The Little Girl That God Kidnapped In Rehab: Memoir #2 from February 2016

I once met a young girl around the age of 19, four years ago. She was about 90 lbs, bleached to almost white blonde hair. She was in a detox “house” with myself and others that consisted of about 30 people; 6 people to a room split between girls and guys in south Florida. Her and her boyfriend were addicts, they had been using drugs for a while and been lured into the “vacationing life” of Florida rehabs. Their flight was paid for and they got on separate flights from what I can remember. When she touched base in Florida she stepped off the plane, but her boyfriend did not? She insisted on waiting for him, no call came. He had taken more drugs than the usual before boarding the plane and then overdosed and died in mid air- halfway to heaven they may say. She was numb, and very fragile. She was layered at the same time with this perfect skin. She received no counseling different than what we all received while in this detox house watching us as we were all fighting over food and each other. The house was ran wild with people using drugs, abusing detox meds and arguments.
I remember hearing her tell the story of the type of person she was before this trip… although she used drugs she was a good girl, good grades, good family and found herself trying to get better, get back to herself. I found myself very curious by her pain; what it felt like to lose someone so close, of such an essence. I didn’t want to know enough to experience it myself, but yet I was so drawn to her. I always thought death wouldn’t touch me, or even wink an eye in my direction. BUT that girl’s eyes screamed a sickness that nothing I could say or do would change the intensity of what was going on internally. I sat with her on the couch curled up in the corner, and she played the song, “bestfriend” by young thug several times. She had large hoodies that folded over her head and bags under her puffy eyes from all the tears. I get shivers when I see the music video to this day. We ended up breaking off a deal with a shady marketer because he wouldn’t give us exactly what we wanted and parted ways with the other 28 or so young adults all full of internal madness and ticking time bombs not being diffused by real medical professionals. The level of care we shared here was short of what you’d even call a joke, the employees spoke very little english and the medications had several interactions that were crying for law suits from an overdose, in the house half the size of double wide trailer.
A few months later, I meet a guy at another detox center I had landed myself in. My friend and boyfriend had tried to help me hop an 11 foot wall, but instead I fell and displaced my hip in the process getting knocked off by my boyfriend. I ended up crying and walking the streets of liberty city, FL begging myself to stop believing they would come back for me dragging my leg. The employees threatened the two of them with the police and they were not coming back for me. After I had three unsolicited attempts of picking me up from dirty men late at night I was coaxed back by the employees that had kept a watchful eye on me from the end of the road … When my hip was popped back in place by a dark haired nurse at 3 am in my bed, they administered another dose of medication and I woke up pretty dazed and confused. While trying to find someone to let me stay with them through the florida shuffle proceeding this facility; I met another man who claimed to have lost his new detox fling on the streets of Overtown, FL as she was kidnapped by two men from Haiti. He said he was scared and came back to the detox and readmitted himself. He then offered me her clothes… I had most if not every article of my clothing stolen from me when I was drugged and left in a 1 star motel in Delray beach Fl. After I had my stuff stolen not once but two more times I was frisked by the police while trying to escape because I apparently looked like a prostitute. The clothing I had slowly collected were from those of other “recovering” addicts whom had either died from overdoses or left against medical advice… I still have some of these clothes. So, I accepted her clothes and huffed and puffed in my room realizing I had weighed about 130 lbs and put on at least 15 lbs… She did not share the same size as me. The pile of clothes looked oddly similar to those I had seen previously, but I couldn’t wrap my mind around where they had come from. Nor did I really have time to worry about this. A few days later I meet a guy willing to let me stay with him until I find a place to live. At this time I end up asking one of the tech’s about this girl kidnapped and probably dead in “First 48’s” Overtown, one of the USA’s most dangerous cities… A few days later she walks in the door. AND IT’S THE GIRL.! The one who lost her boyfriend on the plane. She is bruised and broken and wore it all over her face and body…Expressionless on the staircase, a whole new being lost in a sea of experiences one should never come upon. There again I found myself asking “why”, as I sat next to her on the steps. She said, “may I have my clothes back.” I looked down at the tight blouse I was wearing and walked up the steps to my room. I packed everything she owned into a bag with tears in my eyes, not just for her but for me, but for the way my higher power had saved me the night I do not remember and given me another chance to survive. I wasn’t dead, I was just missing clothes and I was blessed enough to only recall pieces of the night that made me consider things as deep as taking my own life, but maybe not that far. I gave her the bag of clothes and listened to her tell another sad tale that left me wondering why I was always spared, and how lucky was SHE , to be alive. The “fling” had sold her to the two men from Haiti for $60 for a few nights, contradicting his story he blasted throughout the detox. At least from what I was told. In the streets of Florida, men will ask other men for prices on their girlfriends depending on which side of the road you walk on. I remember walking and hearing them shout numbers for my ownership while holding guns and perching on trucks tailgates… “$5,000”, “3,500”… I don’t remember how the facility got her back. I am not sure if she called. I remember her saying the men invited people over so they could each get their way with her for a fee… I don’t know of her wherebouts. I do not know if she is alive. I pray she is.
So what is the lesson? I don’t know? That we create our sadness when we don’t choose life? Or maybe that the life of addiction once chose us? Some of us die on the flight to a better life while some of us overdose time and time again, get kidnapped, and still survive while homeless on the streets. The truth is, you just don’t know who the hell is gonna find themselves snuggled in a coffin before the age of 30 and who is gonna become a CEO of a successful company with their friends and family members grave stones engraved around them. We cannot predict a damn thing. But, if you are here and you are breathing, you have another chance. If you are reading this and you have lived this life I’m describing, and some of you KNOW KNOW, it’s rough, it’s dirty, and it steals the light of the child you once were, It haunts you, it gives you PTSD, but guess what, it makes you stronger. It breaks you and then once you put the pieces back together you teach others how to follow you. You become a leader of light, and a voice for the dead or the muted. When you tell your story and others that are not here, you give hope back to those who would rather be dead. So don’t judge us. I’m not just a stupid blonde that looks hot in a little dress, I’m a survivor, sometimes just by chance,sometimes not by chance, that decided with a second chance my life is spared so I can help save yours. Hopefully,by me telling that girl’s story, that stuck in my mind, wherever she is I do not know, but she is helping you too.
#Stayblessed.
#staygrateful
#Itcanallbegonetomorrow