My Father Was Beautiful
( Fencsik-Havas )
One of my most memorable life events was the publication of my memoir. To give you a brief background: in 2008, I was invited to the Hungarian journalist, Henrik Havas’s television talk show to share my story. (At the time, due to a growing popular interest in addiction and recovery stories, I had interviews with a number of prominent magazines and made frequent appearances in radio talk shows.) As nervous as I was before the interview with Henrik, it was a great success, and we agreed to stay in touch. Our collaboration remained at the level of discussions and interviews, however I felt I could share my story in a more engaging format. With the incredible support of my family and friends, I began to entertain the idea of sharing my experiences of addiction and recovery with a wider audience. I called Henrik to ask what he thought, and he was fully supportive of the idea. A couple of months later, my phone rang, it was Henrik. To my great astonishment, he proposed to co-author my book. Of course, I said yes to this unbelievable offer, and we started writing right away. At best, it was not an easy task, and most of my recollections from active addiction were already blurred or fading away. We had to try different approaches to elicit deeply-buried memories of people, events, and emotions, while remaining conscious of the pain that unearthing some of these traumatic events might entail. Amidst the challenges, Henrik went through a major depressive episode and at one point, we stopped working altogether. It was Tamas Fencsik who came to our rescue, and the three of us finished the book in 2010. My story is exceptional in the sense that it was the first honest account depicting the misery of addiction and the challenges of recovery in the Hungarian context. My goal was to convey the message that recovery is possible to using addicts and their families. I shared my experiences about my childhood, family, rebellious teenage and using years, rehabilitation, and the first ten years of my recovery. I have been following a pathway of total abstinence to recovery to this day. I believe I can only be truly myself if I abstain from mind-altering substances or addictive behaviours. This has worked for me, but I acknowledge that other methods might work for others. What matters it that recovery is possible! You can read some excerpts from my book below:
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1.
I was absolutely out of control in the hospital. There was this one doctor, a female doctor and I attacked her: kicked her and all. It`s all good now, we are sweet. I was so unmanageable that they had to strap me down. It was the one thing I wanted to avoid. Getting clean was the last thing on my mind, but I knew there was no other way. Eventually, the doctors managed to get me off the heroin and although still on prescription drugs, I was admitted to the women’s clinic. I was induced at 4 months. It was an absolute nightmare. No sedatives, no anaesthesia, nothing. I was dilated and the baby came out. I saw it. Later on, when I was sedated, I thought I was in Istanbul. I hallucinated that the whole procedure took place in Istanbul. This was my 3rd or 4th abortion, and yet it wasn’t a good reason for me to stop using. I didn’t care about the baby, the mere thought of it annoyed me.
2.
I have no memories of child care, some of kindergarten, maybe. I remember the little cubby lockers. My name tag had a picture of a little house on it. Once I was wearing this long lace skirt and the other children gathered around me in a circle. They lifted up the hem and we started going round and round and round… I was laughing. I remember the laughter. I was kind of a tomboy, my Dad treated me like a boy, not like a girl. I wasn’t allowed to wear earrings, I had short hair and I did sports. I did sports all my life. I went to a sports kindy. I was dressed in blue clothes so I didn’t fit in with the rest of the girls who wore pink. My Mum’s family bought me Barbie dolls but my Dad didn`t want me to play with dolls. It was obvious that my parents had very different ideas about parenting and these differences had an impact on my entire childhood and adolescence. I can’t think about my Dad without a sense of ambiguity. I can think of him with nostalgia, but that won’t change the fact that he was a terrible father and that for the most part I’m overfilled with painful memories of him. But he possessed my heart, all of it. Like he was some kind of God to me. This kind of ambiguity is working inside of me. There was always something ambiguous about my Dad.
3.
It all began with a car accident. Crack made Khalid very aggressive. One time we were driving on the Boulevard in Budapest when the car in front of us suddenly stopped so Khalid jumped out and started bashing the other car. I remember two accidents. One especially, because I hit my head on the windshield. A piece of glass cut my forehead and I was taken to hospital by an ambulance. They did a CT scan and an ultrasound and said I was very lucky because I wasn`t badly injured. “But it looks like you’re pregnant, congratulations”. I said fuck, this is fantastic news, indeed. So I give Khalid the information. He wanted to keep the baby, but it was explained to him that this woman was in no condition to bear a child, weighing 40 kg, addicted to heroin, not knowing where or who she was after all the crack parties – the baby wouldn’t be healthy. “Ok, let’s have an abortion then”, he said.
I refused the idea of having a baby from the start. Just get it out of me, there’s no way I’m keeping it. None of the hospitals would take me, I was so heavily addicted that putting me under anaesthesia would`ve posed a risk. I was already past three months but I didn’t feel pregnant at all. I wasn`t menstruating because heroin messes up the cycle. Not that I cared, I was glad I wasn’t bleeding all over the place. I was trying to get on Dr Funk’s ward, but when I heard that there wasn`t any Methadone, I said `no way`. So I ended up in St. John`s Hospital. I was admitted on the condition that they get me off heroin first and then I can have the abortion. So that`s what happened.
4.
My Dad was unreasonably strict with me from the day I was born. He never gave me any pocket money – he simply refused to give money to his children. He set up very strict rules. I was often put in charge of my younger siblings and it goes without saying, they were ferocious. I’m speaking of Bence, the oldest, in particular. He’s two years younger than me. Even as a child he was weird. He was from my Dad’s second marriage. He was a cute kid: brown hair, green eyes, plump lips and sparkling white teeth. But in that family environment, even with his gorgeous looks, his chances of growing into a decent human being were indeed very low. He lived with my Dad, so he was forced to live through that every day of the week. At that time my step-mother kind of wasn`t involved in parenting, she left all the responsibilities to my Dad. He was very aggressive with my brother. Sometimes he beat him so badly that he had to go to school with a black eye and say he was hit by a tennis ball. When, in fact, Dad had punched him in the face. It wasn’t just a smack that kids used to get from time to time. He beat the living daylight out of him. I have no idea how my family could put up with this and not say a word. Poor Bence… he was constantly battered and as a result, he couldn`t keep his act together for very long. He didn`t get into fights or anything – he was just a nasty, feral kid. He stole video tapes from home and sold them. It was obvious he stole them, but he denied it. He kept saying he had nothing to do with it. He couldn`t admit that he was stealing from home. But then again, why wouldn’t he steal? Dad never gave us any money, while all the other kids had money from their parents. It was the same old story all the time: other kids were always allowed everything, we were never allowed nothing. Nothing at all. My brother didn’t handle it very well and he did weird things: when we took out the dog for a walk, for instance, he took a chewing gum out of his mouth, threw it away, then picked it up again and put it back in his mouth. Even if it landed in dog poo. It’s one thing that he was odd, but this was downright disgusting. I often lost my shit with him and I became aggressive. I beat the poor kid with the metal clip on the leash. I got the blame for everything. The dog’s name was Dani, he was a German Pointer. We used to walk him on Andrássy Avenue. On Kodály Crescent, Bence flung the leash over a tree. And they were having a go at me, of course, because “Now we have to buy a new leash and it costs money”. I didn’t throw the damn leash over that tree. But it was my fault, because “What did he do again?” He would be kicking his own shoes along Andrássy Avenue. At one time, he chucked them right into the Russian Embassy. It wasn`t easy to get them back… He was a terrible kid. In the summer he would jump in the water with his clothes on, or sometimes he just dipped his shoes. And whose fault was that? Mine. Because the kid lost his shoes. Bence always tried to look more than what he was, always putting up an act. How ghastly! On top of all this he had horrible table manners, he was gross. Food falling out of his mouth. Now it seems that I only have bad things to say about him, or that there was nothing good in him. But there was. Bence was a nerd, he was a bookworm and it made me feel inferior, because I wasn’t much of a reader. But he grew up in my Dad’s family. To them, reading came naturally and everyone was always reading. They looked down on me because I wasn’t reading like six books at once. I wasn’t a mastermind, my head wasn`t crammed with all that stuff. Bence wasn’t only reading, he could also write and he wrote quite well. But he had his own self-esteem issues, except the complete opposite of mine. While I felt inferior, he thought more of himself than he actually was. Why? Probably because of his relationship with Dad. And the never-ending trail of lies they fed him. He`d say things to me like my mother was ugly, which wasn’t true at all.
23.
In the Castle District many of the buildings had very low windows so it was easy to climb out in the street. I had a big fur coat from the Arab and I set off to the city in the big coat. I went in the shops and took everything I could lay my hands on. It all fitted under my coat, even a huge salami stick. I passed the goods to the junkies: cigarettes, booze and chocolate. I was really pleased that I could give something back. Later, a guy turned up from God knows where. We became buddies and had sex non-stop in the bathroom and the toilet. There may have been another guy, but I have no idea where he came from either.
The `dry seasons` started to become more frequent. Everyone was sick, clucking in agony. The guy I used to have sex with said that when he was curled up on the floor he was actually a frog. There was a lingering fear that the police might raid the place at any time. Word was going around about who grassed up whom or who died where. I reached a point where I felt everything around me was falling apart.
29.
I didn`t have much personal stuff in Nortbert`s flat. I had a leather jacket and a Walkman that my step-dad gave me. They both vanished and Norbert blamed one of the other junkies for it when in fact he had swapped them for gear. He never admitted that he stole from me and I didn`t even bring it up until we started fighting a lot. His grandma lived in the city and we went to see her sometimes. Although I never went further than the hall, as the old lady would be just sitting there in complete darkness, smoking. She was quite nice, but Norbert only went to see her to get money from her. In the end, his grandma bought him an apartment by the Gellert Hill.
My family was driving me insane. Norbert offered me some heroin to snort once. As it kicked in I felt sick and threw up in the end. But I felt relaxed, like I was floating. Sonja was there, too. It was winter and the tree of us walked up to the Castle. Walking up to the Castle, floating on heroin was one of the nicest memories of my life. Everything felt weightless, I didn`t have a care in the world. Dreamlike. I can`t remember if we spoke at all, but I doubt I was able to talk because of the nausea. It didn`t matter, though. The tranquillity alleviated the nausea. We were gently moving forward like actors in a slow motion movie. I only snorted a little, I didn`t need much. After this, I always asked for a little in my nose. I stopped after a while, though, I grew bored with this.
I was lying in bed with Norbert with the TV on, when I suddenly felt someone holding a gun to my head. The place was raided by about eighteen drug squad officers in black uniforms shouting: “On the ground, don`t move! You stay where you are, you come over here!” They took Norbert into a different room, handcuffed him and began to search the place. I asked if I was allowed to speak but they said no, keep quiet. I kept pinching myself, hoping it was a dream and I would wake up soon. It was reality, yet an absolute nightmare. What am I doing here? What is going on? This is not my life, this must be something else. They searched the place and they were talking to Norbert like he was a piece of nothing: “Where`s your stash, junkie piece of shit?” They found nothing but a couple of needles. They took us to the police station, put me in a cell and locked the door. It was dark and walls were covered with all kinds of scribbles. One policeman brought me a blanket, I was just a blond seventeen-year-old girl after all. Strange guest in a place like this. This was my first encounter with the police. Because I was a minor, they called my Mum, so my step-dad go me out. I went home with him and they made me sign a statement that I no longer lived at their address. I was frightened. My whole world was falling apart, I was confused, crushed under the weight of my problems. I am a child? Am I an adult? There I was at the age of seventeen, nowhere to go.
30.
In primary school, Mum enrolled me into art class, because I loved play dough, I loved drawing and painting. I remember the art room very clearly. It was downstairs with large windows and really wide desks. I liked being there painting and drawing. Or just doing crafts. That space was so relaxing, it was really captivating. I loved everything about art. I dreamt about going to an art school, but my Dad wouldn`t let me. There I was, shattered again, even though I would`ve been quite happy to go to just about any art school. Anyway, let`s not talk about that, here is this school photo and this is Gergo here. Brown haired, brown eyed, olive skinned, beautiful boy. And he was bad enough for me to have a crush on him. He was smart though, he was a good student. But he didn`t fancy me, he was in love with the most beautiful girl in class, so I didn`t stand a chance. Huge disappointment. Again. I had no chance with him, really and I didn`t care about the other boys. All I had left was the daydreaming. When I was at home, all I did was think about him. In the year three school photo there are only three girls not wearing the pioneer uniform and I am one of them. I wore the hottest fashion item of the time: a pink plush top. Laura, standing next to me, was the most beautiful girl in the class. Szilvi wasn`t wearing the uniform either. We stood out. This may be the last school photo where I`m all smiley. This was obviously a better part of my life. However, I`d already began to act compulsively that clouded my sensible judgement. In those days, I had tons of sour sweets and Vitamin C, I would literally stuff my face with them. There was a supermarket, a pharmacy and a small kiosk by the panel blocks where we lived. After school, I`d rush to the smoke kiosk to spend all my pocket money on sour sweets, or Vitamin C in the pharmacy. I was hooked. Having those sour sweets was a fantastic feeling. If I didn`t have any money, I just took a couple of bags from the shops. When I saw these green-backed, white-bellied little frogs, I just couldn`t resist. My younger brother who was seven years my junior always had sour sweets for his birthday and I took and ate his stuff without remorse. I had to have sour sweets or Vitamin C every day, there was no limit or moderation. I could hardly wait for school to finish, anxious to hear the bell, so that I could go to the kiosk or to the pharmacy to get my dose. I bought twenty-pack Vitamin Cs wrapped in silver cellophane. In those days, they were yellow sugar coated. So much better than what they make today. I would easily gobble up entire packets, thinking about it today still makes my mouth water. Beside Vitamin C and sour sweets, I was mad for the taste of vinegar. It seems that I quite liked the sour taste.
31.
In the end, I went back home to Norbert and we picked up where we left off. Except for the fact that my Dad told me to do something with myself. Dad didn`t know about the heroin. He helped me find a nursing assistant job on the neurology ward in the mental hospital where he worked. I was a hard-working employee. Once I found some Tramadol in a medicine cabinet. A couple of tablets are given daily to patients with brain tumour or spine problems. I would take whole boxes and be popping them all day. I found them relaxing and stimulating at the same time. Then I started taking Clonazepam. I don`t know if anyone noticed that I was helping myself to the medication. The nurses liked me and, at the end of day, I was the senior consultant’s daughter. I liked Tramadol because it helped me get up in the morning and do night shift at the same time. Sometimes Dad would pick me up and then we`d go to have breakfast together before work. I wasn`t treated like an ordinary nurse at all, I had special treatment. But all too often I felt that the work was too overwhelming. I was too young to deal with death or to change adult diapers every day, so Dad had me transferred and I became assistant to the nursing and executive directors. There I didn`t have to do anything at all. The job mainly involved going out together to get wine for some event. I enrolled in evening classes for my A-levels, but I can only remember one classmate, a girl who was a famous model by that time. She had highlights in her hair. Dad took me to a stylist once, so I could also have the streaks in my hair. All I remember from the evening classes is going out to the lavatory to snort heroin or to take Tramadol or Diazepam. That was all. I dropped out pretty quickly.
70.
Graduations from rehab were major events, because the old-timers who already completed their therapy came to visit. Without a doubt I hated everyone, but hearing that the old-timers were coming captured my imagination. I was curious. They told me about a girl called Magda. She was a mess when she arrived in rehab. She spent three years in therapy, she held the record. They told me to take a good look at her: she was driving a car and she was sober. This was like a dream to me. For an ex-drug addict to wear smart clothes, hold down a job and drive a car, incredible. I couldn`t imagine how this was possible. I couldn`t wait to see her. I was made to participate in the music therapy performance for the graduation, I was to sing something, but I had very little confidence because there were a lot a people there: old-timers, the families of the graduates, government officials… A couple of hundred people. I was shocked by the size of the crowd. But my jaw dropped when I saw Magda reverse in the car park. She was stunning: long, brown, sparkly hair, glowing face. Oh, my God, I want this! But when? Back then, I thought I was incapable of living a sober life. I was insecure. I told one of the therapists that I can`t do this, I quit, I finish my therapy, I have things to do, I have unfinished business. Mihi said all right, go then. I was fuming. How can he let me go like this? I thought I was someone important, I thought I was a superstar, and I told him that they can`t just let me go like that. I imagined how I would come back and blow up the whole place. But something clicked. It sucked, but I didn`t leave.
As I was sobering up, I started to experience unpleasant feelings. I had an irresistible urge to take something. But in a place like this you can`t do much except for eating and masturbating. I slipped off into the toilets too touch myself. I felt a cold vacuum aching inside of me. Then I took up eating. I sneaked food in my pockets, bacon, drumsticks or whatever and go on a binge. I got addicted to cocoa, the stuff that made me sick all my life. I blew up like a balloon, I had oedema and I weighed at least 70-80 kg. But I didn`t care. I was eating compulsively. Then came a guy called Viktor. Sadly, he is no longer with us, he didn`t finish his therapy. I used to eat his food as well.
93.
Sadly, many people from the community have died since. One shot himself in the head, two died from overdosing. One of them was the guy I used to eat with at the community meals. For a normal person, losing someone is an entirely different thing. For us, it is part of the reality of using. An old junkie called Tony came to see us once. I used to use with him. I have one of his paintings on my wall, he made it for my first clean birthday. He also died of an overdose. Many people have relapsed, but many stayed sober, completed their treatment and had children, lovers or dogs, working and trying to recover, staying sober.
The community was my life and my home. I still see it as my home. I go back very often, I love being down there in the summers. Once you`ve finished your therapy it`s completely different because there are no rules. It is where I learned the difference between dreams and reality. It is where I got to know myself. I learned that recovery never ends, I realized that I was an addict and addiction needs to be treated. Although I was young, I realized that if I started drinking again, even just a little, like a normal person would, it would never be enough for me. Because I wouldn`t be able to stop. To have such awareness at the age of 23 is a big deal. My past, the powerlessness, despair, loneliness and all the humiliating experiences with the police helped me remember where I had come from.
I am grateful to the community. Grateful for all the wonderful things that happened to me. For getting me back on my feet. I had been in a place of despair and hopelessness. But they helped me back on my feet. Mihi told me not to be grateful to him because he was just a therapist and he was just doing his job. I had to make my own recovery work. After I left rehab I kept writing emails to Mihi and he pretty much ignored them. I was depending on him in a way, but he asked me to try and stand on my own two feet. He asked me to find the Twelve Step meetings and connect with other recovering addicts. To tap on that resource and help new-comers through sharing my own experiences.
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