Zoo Station: The Story of Christiane F. (34 page)

Although I'd never actually spent time thinking about it, I'd basically always known that I'd be heading back to Narc Anon. Where else could I have gone? My mom would have freaked out if I showed up on her doorstep. Also, my sister had moved out of my dad's place and was now living at my mom's, taking up my old room and my bed. Couch surfing wasn't for me. And the last thing I wanted to do was be completely dependent on a john who took me in for the night. I'd never stayed overnight with a customer because that automatically meant we'd have to have sex. But most importantly, I still wanted to get clean for good. And I still believed that I could do it at Narc Anon because for me there were no other choices left.

In the house—we always called it just “the house”—they were cold, but they didn't say anything. Not about my escape, and not about Janie. There were already about twenty cats in the house, so how much of a difference would a dog make?

I brought some old blankets down from the attic and made up a dog bed for Janie, right next to me. The next morning, the dog had covered the entire room in shit and piss. Janie had never been house-trained. She was a total nutcase. But then again, so was I. I loved Janie, so I didn't mind having to clean up after her again and again.

I was immediately given an extra session. It didn't bother me. I just went through the motions automatically. The only thing that got on my nerves was the fact that, so long as I was in here, I couldn't be with my dog. Other people were taking care of her while I was in sessions, and that made me sick. She was my dog. Everyone played with her, and she played with everyone; she was kind of a slut like that. Everybody fed her, and she just got fatter and fatter. But I only talked to her when we were alone. It was nice to have someone I could talk to.

I ran away two more times. The last time I was gone for four days. That was my first experience with couch surfing. I could stay with Stella because at that time her mom was in a psychiatric clinic with the DTs.
³⁵
All the old shit started up again. Customers, shooting up, customers, shooting up.

Then I found out that Detlef had gone to Paris with Bernd, and I had a fit.

The idea that Detlef, who was basically like my husband, would just up and leave Berlin without even letting me know—that was the last straw. We'd always dreamed about going to Paris together. We were going to rent a small room in Montmartre or some neighborhood like that and go cold turkey together because neither of us had ever heard of there being a heroin scene in Paris. We believed that there were no drugs in Paris, only a lot of cool artists who drank a lot of coffee and maybe sometimes had some wine.

So now Detlef was in Paris with Bernd. I'd lost my boyfriend. I was all alone. All the old fights and irritations had risen up again with Babsi and Stella. The only one I had left was Janie.

I called in to Narc Anon at one point while I was away, and they told me that my mom had already picked up my stuff. So my mom had given up on me, too. Somehow that made me furious. Now I wanted to show them all. I wanted to show them that I could do it all on my own.

I went to Narc Anon and they took me in again. I participated in their therapies like I was possessed. I did everything I was told to do. I became a real model student and was allowed to use the lie-detector apparatus, and its pendulum never moved when I said that a session had been good for me. I thought, Now you'll make it. I didn't call my mom because, what did she care? She'd already checked me out. I just borrowed the stuff I needed, like boys' underpants. I didn't care one bit. I just didn't want to ask my mom to bring back my stuff.

One day my dad called: “Hi, Christiane,” he said. “So tell me, where the hell's this place you're living now? I just happened to find out about it.”

I just said, “It's great that sometimes you remember that you actually have a daughter. Awesome job, Dad.”

He: “So, do you really want to stay at that place, with all those wackos?”

Me: “Definitely, for sure.”

I could hear my dad taking a long, deep breath before he asked if I would like to come out to eat with him and a friend. “Yeah,” I said. “Sure. I can do that.”

Half an hour later, I had to go down to the office to meet him. There he was, my dad, live and in the flesh. He came up to see my room, where I was housed with four other patients. “Look at this friggin' mess,” he mumbled. After all, he'd been a neat freak all his life. And it really did look like a bomb had gone off in there. Every room was like that, a total mess, with clothes everywhere.

Because we were heading outside, one of the bosses said to my dad, “You're required to sign a statement that you'll be bringing Christiane back.”

My dad went ballistic. He shouted that he was my father, and that he alone could determine where his daughter was allowed to go, and when. He was going to take me with him, and they wouldn't need to wait up.

I started moving backward, toward the therapy room, and said, “I want to stay. I don't want to die, Daddy. Please let me stay.”

The Narc Anon people, who'd been attracted by the yelling, all came running and backed me up. My dad ran outside and shouted, “I'm coming back with the police!”

I knew that he wasn't bluffing. I ran up to the attic and climbed onto the roof. There was a kind of platform for the chimney sweep. I crouched down on that and shivered with cold.

Then two patrol cars arrived. The cops searched the house with my dad from top to bottom. Meanwhile, the Narc Anon bosses started getting scared and also started calling for me. But nobody found me on the roof. Eventually the cops drove off, and my dad left with them.

The next morning I called my mom at work. I started crying right away. “What's going on?” I asked her. “What's happening?”

My mom responded with a voice that was as cold as ice: “I couldn't care less about what happens to you.”

I said, “I don't want Dad to take me away from here. You are the custodial parent. You can't just give up on me and leave me to fend for myself. I'm staying here and I'll never leave again, I swear. Please, do something so that Dad can't just take me out of here. I really truly need to stay here. Otherwise I'll die, Mom. Seriously, you have to believe me!”

When she spoke she sounded impatient: “No. I can't. I won't.” Then she hung up.

At first I felt like I was now a completely lost cause. But then my rage returned. They can all kiss my ass, I thought. Your whole life they didn't care one iota about what was happening to you.
And now they feel like they can do whatever they want with you, when they've never done anything right. Those assholes totally let you get sucked down the drain. Kessi's mom made sure that Kessi didn't end up totally fucked up. And now that you're really struggling, they're trying to tell you what to do? They're fucking crazy.

I asked for an extra session and totally immersed myself in it. I wanted to stay at Narcotics Abusers Anonymous and maybe even become a member of the Church of Scientology. In any case, I wouldn't let anyone take me away from here. I didn't want my parents to damage me any further. That's what I was thinking to myself while my anger burned itself out anyway.

Three days later my dad came back, and I was forced to come down to the office. He was really calm. He said that I had to go with him to the Social Services Department since they were reimbursing my mom for her payments to Narc Anon.

I said, “No, I'm not coming along. I know you, Dad. If I come with you, I'll never see this house again. And I don't want to die.”

My dad showed an authorization document to the Narc Anon managers, that stated that he was permitted to take me out of here. My mom had given him the authority. The head of Narc Anon said that there was nothing he could do, and that I had to go with my dad. They couldn't keep me here against his will.

When we said good-bye, the head of Narc Anon said that I shouldn't forget to do my exercises. “Always confront!”

Confronting was one of their magic words. We were supposed to confront everything. What a bunch of idiots, I thought. There's nothing for me to confront. I'll have to die. I just can't take it anymore. After two weeks I'll get doped up again. I can't do it. I'll never make it on my own. This was one of the rare moments when I saw my situation as clear as day. In my despair I really believed that Narcotics Abusers Anonymous was my only
lifeline. I was sobbing with rage and despair, on and on and on; it seemed I would never stop.

I cried so hard that I could barely breathe.

After that fiasco at Narc Anon, I didn't think it was a very good idea for my ex-husband to take Christiane in and help “bring her to her senses,” as he put it. Aside from the fact that he couldn't supervise her around the clock, thinking about Christiane in the care of her dad caused me emotional indigestion. Mainly because of the memories of my relationship with him, but also because her sister had just moved back in with me as a result of his over-bearing tactics.

But I didn't know what else to do and hoped that maybe he'd succeed where I had failed. But I also don't want to exclude the possibility that I was eager to find any reason—however implausible—that would give me a break from Christiane and her issues. Since her first withdrawal, I'd been swinging back and forth between hope and despair. When I asked her dad to intervene, I was physically and emotionally drained; I was at the end of my rope.

Just three weeks after her first withdrawal (which Christiane bravely endured, along with Detlef, back at my place), the police called me at work and informed me that they'd picked up Christiane at Zoo Station. I was asked to come and get her.

That first relapse hit me like a ton of bricks. I sat at my desk, shaking. Every two minutes I glanced at the clock to see if it was 4 p.m. yet. I didn't dare leave before the end of the workday. I didn't want to entrust my family's pain and trouble to anyone else. My boss's two daughters would have basically condemned me. I suddenly gained some understanding of what Detlef's dad had tried to express. You really are very ashamed, especially at first.

Christiane's eyes were almost swollen shut when I got to the police station. That's how hard she must have cried. The police officer showed me the fresh needle track on her arm and told me she had been arrested at Zoo Station in an “unambiguous position.”

At first I couldn't imagine what “unambiguous position” meant, but maybe I really didn't want to know anyway. Christiane was intensely unhappy about her relapse. I helped her withdraw again. Without Detlef. She stayed at home and seemed determined to make it work. I got up my courage and let her school advisor know about what was going on. He was shocked, but he thanked me for my openness. He wasn't used to that from other parents. He suspected that there were more heroin addicts at the school, and he would've liked to help Christiane. The only problem was that he didn't know how.

It was always the same. It didn't matter who I talked to— either people were as helpless as I was, or they had already completely given up on people like Christiane. I saw this same thing over and over again.

Slowly I began to realize how easily teenagers came into contact with heroin. The dealers were already waiting for them on their way to school. I couldn't believe my ears when Christiane was once approached by one of these guys, in my presence, while we were out shopping. She told me how she knew these people: That guy deals with this guy; and this guy sells that; and that one over there does this or that.

It all seemed so crazy. What's going on here, anyway? What kind of a place to live is this? I wanted to transfer Christiane to a different school, so that she could at least avoid that particular route to school and its inherent dangers.

It was right before spring break, so right before I wanted her to start at the new school. I hoped that this was a way I could pull her out of the environment she was used to and away from the
dangers at the subway stations. Of course, that was a naïve idea and my plan didn't even come to fruition anyway. The principal of the other school told us right off the bat that they didn't like to take students from a comprehensive school like Christiane's. And Christiane's grades were far too poor for him to make an exception. Out of curiosity, he asked why Christiane wanted to switch schools. When Christiane said that there was no sense of community or camaraderie there, the principal smirked. “Camaraderie? Of course there's no camaraderie at a school like yours.” He said that since the students were always being shuffled and resorted in their classes, there was just no chance for any kind of community spirit to develop.

I don't know who was more disappointed, Christiane or I. She just said, “This is so pointless. Rehab is the only thing that can help me.” But how would I ever get her a spot in a rehab program? I called each and every regional office and state office, every department, every authority. The best thing they could come up with were the drug-counseling centers. And the drug-counseling centers insisted that Christiane approach them voluntarily. As much as they all fought with each other and berated the other centers for their methods, they all agreed on that one point: Voluntary participation was the only way to start. Otherwise, a recovery would be impossible.

When I begged Christiane to go to a counseling center, she became obstinate and combative: “What good would that do?” she said. “And anyway, they don't have any openings for me. No way I'm going to hang around their place for weeks on end, doing absolutely nothing.”

What was I supposed to do? If I'd dragged her against her will, I would've been betraying their primary requirement. That being said, today I can at least understand their position. At the time, Christiane probably wasn't emotionally mature enough to undergo a serious therapy program. On the other hand, it still
seems wrong to deny assistance to addicts who are still so young. We should do whatever we can to help them.

Later, at the various points when Christiane felt run-down, depressed, and helpless—when she felt so bad that she would have happily checked herself into a strict rehab program, it was always the same: There were no spots open, and she'd have to spend six to eight weeks on a waiting list. It left me speechless. The only thing I could respond with was, “What if she's dead by then?”