(Names of the former addict and her family members have been changed.)Karen remembers being crouched in her bathroom, for two hours straight, picking at the dope sores that marred her legs, arms and face.
It was a time when she regularly stayed up for eight days straight, shrank to a size 0 and fueled her 95-pound frame with peanut butter and Kool-Aid.
She remembers the break-ins at her mother’s home, the torching of her car and the guns that were pulled on her.
"The dope monster got them so hard, it skinned ’em," she says of her assailants.
Karen, a graduate of Saks High School, was 18 when drugs took over – and nearly ruined – her life.
"You name it, I’ve done it. Except for crack."
Her drug use began in February, 2002, soon after her mother, Jenny, was hospitalized for two emergency stomach surgeries and remained there for almost a month. With her mother incapacitated and her father absent from her life, Karen experienced a freedom she’d never known before.
Left to her own devices, and running with a new crowd, she dabbled in ecstasy and, soon after, crank. What began as a weekend routine became a daily habit.
But crank, which has Liquid Plumber in it, made Karen grate her teeth. Ecstasy hurt her body when she came down from a high.
In July, 2002, she discovered ice, a cleaner form of crystal methamphetamine. It was the "speedy high" that became her obsession, her addiction.
"You can’t describe it. The first time you do ice, you won’t ever feel the same way again," she said.
Karen tried in vain to recapture that initial high by smoking, snorting and eating the drug. Each way made her feel it differently.
"Smoking makes you paranoid. Snorting it makes you feel like you could take something in front of you and rip its head off because it feels so bad," she said. "I liked to roll (eat) it."
And roll it she did, to the point where she was dropping or eating up to nine tabs a night. When she couldn’t afford to buy with her own money, she’d steal from Jenny, sometimes withdrawing directly from her mother’s bank account.
Karen bought her drugs at parties and raves across the South, her favorite clubs being in Tennessee, Georgia, Florida and Mississippi. When she got behind in payments, she turned to selling. In 10 minutes, she said, she could make $800. She’d send others into the clubs, however, to make the sales and take the risk. "I could tell people what to do, because if they didn’t listen to me, I’d cut them off."
The law caught up with Karen in September, 2002, when she was arrested and tested positive for use of a controlled substance. She said her best friend set her up. After two nights in the Calhoun County Jail, she was sent to the county’s drug court, an 18-month program for first-time drug convicts.
Participation requires staying clean for the program’s duration, completing 100 hours of community service and maintaining steady employment or enrollment in school.
"When I first met Karen, I knew she was young and pretty immature," said Neil Briener, coordinator of the Calhoun County drug court. "A lot of times I believe the younger ones are salvageable."
Karen wasn’t able to play by the rules, however, and she was arrested a second time. For this offense, Briener said, she stayed in the county jail seven nights before reentering his program.
When she began using yet again, Briener knew it, but he stayed mum, believing she needed to suffer more before she could change.
"I say to all the participants, ‘I’m going to let you get away with things for awhile, but I’m telling you, you’re going to hang yourself.’ "
With Karen, he said, he knew it was just a matter of time.
Sure enough, in January, she was arrested for the third and final time. She said she’d been up for seven days, was in a local auto shop, when officers came through the door. She was with her then-boyfriend, the one who had turned her on to meth; the two of them had just made $8,000 in drug sales on New Year’s Eve. Officers found his book bag, containing three plastic baggies of ice – meaning three separate possession charges. Karen said her boyfriend, who had called the police, pegged it on her. "Threw her to the wolves," said Jenny.
By the third arrest, an offender usually is terminated from the drug court program. But, Briener said, Calhoun Circuit Judge Joel Laird took into consideration Karen’s age and maturity before giving her a choice: Pursue treatment or be terminated from the program and risk a felony conviction for a total of five counts of possession.
Karen opted for treatment.
"The night they handcuffed her and took her away from me, I thought I was going to die," said Jenny.
As summer ends, Karen wrapped up more than seven months of sobriety. She sat down with her mother and remembered life before the drugs, during addiction and what might come after.
Before the drugs, she and her mother were the best of friends. "We did everything together. We went to Panama City together for my senior trip," says Karen.
And it was Jenny who took Karen to her first club. Her daughter wanted to dance, and hear the DJs spin. Jenny, 42, thought if she went with her, Karen would be safe. After Jenny was hospitalized, their relationship crumbled.
"(Karen) stopped having anything to do with me. She just walked away," Jenny said.
Karen shook her head, her wavy blond hair skimming the shoulders of her "Wass-up" T-shirt. She still doesn’t know why her mother put up with her. "I’d kick her out if she was me," she said with a smirk.
The tears continued for Jenny who answered, "Yeah, I could have kicked her out, but … I loved her. I loved her from the minute I got pregnant with her, and I’ll love her till the last breath comes out of my body.
"All I could do was love her through the whole thing and be there for her."
By the time she finished, Karen was wiping her own eyes, her turquoise-tinted nails brushing up against her heavy make-up.
"This is a part of her life that I’m not a part of. I can’t fix it for her," Jenny said. "If I could, I would."
After her arrest in January, Karen spent the better part of the month in the county jail. For three weeks, withdrawal pains wracked her weakened body. She was released and sent directly to a residential rehabilitation center in Tuscaloosa, where she remained for about 30 days. She was barred from calling her mother for the first week she was there, and when she finally made her first restricted 10-minute call, she and Jenny said they cried so hard they were unable to speak.
The next stop for Karen was Phoenix House, a women’s halfway house in Tuscaloosa.
"They were good to my baby," Jenny said. Karen liked Phoenix House because she could call her mother more often, she made good friends and appreciated her counselors.
Like the other 11 residents, Karen had chores. She and Jenny laughed about the times when she was assigned to cook breakfast.
"I caught the kitchen on fire," she said. She was trying to cook sausage when the smoke alarms went off. The next time around, she served cereal.
Since returning to Anniston, Karen’s schedule has revolved around drug court. She meets with Neil Briener three times a week, attends classes, appears before Laird on Tuesdays, attends group meetings and mandatory counseling and is subjected to frequent random drug screenings.
When she’s not at drug court, she sticks with her mother or current boyfriend. By being with them, she knows she won’t get in trouble.
"I’m doing now what I have to do, otherwise I have to go to prison. The shortest time they’ll give me is 25 years," Karen said.
Though some estimates of successful treatment are as low as 2 percent, the best data available to researchers show that 40 percent of addicts who complete treatment will recover.
Briener said he likes Karen’s progress so far, but can’t say with certainty that she’s going to make it. "All I can say is when I saw her yesterday, she was doing OK. But anything can happen tonight or tomorrow. It just can."
Karen won’t lie. She thinks about the drug every day of her life. "But if I start to think about doing it, I think about Carrie," her 4-year-old niece.
On a car ride together, the young girl blurted out, "Aunt Karen … were you doing drugs?"
"Yes," Karen said.
"Will you promise not to do it again?"
"I promise."
"Do you pinkie promise?"
"I pinkie promise."
Karen said her brother, Dave, turned to her and said that if she broke the promise, she’d break Carrie’s heart.
"He says she looks up to me, and I don’t know why," Karen says, her voice cracking as she wipes away her tears. "I can’t break my promise to her. There’s no way."
