hard at dating, but the guys who were interested in me were geeks and creeps. The ones I liked never called back. Most of them thought I was too porky. Raymond thought I was perfect, cuddly and beautiful. He told me so all the time. How could I resist?
Mom and Dad were trying hard to help me. But being around them wasn't fun either. Dad wanted so much for me to be well. He was always lecturing me, questioning me, pushing me, encouraging me. I wanted so much to be well for his sake that being with him was a constant effort. I had to hold myself in, watch myself, control my actions and impulses. It was hard work.
And I was so consumed with self-hatred that it was hard for me to do anything with my mom. How could I go shopping with her when looking in the mirror made me sick? How could I go to the country club with her when I knew I was so fat and ugly. I couldn't stand to be around my beautiful, trim, outgoing mother. Raymond never wanted to hear about my illness. Whenever I started trying to talk about my symptoms, he would cut me off or change the subject. To Raymond, I was as normal as the next person, and that was that. So we talked about him. I liked that. To me, he was someone outside the system, and especially outside my system. We talked about his work, about his mother, his house, his little son, Ray Jr., his girlfriend.
But mostly we did cocaine, or talked about it. Where were we going to score? Whose car were we going to take? Who was going to drive? Do you have any? No, do you? Was there any stashed? Who's got money?
Together, we got high on coke every single day and night. When I got off from work, we would go off together in search of a place to get high. We couldn't go to his place; we certainly couldn't go to my parents’ house. So our relationship was filled with cocaine and endless hours in cheap motel rooms. We took the four-hour special and spent the time watching the Playboy channel and sniffing coke. I was so desperate for the drug that I let him do anything he wanted with me, just short of having sex. But when the coke was gone, so was I. No coke, no Ray and Lori.
As I became more and more consumed with the drug, just getting enough for the day became a major focus of my life. Raymond was doing some buying and selling, and often shared some of his with me. But that wasn't enough. I was working long hours at the restaurant, and still getting some tips in lines. Nearly all my wages were going to purchase cocaine, too. Some days, when I didn't have enough money for that day's hit, I would even steal small amounts from the restaurant.
Staying high became my entire goal. I did coke everywhere. In an elevator. In Grand Central Station. Walking down the street. I even did coke in Dr. Rockland's waiting room. I was continually high, continually fighting the Voices, continually feeling rotten. I hid cocaine in my pockets, in my socks, in my sneakers, in my room and in my car, for emergencies. The one thing I was afraid of was of being without coke when I needed it.
Cocaine was definitely a form of self-medication. My mind began to obsess over getting as much as I could, more than my body actually craved. I was literally consumed with everything and anything having to do with the drug.
I even began to hear my own cocaine-filled life reflected in the music I listened to. Eric Clapton sang about cocaine. Neil Young sang about Raymond and me:
I love you baby,
can I have some more?
I always needed more. For when the fall came, it was horrendous. It was a tremendous crash. Coming down