Terms going in:
mark - German dollar, worth about 50 cents in 1980
Detlef - her boyfriend's name
Gropiusstadt - name of a district in Berlin
Kudamm - a busy strip in Berlin - Kurfürstendamm
clean - not addicted to or associated with heroin
cold turkey - to stop taking heroin
hooked - addicted to heroin
stoned - high on heroin
john - a man who pays a prostitute
to hook - to prostitute
French - In regards to this narrative, it means having oral sex
CHRISTIANE: How I Decided on Narconon
®
And sometime in May 1977 I somehow got it through my
muddled head that I had exactly two choices: either I would
intentionally overdose as soon as possible (give myself the
golden shot), or I would make a serious effort to kick my
heroin habit. I knew that it was me who had to make this
decision. I wasn't going to count on Detlef for this one. I
couldn't leave the decision up to him.
I drove to Gropiusstadt, to the house in the middle, to the
evangelical youth club where my drug life had started. The
club had closed since I had been away because they
couldn't handle the heroin problem any more. For that they
had drug counselors. To be honest it was drug counselors
just for Gropiusstadt. That's how many drug addicts there
were two years after the big "H" made its first appearance
here. The counselor said something to me which I had
known for a long time, that I only had a chance through a
real recovery program. They gave me the addresses of
"Drug Info" and "Synanon" because they were supposed to
have the highest recovery rates.
I was kind of paranoid about these programs, since I had
been told by old-timers that recovery was extremely
difficult. The first month was supposed to be worse than jail.
In Synanon you even had to get all your hair cut off. The
idea of this was to prove that you wanted to start your life
all over again. I didn't think that I'd be able to bring myself
to shaving my head and running around like Kojak.
Somehow my hair seemed to be the most important thing I
had. I used it to hide my face. I thought that if they wanted
to cut off my hair, they may as well kill me, too.
Even the drug counselor told me that I probably couldn't get
into Drug Info or Synanon because neither one had many
openings. The conditions for acceptance into the programs
were very strenuous. You had to be physically fit and also
prove through voluntary self-discipline that you had the
power to to pull yourself away from "H". The drug
counselor said that I was still very young, not even 15,
practically a child. For that reason it would be difficult for
me to give them what they wanted. They didn't have a
special type of program just for children.
I said that I really wanted to go to Narconon. Narconon
was the half-way house of a cult, the Scientology
® Church. A
few junkies who had already been to Narconon spread the
word that everything there was just as it should be. There
were no conditions for acceptance at Narconon, as long as
you paid in advance. You could bring your junkie clothes,
your own records and even pets.
The drug counselor said I should think over why it was that
these junkies were telling people that recovery in Narconon
was so great and here they were pushing. Anyway she had
not heard of a single case of successful recovery with
Narconon.
I asked what I should do since I had no chance at all with
the other programs. So she gave me the address of
Narconon.
Back at home I dribbled beef blood extract into my cat's
mouth with my only syringe. When my mother came home I
told her, "I'm finally moving out to Narconon. I'll be there a
couple of months or maybe a year, and then I'll be clean for
good."
My mother acted as if she didn't believe a word I said. But
she grabbed the phone and tried to get information about
Narconon.
I was totally into this recovery trip. I felt like I was born
again. I had not had a fix all afternoon and I wasn't carrying
any "H". I wanted to go clean before I went to Narconon. I
didn't want to go into the turkey room first thing. I wanted to
show up there perfectly clean in order to have a head start
on the other people that were new there. I wanted to prove
right from the start that I had a real desire to break loose
from "H".
I went to bed early. I laid the tomcat, who wasn't feeling so
well, next to my head on my pillow. I was a little bit proud
of myself. I'd withdraw on my own, completely voluntarily.
What junkie had done that before? I would have told my
mother that I was quitting cold turkey, but she would only
have laughed. She wouldn't have believed me. For her, [my]
withdrawal pangs were an everyday occurrence and quite
hopeless. I had to go through it all by myself.
By the next morning I had the shakes. It was as bad as the
other withdrawals, maybe even worse. But I never thought
that I wouldn't make it. When I thought that the pain would
kill me, I just told myself that it was only the poison working
its way out of me. "You will live because this poison will
never again find its way inside of you." As I dozed off, I
didn't have any nightmares. Only pictures of my wonderful
life after recovery
CHRISTIANE: Ideal Life in a Drug Dream
When the pain became more bearable on the third day, I
saw paradise playing before my eyes like a film. It became
more and more real. I'd go to school again. Until the college
entrance exam. I'd have my own house. A convertible out
front. Which I'd drive most of the time with the top down.
The house would be in the country. In Rudow or maybe in
Grunewald. It would be an old style house. But not one of
these big city houses like they have around the Kudamm
with those insanely high roofs and things. Not a building with
a hall at the entrance and red carpet runners and marble and
mirrors and name plates with gold letters. Not a place in a
building which reeked of wealth in any way. Because
wealth, I imagined, meant pressure, tension and stress.
I wanted a place in a blue-collar neighborhood with two or
three small rooms, low ceilings, small windows, with
well-worn wooden steps to the stairwell, where it always
smelled a little bit like food, and where the neighbors came
out of their doors and said "Hi, how's it going?" The steps
would be so narrow that you'd have to stand aside for your
neighbor when he came through. Everybody would work
hard, but they would all be very satisfied. They would not
be into accumulating things; they were not envious, they
would help each other out; they would be completely
different from the rich and also quite different from the
workers in the high-rises from Gropiusstadt. No
pandemonium would break out in this house.
Especially crucial in my house would be the bedroom. On
the right wall would be a very wide chaise lounge covered
with dark material. On either side would be a nightstand.
One for Detlef when he slept with me. [Beside the
nightstands] would be potted palms. There would be many
plants and flowers in my room. Behind the bed would be a
tapestry of the sort not found in stores. On the tapestry
would be a picture of the desert, with giant dunes. And a
couple of palms. An oasis. Bedouins with white headcloths
would be sitting around totally relaxed in a circle, drinking
tea. Complete peace would reign on my tapestry. On the
left side of my bedroom, in the nook where the window is
built into the sloped roof would be my corner. A corner like
they have in Arabia or India. Many cushions around a low
round table. There I would sit in total peace, would
experience no turmoil and would have no wishes and no
problems.
The living room would be rather like the bedroom. The
plants, the rugs. But in the middle would be a big round
wooden table with wicker chairs around it. My best friends
would sometimes sit around the table and eat what I had
cooked, and drink tea. On the walls would be shelves full of
books by people who had also found peace and knew
about animals and nature. The hanging bookshelves would
have been made by myself out of boards and ropes. Most
everything in the house would have been made by me,
because there was nothing in the furniture stores which I
liked. Because the furniture there was made for snooty folks
and was built to show that the people who owned it had
paid an insane amount of money. There would be no doors
in the building, only curtains. Because when doors open and
shut that makes noise and disharmony.
I'd have a dog, a Rottweiler, and two cats. The back seat of
my convertible would be adjusted so that my dog could
really be comfortable in my car. In the evenings I'd
peacefully cook my meals. Not in the confusion in which my
mother always cooked. Then a key would turn in the front
door. Detlef would return from work. The dog would jump
up on him. The cats would arch their backs and rub up
against his leg. Then Detlef would give me a kiss and sit
down at the dining room table.
That's what I dreamt during my withdrawals. But I didn't
know that it was all a dream. For me it was the reality of the
day after tomorrow. That's how it would be after recovery,
and I could hardly imagine that it would be otherwise.
Everything was so clear to me that I told my mother on the
third day of cold turkey that I would be moving out into my
own place after I finished the recovery program.
CHRISTIANE: I only needed 20 more marks
On the fourth day I was doing so well that I was able to
stand up. I still had 20 marks in my jeans, and these 20
marks made me uncomfortable. Because twenty marks is
exactly half of forty marks. And I thought that if I only had
20 marks more then I could buy my last fix before I went to
Narconon the next day.
I talked with my sick cat. I told him that things wouldn't be
so bad if I were to leave him for one or two hours at a time.
I used my syringe to give him some chamomile tea with
sugar, the only kind he liked and said, "You won't die,
either."
I wanted to cooly stroll just one more time up the Kudamm.
Because I knew that there was no leaving Narconon, or if
there was, only under escort. And I also wanted a fix,
because the Kudamm without "H" wasn't quite so cool. But
I was still missing twenty marks. I had to find a john. I didn't
want to meet Detlef at the train station and tell him, "Hey,
I've just had the greatest cold turkey, it was really crazy.
And now I'm looking for a john because I only need twenty
more marks. Guaranteed that Detlef would not have
understood. He would have grabbed me and laughed at me
and said, "You are and always will be an old junkie bride." I
didn't want that to happen at all.
I got the idea on the subway: hook the street. The idea
came to me because I needed twenty marks. On the street
you often got only twenty marks. Babsi and Stella went on
Kurfuersten and Genthiner streets. I had always had a
natural fear of the streets. I wanted the johns coming over to
me like they did in the train station where I could look them
over on my own terms, not me going over to the car of the
customer who waved at me. It wasn't easy to make out
what kind of guy he was that way.
The worst was when you got a pimp. The pimps disguised
themselves as johns. Once they get you into the car, there's
nothing more you can do. Most of the pimps don't want
junkies working for them because they skim too much
money for their dope. They want to drive the junkies away
from the Kudamm because the junkie kids ruin the prices
for the professional hookers.
One time Babsi climbed into the car of a pimp. He locked
her up for three days. She was out-and-out tortured. They
let all kinds of men on top of her. Islanders and drunken
bums and everybody. And Babsi was of course stone cold
sober the whole time. She's never been right since. And she
still goes to the Kudamm. She was the queen with the angel
face but no butt nor breasts.
The professional hookers were nearly as dangerous as the
pimps. Potsdam Street, where the sleaziest hookers in
Berlin hung out, was only about 200 yards from the
Kudamm strip. Sometimes they gave chase to the junkies. If
they got one they'd scratch her face.
I got out off the subway at Kudamm and experienced a
deep-down fear. I thought over the advice which Stella and
Babsi always gave for the street: no young guys with sports
cars or American clunkers, no pimps. Older guys with big
bellies, hats and ties are OK. The best were the ones with
baby seats in the back seat. Good old dad, who wants a
quick change of pace and who will be in more trouble than
the girl.
I walked from the subway station for the hundred yards to
the intersection of Genthiner Street. I acted as if I weren't
looking for customers. I didn't walk along the street, but
kept quite close to the buildings. Nevertheless someone
suddenly waved at me. He looked funny to me. Maybe
because he had a beard. He looked somewhat aggressive. I
flipped him off and walked ahead.
There were no other girls in sight. It was still morning. I
knew from Stella's and Babsi's tales that the johns would be
quite horny if they had to drive around for a half and hour
without seeing a girl. Sometimes there were more johns than
girls on the Kudamm. There was a pair over there. I acted
as if I didn't see them.
I looked in a furniture store window, and there was the
room of my dreams. I said to myself, "Christiane, girl, pull
yourself together now. You've got to get those lousy twenty
marks fast. You must concentrate." That's the kind of thing I
had to do when I wanted to get something over with as
soon as possible.
A white car pulled up. There wasn't any baby seat in back,
but the guy didn't look evil. I climbed in without thinking too
much. I agreed to thirty-five marks.
We drove to Akanischen Place. That's an old railway
platform that belonged to the East German department of
transportation. We drove to the platform. It happened quite
quickly. The guy was nice and I had good feelings about it. I
even forgot that he was a john. He said that he would like to
see me again. But that wouldn't happen soon because he
was leaving in three days with his wife and both children for
vacation in Norway.
I asked him if he would be able to drive me to Hardenberg
Street, to the Technical University. He did that at once.
Things would be happening at the Technical University in the
morning.
CHRISTIANE: My last evening with my mother
It was a beautiful warm day, the 18th of May, 1977. I
remember the date because it was two days before my
fifteenth birthday. I walked around and talked with a couple
of guys. I petted a dog. I was totally happy. I felt crazy not
being in a rush to go somewhere...
When a guy came by and asked if I wanted any dope, I said
yes. He walked to Ernst-Reuter Place, where I bought a
bag for forty marks. I went directly to the women's room on
Ernst-Reuter Place. It's pretty clean there. I only put half the
dope on the spoon because I didn't want to do the whole
thing right after my withdrawal. I set about it rather
ceremoniously because I thought it would be my last time.
Almost two hours later I woke up. I was still sitting on the
toilet. The needle hung out of my arm. My things were
scattered all over the floor of the tiny stall. But other than
that I was OK. I thought to myself that I had really chosen
the right time to finally quit "H". I'd had it with walking along
the cool Kudamm. The good feelings were all gone. I
bought potato soup and vegetables for 2.50, but of course I
immediately tossed it all up. I dragged myself back to the
subway station to say so long to Detlef, but he wasn't there.
I had to get home, because my sick cat needed me.
The pussy cat was lying in the same spot where I had laid
him. On my pillow. First I cleaned my needle and then I
filled it with chamomile tea with sugar. Really I had pictured
my last day as a junkie quite differently. I considered
hanging out at Kudamm for just one more day before I went
to Narconon.
Then my mother came and asked me were I had been all
afternoon. I said, "On the Kudamm." She said, "You
wanted to drop by Narconon today to ask about everything
[you needed]."
I immediately blew up and began to yell, "Leave me alone. I
don't have time for this. Do you understand?" Suddenly my
mother yelled back at me, "You are going to Narconon this
evening. Pack your bags right now. You're staying the night
at Narconon."
I had made myself some meat and vegetables. I took the
plate, went into the bathroom, locked myself in and ate
sitting on the toilet. So this was how I was going to spend
the last evening with my mother. I yelled, because she had
upset me, that I was on "H" again... And I wanted to go to
Narconon on my own.
I packed a few things in my straw bag and stuck the needle,
a spoon and the rest of the dope in my underwear. We
drove in a taxi to Zehlendorf, where the Narconon building
was. The guys from Narconon didn't ask me any questions
at all. They knew what was going on. They even had scouts
that went to the strip and talked to junkies to see if they
didn't want to try out Narconon.
But they asked my mother questions. They wanted to see
some cash before I was admitted. 1,500 marks paid in
advance for the first month. Of course my mother didn't
have that much money with her. She promised to bring it by
the next afternoon. She wanted to take out a loan. She said
that her bank would do this no questions asked for such a
small amount, and she pled that I would be allowed to stay.
The guys finally agreed.
Welcome to Narconon, Christiane
I asked if I could use the bathroom. I could. So I wouldn't
be body-searched first thing like they did in the other
recovery programs, and sent home if they found your drug
paraphernalia. I went to the rest room and shot up the rest
of the dope. Of course they saw that I was high when I
came back, but they said nothing. I gave them my
paraphernalia. The one to whom I gave it said, quite
surprised, "We'd like to have that, but only if you give it to
us completely voluntarily."
I had to go into the cold-turkey room, because they saw
that I was totally strung out. There were two others in there.
One left the next morning.
That was a nice piece of work as far as the Narconon
people were concerned, when somebody paid in advance
for a month, and then left first thing.
I received books which contained the teachings of the
Scientology Church. Wonderful old worn-out pieces of
trash. I discovered that this was one wild cult. In any case
they had rather worn-out stories which you could believe or
not. I looked for something which I could believe in.
After two days I could come out of the cold-turkey room
again, because I hardly had any withdrawal symptoms after
my two shots. I went into a room with Christa. That was
one totally flipped-out woman. She had been blacklisted
from recovery because all she did was laugh at the therapy
and the program aides. She came into the room and looked
for a stash in the baseboards. She thought that someone had
probably once hidden their stuff there. She brought me up to
the roof and said, "Girl, we'll have to bring us up a couple of
mattresses and have us a cool orgy with wine and hashish
and whatever." The lady was pulling me down. Because I
found her too far gone. But she was always reminding me of
drugs and thought this Narconon stuff was a bunch of crap.
And I was trying to get clean here.
On the second day my mother called me and told me that
my cat had died. That was on my 15th birthday. My mother
wished me happy birthday, then she told me my cat had
died. It bothered her, too. The morning of my 15th birthday
I crouched on my bed and just cried.
When the guys noticed that I was still crying, they told me
that I needed a session. I was shut in a room with one of
them, a former junkie, and he gave me apparently senseless
commands. I was only allowed to say yes and had to carry
out each command.
He said, "Look at the wall. Go to the wall. Touch the wall."
And then he started all over again. For hours I went from
wall to wall in this room. Sometimes it was too much for me,
and I said, "What's this garbage supposed to do? You are
touched in the head. You'd best leave me alone. I'm done
crying." But with his smile that never changed he'd get me to
somehow continue. Then I had to touch other things. Until I
really couldn't stand the place anymore and threw myself on
the floor and yelled and screamed.
He smiled and I continued after I had settled down. Now I
had this smile, too. I was totally apathetic. I was touching
the wall before he gave the command. The only thing that I
could figure out was that this would have to end sometime.
After exactly five hours he said, "OK, that's enough for
today." I was feeling strangely agreeable. I had to go with
him into another room. There was a funny home-made
device, like a pendulum between two tin cans. I had to grab
a hold of that. The guy asked, "Are you feeling well?"
I said, "I'm feeling well. I believe that I am experiencing
everything much more consciously."
The guy stared at the pendulum and then said, "It hasn't
moved, therefore you are not lying. The session was a
success."
The funny thing was a lie detector. It was probably a ritual
device of this cult. In any case I was quite happy that the
pendulum had not swung. That was proof enough for me
that I really felt well. I was ready to believe anything to get
away from "H".
They did all kinds of amazing things. When Christa got sick
that same evening she had to grab a bottle and say whether
the bottle was hot or cold. In her fit of fever she played
along. After an hour she apparently didn't have a fever
anymore.
I was fooled so bad that I went into the office the next
morning and asked them for a new session. For a whole
week I was on the cult-trip and thought that the therapy
would really get me out of there. The program ran for the
whole day. Sessions, clean-up, kitchen duty. That went until
ten o'clock at night. You didn't have any time to think about
it.
The only thing that got on my nerves was the food. I wasn't
exactly spoiled as far as food goes. But I could hardly keep
the slop they served here down. I thought that they could
have offered something better for the pile of money they got.
Because they hardly had any expenses. The sessions were
mostly conducted by former junkies who were supposedly
clean for a couple of months. These guys were told that this
was part of recovery and so they only got pocket money. I
also didn't like the fact that the bosses of Narconon ate by
themselves. Once I went up to them as they had just sat
down for dinner. They were keeping the good food for
themselves.
CHRISTIANE: Leaving Narconon
One Sunday I had some time to think things over. First I
thought about Detlef and became rather sad. Then I quite
soberly thought about what I could do after recovery. I
asked myself whether the sessions had really been helping
me. I had plenty of questions, but no answers. I wanted to
talk things over with somebody. But I had nobody. One of
the first house rules here was that you couldn't make friends.
And as soon as you wanted to talk about your problems the
Narconon guys would immediately give you a session. It
was becoming clear to me that the whole time here I had not
properly chatted with anybody.
On Monday I went into the office and tore into them. I
didn't let them interrupt me. I started with the food. Then I
told them that almost all my underwear had been stolen.
You never got to wash your clothes because the girl with the
key was always taking off for the strip. There were a few
there that would take off to get their fix and come back
when they felt like it. I said that things like that were getting
me down. And then these constant sessions and the
housework. I was completely exhausted because I simply
didn't have enough time for sleep. I said, "OK your program
is going quite well, it's really good. But my own problems
are not getting solved. Because this whole thing is just a drill.
You're just trying to drill us. But I needed someone that I
could talk my problems over with. I needed time to discuss
my problems.
They listened and smiled. They said nothing at all. When I
was done, they growled that I needed a special session,
which lasted the whole day until ten at night. That brought
me into total apathy again. And I think that they knew
exactly what they were doing. My mother had told me
during a visit that she would get the money she had to pay to
Narconon refunded from the welfare office. And I thought
that if the state gave money for this, that it must really be
OK.
Others in the building had more problems than I did. Gabi,
for instance. She had fallen for this guy and absolutely
wanted to screw him. In her genuine stupidity, she told the
Narconon bosses about it and immediately got an extra
session. After she hopped the guy's bones a few times, the
word got out, and the two of them were yelled at in front of
everybody. Gabi took off that night and never came back.
The guy who was supposedly clean for a couple of years
and worked as a program aide split sometime later. He
went back to being a junkie.
It didn't matter that much at Narconon if we screwed each
other. It was more important that no friendships came out of
it. But the guy had already been there a year, and how long
were you supposed to last without friendship.
The little free time we had in the evenings I spent with the
younger people. I was the youngest in the building. But in
our slowly forming clique, no one was yet seventeen. This
was the first wave coming into recovery that had already
started shooting up as children. They were all as hooked as
I was after one or two years because the poison gets to you
more in puberty than it does later. They had never had a
chance to try out the other recovery programs.
After a while most everybody else needed the sessions just
about as much as I did. When two of us younger people
were together the entire session would turn into one big
joke. How long could you stay serious if you had to shout at
a football or stare for hours into each other's eyes. We
didn't need the funny lie detector anymore because we said
that the sessions weren't doing anything for us. Outside of
making us laugh. The poor session leaders became more
and more helpless whenever they had to work with us.
During our time off there was only one thing to talk about in
our clique: "H". I talked about getting out of there with
several others. After two weeks with Narconon I had
worked out an escape plan. Together with two boys I
disguised myself as part of the Cleaning Commando Squad.
Our trash cans, brushes and buckets got us through all
doors. The three of us were in bliss. We practically dirtied
ourselves just thinking about that first fix. We separated at
the subway. I rode to the Zoo train station to meet Detlef.
CHRISTIANE: Nowhere to Go
Detlef was not there. But Stella [was]. She practically died
with excitement at seeing me again. She told me that Detlef
had not been seen by anybody lately. I was afraid that he
was in jail. Stella said that the john business was lousy at the
station. We rode to the strip at Kurfuersten Street. Nothing
was going on there either. We ran from the Kurfuersten
Street station to Laetzow Place before somebody finally
pulled over. We knew the guy and his car. He had often
followed us before. Also when we went to the rest rooms to
get a fix. We had always pegged him as a plainclothes cop.
But he was only a john who specialized in young female
junkies.
He only wanted me, but Stella was allowed to climb in, too.
I said, "Thirty-five for French. French is the only way I'll
go."
He said, "I'll give you a hundred marks."
I was flabbergasted. This had never happened to me before.
The guys in the big fat Mercedes crapped themselves over
five marks. And this guy in a rusted-out Volkswagen was
giving away a hundred. Then he said he was an officer in the
German CIA. So he was a liar, too. But these flipped-out
high rollers were the best johns, because they liked to throw
their money around.
Then he actually gave me the hundred marks. Stella
immediately bought some dope, and we shot up in his car.
We drove to the Ameise Hotel. Stella stayed on the floor. I
took my time with the guy, because I was completely stoned
from my first fix in two weeks. And because he had paid me
quite respectably. I was so stoned that I didn't even want to
get up from the narrow bed in this crappy hotel room.
I gabbed with the guy for a little more. He was a really funny
blabbermouth. To top things off he said that he still had a
half a gram of heroin at home. He would give it to us if we
were out on the Kurfuersten Street again in three hours.
Then I hit him up for thirty more marks. I said we needed it
so we could go get some good food. And I knew that he
had plenty of money and only drove the old VW as a cover,
because he was supposed to be into espionage. After that
he had no choice but to give me the money.
Stella and I rode back to the Zoo train station, because I
had not yet given up on meeting Detlef again. Then all of a
sudden a small, fluffy black and white dog came running up
and jumped on me. I must have reminded the dog of
somebody else. I thought the dog was great. He looked like
an undersized northern sled dog. A rather ragged looking
guy came up and actually asked if I would want to buy the
animal. I agreed right away. He wanted seventy marks, but I
haggled him down to forty. I was stoned and totally happy
with the dog. I had a dog again. Stella said that I should call
it Lady Jane. So I called it Janie.
We ate meat and vegetables in a restaurant on Kurfuersten
Street, and Janie got half. The fake spy actually came on
time and gave me an even half a gram. It was crazy. The half
a gram was worth a hundred marks.
Stella and I rode to the train station once again to look for
Detlef. We met Babsi. I enjoyed myself immensely because
in spite of all our differences I liked Babsi better than I did
Stella. The three of us went up to the strip. Babsi looked
terrible. Her legs were like matchsticks and the last
appearances of breast were gone. She now weighed 68
pounds. Only her face was as pretty as ever.
I told them that Narconon was supposed to be a really cool
place. Stella didn't want to hear anything about it. Stella said
that she was born a junkie and wanted to die a junkie. But
Babsi was completely carried away with the idea, to finally
withdraw [from drugs] with me at Narconon. Her parents
and her grandmother had also tried in vain to find an
opening for her in recovery programs. Babsi was once again
shacking up, but she really wanted to quit. She was not
doing well at all.
After we were all talked out, I went with my Janie to the
Metro, a shop in the train station which was open evenings.
I bought two plastic bags of dog food for Janie and a whole
lot of pudding as nourishment for myself. Then I called
Narconon to see if I could go back. They said yes. I told
them I was going to bring a friend along. I didn't tell them
that my friend was Janie.
CHRISTIANE: Hi, Dad
I had not thought too much about it, but in principle it had
always been clear that I would be going back to Narconon.
Where else was I to go? My mother would have really
freaked if I had shown up at the door. Besides, my sister
had moved out of my father's and was now sleeping in my
bed in my room. I didn't want to shack up. For me that was
the last straw, to be totally dependent upon a john who kept
me overnight. I had never stayed with a john the whole night
because that would have automatically meant sex. Above all
I still really wanted to withdraw [from drugs]. And I still
thought that I'd do that with Narconon because I didn't have
any other choice.
In the house (we always just called Narconon "the house")
they were not friendly, but said nothing. They said nothing
about Janie, either. There were already 20 cats in the
House, and now they could add a dog to that.
I got some old blankets and made Janie a little nest next to
my bed. The next morning the dog had crapped and peed
all over the room. Janie would never be housebroken. She
had a real fit. But I had those too. I loved Janie. Cleaning up
after her didn't bother me.
I immediately got an extra session. That didn't bother me. I
did everything completely mechanically. It only bothered me
that I could not be with my dog for hours on end. Others
took care of my dog, and that made me sick, because Janie
was supposed to be my dog. Everybody played with her
and she played with everybody, because she was a little flirt.
Everybody fed her, and she got fatter. But only I talked with
her when we were alone. At least now I had somebody I
could talk to.
I took off two more times. The last time I was gone for four
days. The first time I shacked up. I was able to live with
Stella because her mother had just finished an alcohol binge
and was in the withdrawal clinic. The same crap started in.
John, fix, john, fix. Then I found out that Detlef had gone to
Paris with Bernd. I really flipped out.
That the guy who I had as good as married had cut out of
Berlin without saying anything to me about it was the last
straw. We had always wanted to go together to Paris. We
wanted to rent a little room like they have on Montmartre
but gave it up because we had never heard anything about
the drug life in Paris. We thought they didn't do drugs in
Paris. Just a bunch of shabby artists who drank coffee and
an occasional wine.
So now Detlef and Bernd were off to Paris. I had no more
friends. I was all alone in the world, because Babsi and
Stella had once again started up the old battle over the same
old crap. I only had Janie.
I called up Narconon and they told me that my mother had
already picked up my things. So my mother had given up on
me, too. Somehow that made me mad. Now I wanted to
show them all. I wanted to show them that I could do it all
by myself.
I rode to Narconon and they took me back in. I did the
program as if I were obsessed. I did whatever they told me.
I became a regular model student and was permitted to hold
the lie detector, and the needle never gave a read when I
said how much I had got out of my session. I thought, "now
you'll do it. Right now." I didn't call my mother, who had
taken my things. I borrowed clothes. I wore boy's
underwear. But that didn't make any difference to me. I
didn't want to ask my mother to bring my things back to me.
One day my father called me up, "Hi Christiane. Tell me
where you have ended up. I've just heard about it for the
first time."
I said, "Gee I think it's great that you're worried about me."
He, "Say, do you want to stay with that funny group?"
I, "Sure, no matter what."
My father took a deep breath, then he asked whether I
would like to out to eat with him and a friend. I said, "Yes,
I'll do it."
A half hour later I had to go down to the office, and there
was my dear father, whom I had not seen for months. He
came with me up to my room, which I shared with four
others. He said, "How's it look here?" He had always been
a Neatness Freak. And our room looked really crazy, the
same as everywhere else in the building. Dirty and trashy,
and clothes lay everywhere.
We wanted to leave to go eat, but one of the bosses said to
my father, "You have to sign a statement that you'll bring
Christiane back."
My father freaked out. He yelled that he was the father and
that he alone would decide where his daughter stayed. If he
took me with him at that time then his daughter would never
return.
I ran back to the recovery room and yelled, "I want to stay
here, papa... I don't want to die, papa. Please let me stay,
papa."
The Narconon people, who were gathered around because
of all the yelling, defended me. My father ran out yelling,
"I'm getting the Police!"
I knew he would do it. I ran away to the attic and climbed
up to the roof. There was a little platform for the chimney. I
crouched down there and froze.
Two police vans actually showed up. The cops searched the
building with my father from top to bottom. The Narconon
bosses were also calling me in the meantime, because they
had started to be worried. But nobody found me on the
roof. The cops and my father took off again.
On the next morning I called my mother up at work. I cried
and asked, "What is going on?"
My mothers voice was quite cold as she said, "I don't care
what happens to you."
I said, "I don't want for papa to get me out of here. You
have custody of me. You can't just turn your back on me.
I'm staying here and I won't skip out any more. I swear it.
Please do something to get Papa from getting me out of
here. I have to stay here, Mom, really. I'll die otherwise,
Mom, believe me."
My mother was very impatient and said, "No, that's not
going to happen." Then she hung up.
I was devastated. Then I got mad again. I said to myself,
"They can kiss my butt. They haven't worried about you
your whole life. And now they're jumping around like they're
going to have a cow, those idiots, they've always done
everything wrong. Those pigs have let you totally go to
pieces. Kessi's mother has seen to it that her daughter didn't
end up in total crap. And these pieces of shit of parents of
mine all of a sudden think they know what's good for me!"
I asked for an extra session and totally got off on it. I
wanted to stay with Narconon and then maybe become a
member of the Scientology Church. In any case nobody
was taking me out of here. I didn't want to fall to pieces on
account of my parents. That's what I was thinking in my
total hatred.
Three days later my father came back. I had to go down to
the office. My father was quite calm. He said he had to
bring me to the welfare office on account of the money
which my mother had paid for Narconon and which she was
now to receive from the welfare office.
I said, "No, I'm not going. I know you, Papa. If I go with
you then I've seen this building for the last time. And I don't
want to die."
My father showed the Narconon boss a document. It said
on it that he was permitted to take me out of here. My
mother had legally empowered him. The Narconon chief
said there was nothing he could do, I had to go with my
father. They couldn't hold me against my father's will.
The boss told me that I shouldn't forget my exercises.
Always confront. "Confront" was a magical word with these
guys. You had to confront everything. I thought, "You are
idiots. I have nothing to confront. I have to die. I'm not
hiding that. I could last at the most two weeks before my
next fix. I couldn't do it. Not by myself. That was one of the
few moments in which I clearly saw my own situation. In my
confusion I talked myself into thinking that Narconon was
the only salvation for me. I screamed with anger and with
confusion. I couldn't take it anymore.
CHRISTIANE'S MOTHER Loses Her Illusions -- Part I
In no way did I think it was a good solution that my
separated husband took Christiane after the disappointment
with Narconon in order to make her see reason, as he
called it. Outside of the fact that he could not watch her
around the clock, I also had moral difficulties because of the
relationship between him and me about letting him have
Christiane. On top of which her sister had shortly before
come back to me because her father was so strict with her.
But I was at a loss and hoped that maybe he could do with
his methods what I had not. But I don't want to rule out that
he could have talked me into it so that he could escape the
responsibility for Christiane. Since her first withdrawal I was
constantly torn between hope and despair. I was mentally
and physically at the end of my rope when I asked her
father to intervene.
Three weeks after the first withdrawal which Christiane had
painfully gone through at home with Detlef, the first relapse
hit me like a ton of bricks. The police called me up at work,
they had picked up Christiane at the Zoo train station. I was
supposed to go pick her up.
I sat at my desk and shook. Every two minutes I looked at
the clock to see if it was four o'clock yet. I didn't risk
leaving before close of business. There was nobody I could
trust. Both of the boss's daughters cursed the ground I
walked on. All at once I understood Detlef's father. You're
ashamed right from the start.
At the police station Christiane's eyes were swollen from
crying. The policeman showed me the fresh tracks in her
arm and said that she had been caught in "unmistakable
circumstances" at the train station.
At first I couldn't imagine what he meant by "unmistakable
circumstances." Maybe I didn't want to. Christiane was very
unhappy that she had relapsed. We withdrew all over again.
Without Detlef, she stayed home and appeared to stick with
it. I built myself up to telling her teacher what was going on.
He was alarmed and thanked me for my openness. He was
not accustomed to hearing about this from parents. He
assumed that there were other heroin addicts in the school,
and he would have been glad to help Christiane. He just
didn't know how. It was always the same thing. Whoever I
talked to, either they were as helpless as I was, or they had
completely written off people like Christiane. I would have
to go through this plenty more later on.
Gradually I saw how easily young people got their heroin.
The dealers waited for them on the way to school on
Hermann Place in Neukoeln. I thought that I was not
hearing correctly when Christiane was approached by one
of these guys while she and I were out shopping. To a
degree it was foreigners, but also Germans. She also told
me how she knew these people, "He deals with him, and he
sells that, and he does anything." The whole thing was
absurd to me. I thought, "where did we really live?"
I wanted Christiane to change schools to a prep school on
Lausitzer Place, at least to avoid [the pushers] on the way to
school. Spring vacation was just around the corner, after
which I wanted her to start at her new school. I hoped that
she would be taken out of the dangerous environment at the
train station. Of course that was naive of me, and nothing
came of it. The prep school administrator immediately told
us that applications for students from public schools were
not usually accepted. And he couldn't make an exception
for us because Christiane's grades in mathematics were so
poor. For curiosity's sake he asked us why she wished to
change schools. When Christiane said that the student
council was so bad, the director grimaced "Student council?
There is no student council in public schools." Because of
the constant disagreement between the students, he
explained, there could not possibly be a student council.
I didn't know who was more disappointed, Christiane or
me. She just said, "That was completely pointless. The only
thing that'll help me is a recovery program." But where was I
supposed to find a recovery center? I called around in the
government. They referred me to drug counselling centers.
And the counseling centers insisted that Christiane must
come to them voluntarily. As different as they all were (one
would speak poorly of the other), they all agreed on this one
point. The only provision for recovery was the willingness of
the participant. Recuperation would not be possible
otherwise.
And when I urged Christiane to go to a drug counselling
center, she'd become fussy, "What am I supposed to do
there? They don't have a place for me. I don't want to hang
around there for weeks at a time."
What was I supposed to do? If I would have dragged her
by force to the drug counsellors, that would have violated
the only rule they had. On the one hand I can understand
their attitude. Up to this point Christiane was not really
ready for a serious attempt at recovery. On the other hand I
was of the opinion that children like Christiane who were
addicted to heroin had a right to be helped even if it was
involuntary.
CHRISTIANE'S MOTHER Loses Her Illusions - Part II
Later on, when Christiane was so bad off that she really
wanted to go into recovery on her own, they said again: no
openings, six to eight weeks waiting period. I couldn't catch
my breath. I could only say, "And what happens if my child
dies before then?" "Yes, she should receive counseling in the
meantime so we can see if she means it seriously." Today on
the whole I can't blame the drug counselors. With the limited
number of recovery centers they have available, they are
forced to somehow exclude applicants
I couldn't get her enrolled, but when Christiane came back
from her spring vacation I had the impression that she didn't
need it anymore. She gave the impression of being as alive
as life itself. I thought that she had really kicked the habit.
Also she was making a lot of disapproving comments about
her friend Babsi, who sold herself for heroin to an old guy.
She herself could never do such a thing. Now she was
happy that she had nothing more to do with drugs and all the
trash [that went with it]. She appeared to be convinced of
that. I could have sworn that she was serious.
After a few days she had been dragged down again. I could
see it in her tiny pupils. I didn't listen to her excuses
anymore. "What are you going on about, I've only smoked a
pipeful", she'd lie. This was the beginning of a very bad time
for me. She started lying straight to my face. Regardless of
what I knew. I grounded her. She didn't stay at home. I
considered locking her in. But she would have climbed out
the window from the second story. I wouldn't risk that.
I was just about at the end of my rope. I couldn't take those
little pupils anymore. Three months had gone by since I had
caught her in the bathroom. Every couple of days the
newspaper reported an overdose. Mostly just a couple of
lines. They counted the heroin victims the same as they
counted traffic deaths.
I was pitifully afraid. Most of all because Christiane was no
longer open with me. Because she had nothing to say. This
deception put me on edge. If she felt like she was being
watched, she'd become wary and mean. Her very being
slowly began to change.
I occasionally gave her spending money - 20 marks a
month. I had this constant fear that I would give her 20
marks, then she'd buy a shot, and that might be too much. I
could halfway live with her being addicted. It was the fear
that the next shot could be the last that got to me. I was
content that she just came home. In contrast to Babsi,
whose mother often tearfully called up and wanted to know
where Babsi was.
I was in a constant state of agitation. When the telephone
rang, I was afraid it would be the police or the morgue or
something of the sort. I still jump up out of bed whenever
the phone rings.
There was no more point in talking with Christiane. When I
addressed her addiction, it was, "Leave me alone!" I had the
impression that Christiane had given up on herself.
She stuck with the story that she didn't shoot heroin any
more and only did hashish to the degree that I would have
made nothing of it if it weren't for the fact that I didn't
believe her. I regularly searched her room, and I found all
sorts of paraphernalia. Even a syringe two or three times. I
threw them at her feet, which only made her scream,
insulted. That belonged to Detlef. She had taken his needle
away from him.
When I came home from work one day, the both of them
sat on the bed in the children's room and were just heating
up the spoon. I was completely perplexed at their gall. It
was all I could do to shout, "Just get out of here."
As they went outside, I screamed out loud. All at once I had
an uncontrollable anger at the police and our government. I
felt all alone. The papers wrote about drug deaths. There
were already over thirty victims this year. And it was early
May. I couldn't understand it. You saw on television what
ungodly amounts the state was giving out for the fight against
terrorism. And in Berlin the dealers ran around and sold
heroin on the open street like it was ice cream on a stick.
I was deep in my own thoughts. Suddenly I heard myself
say "Crappy government." I didn't know what all was going
through my head. I sat in the living room and looked at all
the furniture. I believed that I would have liked to break
each piece into bits. That was what I was getting worked up
about. Then I screamed some more.
That evening I beat Christiane quite badly. I sat up in bed
and waited on her. My whole head was in an uproar. It was
a mixture of fear, guilt and self-reproach. I thought I was a
failure, and not just because of my marriage and all the work
I'd done wrong. Also because I was too weak to see the
facts about Christiane all this time.
That evening I lost my last illusion.
Christiane came home at twelve thirty. I saw through the
window that she climbed out of a Mercedes. Right in front
of our door. My God, I thought, now everyone will know.
Now she has thrown away all her self-respect. Now came
catastrophe. I was utterly destroyed. I grabbed her and
thrashed her so terribly that I hurt my hands. Finally we both
sat on the rug and cried. Christiane had come completely
unraveled. I told her that she had been out hooking, and
now I knew it. She just shook her head and sobbed, "But
it's not the way you think it is, Mom."
I didn't want to know any more about it. I sent her to the
sink and then to bed. No one can imagine how I coped.
Selling herself to men, that threw me - I believe - even more
than her heroin addiction.
I didn't sleep a wink the entire night. I thought, "What else
can you do?" In my confusion I even thought of sending her
to a juvenile home. But that would have just made things
worse. First they would have put Christiane in the main
foster home on Ollenhauer Street. A teacher had warned
me about that place because, among other things, the girls
were induced to prostitute themselves.
CHRISTIANE'S MOTHER Loses Her Illusions -- Part III
I saw only one other possibility: Christiane had to leave
Berlin immediately. Forever. Whether she wanted to or not.
Out of this swamp where she would always be seduced.
Someplace else where she is safe from heroin.
Both my mother in Hessen and my sister-in-law in
Schleswig-Holstein were ready to take her right away.
When I gave my decision to Christiane, she became sullen
and withdrawn. I had already made the necessary
preparations. In spite of this Christiane came crawling up to
me, seemingly sorry, and ready to go into recovery. She had
even found a recovery center. With Narconon.
That eased my troubled mind. Because I was not sure if she
could make it to West Germany without therapy and not run
away from my relatives.
I didn't know anything in particular about Narconon, just
that they cost money. I drove with her two days before her
fifteenth birthday by taxi to Narconon. A young man gave us
the mandatory introduction speech. He congratulated us on
our decision and assured me that I need have no more
worries. As a rule the Narconon recovery was a complete
success. I could be completely as ease. I was more relieved
than I had been in a long time. Then he laid the contract in
front of me for my signature. 52 marks per day with
payment for four weeks in advance. That was more than my
net pay. But what did I care? Besides, the young man gave
me the prospect of offsetting the recovery costs through the
district office.
The next day I scraped together 500 marks and brought it
to Narconon. Then I took out a loan for 1,000 marks and
paid them at the next parents' night. The parents' night was
led by an allegedly former addict. But you couldn't tell it
from looking at him. Thanks to Narconon, he said, he had
become a new person. And that impressed us parents. He
also reassured me that Christiane had been making
progress.
In reality they were just putting us on and were after our
money. Later I read in the newspaper that Narconon was
part of a shady American cult and made their money from
the fear of the parents.
But as always I didn't find out anything until after it
happened. First of all I was looking out for Christiane's best
interests. And that's what I wanted to do for as long as
possible. Therefore I needed money.
I ran around the government offices. But none were willing
to cooperate. Nobody would pour good money into
Narconon. I was shaken up and discouraged. I felt as if I
were wasting the people's time. Then someone said to me
that first I would need a state medical certificate of
Christiane's drug dependency in order to fill out an
application for the offset of rehabilitation costs. I thought
that was some kind of a joke. Anybody who knew anything
about it could just look at Christiane and see her condition.
But that wasn't the way bureaucracy did it. It was just that
when I finally got an appointment to see a doctor after two
weeks, Christiane had already taken off from Narconon.
For the third time.
Once again I cried a river. I thought, "Now it's starting all
over again." This time I had really hoped that maybe she
would make it. I took my friend with me to go looking for
her. The afternoon we looked around, the evening
downtown and to the discos, through the train stations.
Anywhere drugs could be dealt. Each day, every night, we
started all over again. We even looked through the
downtown rest rooms. We turned her name in at the police
station as a missing person. They just put her name on the
missing person's list. She would turn up eventually.
I would have liked to crawl off somewhere by myself. I had
only fear. Fear of the call. Your daughter is dead. I was a
bundle of nerves. I had no desire, no interest, I had to pull
myself together to go to work. I didn't want to be put on the
sick list. I started having heart problems. I could barely
move my left arm. It numbed up on me when I was sleeping.
My stomach rumbled. My kidneys hurt and my head
threatened to burst. All that was left of me was a little pile of
wretchedness.
I went to the doctor. He gave me rest. "It's your nerves", he
said to me after the examination, and prescribed valium.
When I told him why I was so out of sorts, he told me that a
couple of days ago a young girl had come to him and
admitted that she was drug-dependent and had asked him
what she should do. "And what did you tell her?" I asked.
"She should get herself a rope", was his answer. There was
no help, that's exactly what he said.
When Christiane showed up at Narconon a week later, I
couldn't really be happy about it. As if something inside me
had died. I had the idea that I had put everything humanly
possible into action. But nothing had helped. Just the
opposite.
The whole mess was only getting bigger. Even with
Narconon Christiane was becoming worse instead of better.
She had abruptly changed there. She came across quite
commonly, not at all feminine, more repulsive.
I was already puzzled during my first visit to the Narconon
villa. Christiane was suddenly strange to me. Something was
gone. Until then she had an inner connection to me in spite
of everything. That was over. Gone like after a
brainwashing.
In this situation I asked my separated husband to bring
Christiane to West Germany. But he preferred she move in
with him. He had had it with her. And if she didn't notice, it
was nothing a slap upside her head wouldn't cure.
I had nothing against that. My patience had run out. I had
already done so much wrong that I was afraid that the bad
luck would only have continued [had she gone to] West
Germany.
The End
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