Niki Rhodes was a heroin addict. She says CrossFit helped save her.
Let’s start on a foggy night in July 2008 in San Francisco.
I’m waiting for the arrival of my only tool for survival. One month earlier I turned 25. As I wait, I wonder how I have made it this far in life—as if turning a year older was some sort of feat. For most this is not a serious accomplishment, but for a girl in the depths of a chronic heroin addiction, turning 25 was nothing short of a miracle.
I’m cold and the fog is so thick it leaves a layer of mist on my face, stinging my skin. The chills and sweat of the “sickness” of withdrawal has made me sensitive to cold and I wonder what is taking this bitch so long.
Fast-forward.
I’m lying on a cement floor, not sure where. Nausea and vomiting has taken over. If I should be scared of this foreign place, it doesn’t occur to me. Two weeks into being in jail I realize where I am. The morning I realize this, I feel relief. The next two weeks of life are filled with boredom and court dates. When I am released, I have a court order to yet another rehab. Maybe life will fare well for me in a new place and off to sunny Palm Springs I go.
Here we go for another attempt at sobriety. I am not optimistic.