Hello friends and readers! I don’t often write about the ugly and painful moments I was in the grip of addiction. War stories serve a purpose at AA meetings. They can help someone struggling mightily to understand that they’re not alone. My first sponsor is in maximum security prison in California for committing the heinous murder of his girlfriend during a relapse on alcohol and methamphetamine. I’ve written about Mike here, and often think of him as an immediate way to find gratitude for where I am in my life. His story does that for me.
I prefer to spend my time writing about what I’ve learned in recovery, and how my life differs now from then. But for the closing post of National Recovery Month I wanted to share some painful memories. Today, I am a healthy, happy, fulfilled, and connected man who is deeply in love with my bride Ann. Please read the following with that in mind.
It’s the awesome and awful part of drugs—at the same time. Expansion then contraction. The cruelty of it. At first its everything. Booze gives you courage. Gives you—fearlessness. Drugs expand your mind in ways that won’t ever happen organically. Mushrooms, cocaine, LSD, peyote, weed. At first they thrill and scare the shit out of you at the same time. You see things. Possibilities. Angles. Challenges. Solutions.
For normal people that’s maybe where it stops? I wouldn’t know. Cuz I didn’t—couldn’t stop. At some points that is really hard to identify, a tipping point occurs. Like a rocket shot vertically into the air that tops out and turns over and starts down. Accelerating—closing in on the ground. Eliminating all possible outcomes except for the coming crash. Shutting down. Going too fast to see. Still accelerating. Oh fuck this is gonna leave a mark.
Cruel.
I can’t breathe. If I do my lungs will explode. I can’t hold my breath. My head will explode. Little shallow breaths are the only option left—holding as still as I can. Sweating profusely. Eyes twitching uncontrollably. I can only lie here in my soaked sheets and pray for this to mercifully end. This binge might just kill me. This time might be the one.
Staring at the ceiling—flashers and tracers. My heart roaring in my ears—throwing poisoned blood around my body doing God-knows-what kind of damage. It might not matter anymore. This could be it.
Hours later—who knows—my eyes starting to drop from sheer exhaustion. My supply is gone—thankfully. I feel a pressure on my chest and warm breath on my face. My eyes flutter open and lock on the eyes of my Golden Retriever Bogart. Each time my eyelids drop he whines and paws at my chest. He softly licks my face up and down with his massive tongue. He slides further up so that his full 90-pound frame is on my midsection. This cycle repeats many times over. I can’t move and I can’t fall asleep. At some point I must—because I wake up hours later with that crushing, shame-filled awareness that I’ve been spared to face myself for another day. Bogie is asleep beside me—having done all he can for me.
When you’re coked up your sweat is thin and constant. Like a sheen of film on your skin. You wipe it and it’s still there. It has a vague, unhealthy chemical smell. Less about the coke and more about whatever shit its cut with.
I can spot another cokehead from twenty paces—just like they can spot me. Furtive eyes—wan smile—with that sheen. On a cold day. In the shade. With sunglasses on.
Fucking junkies.
It's 2 pm on a Saturday in February. I'm looking out the window of my suite at the Westin's beautiful resort in Cabo San Lucas. Ten of my buddies have taken time out of their lives and money from their pockets to join me here to celebrate my 50th birthday. And I’m hiding in my suite all coked up—alone. I can see some of the boys taking in the surf and sun—margaritas and umbrella drinks served under a bright sun. I pull the shades, go to the bathroom, and flush an 8-ball of really good Yayo. I can't do it anymore. It'll be 20 more months before I enter Betty Ford and begin my journey to sobriety. But for this moment I'm done. I need to get an hour or two of forced sleep before our group dinner tonight. No one misses me cuz I've crafted an elaborate excuse of a half-day man spa treatment for my birthday.
Yeah. My closest friends and I'm a lying motherfucker.
The truth is it’s not even the drug. It’s not the drink. It’s the sheer anticipation of the moment when it hits the back of your throat. Lizard brain. They’ve tested rats—and the little fuckers’ hearts race more before they get a hit than after the hit. Junkie lizard rat fuck.
It’s about making the phone call. The knowing. The thought that in a few short minutes you’ll be able to unwrap the prize. Unscrew the cap. Chase away the ache. Fuck yes—very soon.
I'm sitting across a desk from a guy who looks like an elementary school principal. I'm sure he's a nice man but fuck you. What am I doing here answering your nosy fucking questions.
When was the last time you drank? When was the last time you used cocaine?
Really?
How about right up until the time I got dropped off at this fucking place? Moments before. Until I couldn't. And now here I am wishing I was. Instead of sitting here with you...Mr. Mayberry...
It's Dr. Mayberry.
Who cares.
We do. Lots of people care that's why you're here Dee.
Who cares. Fuck it. My life's over.
If you give yourself a chance you can get well here.
Look Mayberry...I can gut out this 28-day bullshit...I’ll be outta here by December 23rd by my calculations. I can still make the John Mayer concert at The Hard Rock on New Years Eve.
Dee, please understand this. You're free to go...anytime. You're not locked up here. You didn't get sentenced to this place. You don't have any legal consequences awaiting you. At some point in the last 48 hours, you mustered enough courage in the face of your loving family's intervention...and you agreed to come here. You checked in and paid for our 90-day residential treatment program for successful professionals like yourself that are struggling with the disease of alcoholism.
90 days? I agreed to that? Fuck you...90 days? I have a life...I need to get back.
The life you left can be over if you want it to be. People that love you are taking care of your dogs, your bills, your home, your responsibilities to work. You're free to be here now and to do nothing but figure out what Dee wants. What kind of life do you want? Continued slavery? Or Freedom?
Yeah well fuck you.
That last exchange was on November 23rd, 2009—my sobriety date.
Thank you for reading. I promise to lighten it up next week. Have a good weekend.
Brutally honest! A healing trait!