Rita helped me in ways I don’t think she ever fully understood. She took me to detox at Pitman House twice, and she did it with a kind of steady compassion that made me feel less alone. When I first met the crisis team at Waimarino, they were the ones who told me to ask for diazepam. I hadn’t gone there wanting medication — I’d gone there because I was struggling, and I didn’t know what else to do.
I remember dreaming about sitting in a large white room with rows of tables. Everyone wore white uniforms. I couldn’t tell if they were chefs or scientists; the whole scene felt dreamlike, almost unreal. That night I dreamed about nuclear war. A huge TV on the wall announced, “I’m sorry to tell you, ladies and gentlemen. There’s only one possibility, and that’s the inevitability of nuclear war.”
Dreams have always carried messages for me — or maybe they carried my fears. I’ve had disaster dreams so many times. At least six tsunami dreams. And every time, no matter how terrifying the wave was, I survived. In another dream, I was in a boat with people scrambling for the door, but somehow I always found a way out.
Even when my mind was drowning, something inside me kept fighting to live.
When I was younger, I dreamed I was in a church cemetery pushing a pram. My mum was there. On top of a tall grave were knives. I remember wanting them, though I don’t remember why. Dreams don’t always give explanations — they just leave impressions, feelings, shadows.
Eventually, Dr McCallum offered me diazepam. It was supposed to be our last appointment. I liked working with trained mental health professionals — people who didn’t flinch when I told the truth. I told him the dose was too much, and he adjusted it without hesitation. I was honest with him. He asked me if I felt like I was “on the ground again.” It was the first time in a long time that someone asked me that in a way that felt real.
I also remember a woman from Russia named Vera. She helped me when I was living on Te Atatū Road. Once, she and Rita got stuck on my back lawn. I had friends then — people I genuinely cared about. I miss my best friend. She knew I was her best friend; her Nan told her. Her Nan once told me she loved me, and I didn’t know what to say. I think my friend was a little jealous sometimes. I won’t use names — this is anonymous, and I want to protect the people who were part of my life.
Looking back now, detox wasn’t just a medical process — it was a turning point. It was the moment I stopped running from myself and started learning how to stand still without falling apart. I didn’t feel brave at the time, but walking into Pitman House, twice, was one of the bravest things I’ve ever done.
Detox didn’t fix everything, but it opened the door to the life I’m building now. It reminded me that even at my weakest, there was still a part of me that wanted to live, to heal, and to find my way back to the people I love. And that part of me — the part that kept fighting — is still here.
Soft Trigger Warning
This post touches on themes of addiction, detox, and emotional healing. Please read gently and take care of yourself as you go.