Can't Let it Happen Again (Part 1 of 2)

I take pride in my job; I absolutely love what I do. I work in the IT (information technology) field as a web site developer. I have several years of experience and earn very good money for my age.

I currently work for a company where I have been employed since March 2007. I bring in over double what I made at my previous job, but that is just a stroke of pure luck. Allow me to explain why.

In June 2005, I interviewed and subsequently was hired for a very lucrative technical position with a local financial institution. This was, without doubt, my first REAL job. I was making as much money as those twice my age, had a full benefits package and great co-workers. There was nothing at all that I could complain about. For those of you who have been reading my blog, this is the job in which I had been provided the fateful rental car (read more).

Things were going so well that soon after being hired, I was already being set up for a week-long training class located in San Diego, California. I had never been to San Diego — much less California — and was very much looking forward to the trip. When the week prior to the trip arrived, I began to panic a bit. Why?

I realized that due to the duration of the trip, I would have to somehow make arrangements to have an ample supply of drugs to avoid going into withdrawal. It did not take long to conclude that I would not be able to purchase enough before heading off. This was due to poor planning and overall financial instability. So, I bought what I could and hoped like hell I could figure something out while I was there.

I packed all of my supplies in various spots in my baggage. One pill inside a sock, another inside a deep pocket in my jeans and so on and so forth (I acquired Oxycontin for this trip). Not being a regular flying traveler, I did not know the exact protocol for baggage checks. More specifically: I made a connecting flight to the ATL Atlanta airport before being flown to my final destination at the SAN San Diego airport. I — being naive — assumed that upon arriving in Atlanta that the luggage would arrive in the claim area and I would then cart it off to where I was boarding the San Diego flight. Boy, was I an idiot. After waiting for what seemed like hours, I finally asked a lady where all of the luggage was. After explaining my story to her, she then explained to me that it was likely already on its way to San Diego and would waiting for me when I arrived.

This immediately struck fear in every nerve in my body. I had not taken any type of opioid that morning and was rapidly entering into withdrawal. Profuse sweating, abdominal pain, goose flesh, hot and cold sweats and puking were soon to follow. I give my Atlanta connect a call out of pure panic. I told him where I was and asked him if there was any way he could help me in my situation. He correctly refused knowing that the place was full of law enforcement types.

I make it to the boarding area for my San Diego flight. It was then that the captain informed all of the passengers on board that it would be over five hours before we would arrive to our destination. Hearing this only further increased my discomfort. Minutes went by as if they were hours; seconds as minutes; mere moments seemed to go by in slow motion. I was in some kind of alternate reality. Further making matters worse was my lack of prescription Xanax (alprazolam). I had been prescribed said medication for panic disorder for over a year at this point on a dosage of 3mg per day, split into 1mg every eight hours. I was literally one millimeter from implosion!

I was sitting in the middle seat in a three-seat row. It had to be very apparent to my two row-mates that something was very, very wrong with me. Each time a snack or meal was offered, I declined knowing that it would only be thrown up or out of me in mere minutes. Paranoia set in about mid-way through the flight. I kept envisioning that everyone was thinking or looking at me in disgust; knowing that I was a junkie and secretly laughing inside.

Then, it hit me. What if — especially since this was post 9/11 — the TSA had located my stash? What if there were police waiting for me to arrive in San Diego? At this point, I had to get up. I darted toward the bathroom only to find it locked and in-use. After it had been freed up, I quickly got in and shut the door behind me. I was a total mess. I had sweat dripping down my forehead, my intestines felt like they were about to explode and I was having a panic attack. I began to feel as though I was about to die; my heart was beating a million beats a minute; I had feelings of losing touch with reality, losing control. I was experiencing full-on derealization.

I don't know how long I was in the restroom, but I remember several knocks; many accompanied by a voice either asking if I was fine or blunt requests for me to get out. I didn't care. I just pushed up against the door to prevent anyone from entering.

Upon getting out, it felt as though everyone was looking at me, and to an extent, many probably were. I know I couldn't have looked too well.

Eventually, we made it. I was never more elated than at the precise moment that we made contact with the ground.

I do not remember much between getting off the plane and arriving to the luggage pick-up carousel. Once again, I was frightened out of my mind at the thought of somehow being jailed for the possession of the drugs in my bag. It didn't help that the main security office was right behind my particular plane's baggage retrieval area.

After looking down at my watch at least one-hundred times, the machine began spinning and, slowly by surely, bags began to make their way to the upper platform. I watched, in horror, as others were locating their luggage and walking away. There were a handful of people left before the machine stopped. I instantly thought about jumping ship at this point. I had no question in my mind that I had been found out. As soon as I made this assertion, the machine started again. I then saw my bag. I ran toward it and grabbed it. Sure enough, it was someone else's. What was going on here?

A few minutes later, my bag exited. It was the last bag. I was later told that this had occurred because of the mix-up in Atlanta; when I had asked about the bag at the other Airport, they took it out of queue momentarily. It ended up being flown out on a different plane than everyone else's, thus explaining the delay.

I grabbed it and immediately went to an area to sit down. I unzipped the bag — my heart pounding and my hands shaking — and began to look for what I had hidden earlier. I was quickly greeted with a slip of paper notifying me that my bag had been randomly selected for searching purposes. My heart skipped a beat. I continue searching... digging deeper and deeper into the abyss. I finally locate one, then another and another; they were all there!

Arrangements had been made to have a shuttle take me to my hotel. I walk outside to where the Airport transportation existed. I looked around for what was to be my shuttle. It wasn't there. This had taken a lot longer than I'd realized. I queried one individual who appeared to be directing a lot of people to their designated shuttle buses. He pointed me to a van; I thanked him and walked to it. The driver spoke only but a few words of English. I showed him the flyer for the shuttle service and he indicated that he was the right guy. I was in too much pain to question it. Once I got to my hotel, he asked for US$55.00. I told him that that could not be so because my company had paid for it in advance. He then told me that I was not in the right shuttle, so basically I'd been taken for a ride (quite literally). I paid up, not caring, as I'd finally arrived at the hotel. I had everything I needed and was only moments away from getting well!

Well, of course, life doesn't work out like that. There was a long line at the service desk and everyone seemed to be in an overtly-chatty mood. This only further irritated me. I finally am at the front of the line and everything went through smoothly. This was a nice contrast to what I had experienced earlier in the day. I grabbed my key card, got into the elevator and ran to my room. I was finally there! (To Be Continued...)