Relapse. Go directly to jail. Do not pass go.
In April 2017, Mike F. was convicted for the heinous murder of his girlfriend, a local schoolteacher. He is currently serving a life sentence in the California penal system. He was my first sponsor.
Friends, I published this piece back in my early days of Substack. If you were able to read it back then I appreciate it. I’ve gratefully attracted a few more readers since then. I thought this was an important story to retell. Recently a men’s writing group that I’m a part of tackled the topic of recovery as our quarterly shared exercise. We don’t write collaboratively on a topic, but rather we each write our own piece on a common theme. You can certainly find my piece here and their respective pieces are linked within that essay. Each of these talented writers,
and had an interesting and substantially different take on what the word recovery can represent in their own journey—and potentially in yours. At least half the essays had nothing to do with alcohol or drugs—but everything to do with recovery.I’m pretty sure even those guys haven’t read this piece because we met up for the first time many months after I published it back in April. So here you go—a fresh read of Relapse. Go directly to jail. Do not pass go.
When attempting to make sense of the rash of young, disconnected men perpetrating gun violence on others, I’m drawn to an awful—but instructive—personal experience.
Before I dive into that—a related sidebar. Doesn’t it make sense that there should be toxicology reports on these young men? With decades of evidence pointing to how many violent felons are incarcerated for crimes they committed while under the influence of alcohol or drugs, and the fact that a large percentage of our population is medicated by one form or another of pharmaceuticals, why isn’t there testing done upon arrest or in autopsies? And if tests are done—and in many cases they are—then why doesn’t the public have this information? Tens, if not hundreds of millions of Americans are taking prescribed medications for anxiety, depression, and other mental illness diagnoses. The most widely prescribed class of drugs in history is called Benzodiazepines which include Xanax, Librium, Klonopin, Valium, and Halcion. These drugs act on the central nervous system as depressants. They are often a first line of treatment by psychiatric doctors to treat a multitude of depression-related disorders. Often this class of drug is used in combination with SSRIs. Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors are a type of antidepressant that have been shown to increase levels of serotonin within the brain. Zoloft, Prozac, Lexapro, and others—are also used to treat anxiety and depressive states. The former works faster and has more potential for dependency, while the latter works on longer-term symptoms. The many possible side effects include slowed motor function, impairment of mental functioning, confusion, as well as paradoxical effects such as increased anxiety, irritability, rapid heart rate, and sweating. Hallucinations are also a listed side effect of this class of drugs. What isn’t being said outside of clinical settings is how often these drugs are used in combination with alcohol, weed, and other street drugs—and the outcomes of those interactions.
While these drugs are legal for use with a prescription, there is ample evidence that they might do as much harm as good. We also see the overwhelming evidence of illegal drugs being used in the commission of violent crimes, often in combinations of alcohol, marijuana, methamphetamine, cocaine, and others. The statistics for violent felons committing crimes while under the influence of these drugs is widely available, and it is appalling. Now—in light of recent efforts to decriminalize—and potentially reclassify—Schedule 1 narcotics, doesn’t it make sense to take a closer look at the links between drugs and violent crime?
Now to my story about Mike. Part of my early program at the Betty Ford Center was to attend local meetings, and to find a sponsor to help me navigate my 12 steps. I dutifully looked for someone at the daily 6 AM meeting at Fellowship Hall in Palm Desert. Four months earlier, my company, which I had founded ten years earlier, had closed a lucrative sale to a larger company. I was full of myself and my accomplishments and couldn’t yet grasp the impact my behavior had had upon those around me. But here I was, 30 days into a 90-day treatment cycle, trying to follow direction. I was told repeatedly by my counselors, who had seen thousands of people try to get sober, that I was the type that would struggle. Because my bottom didn’t put me on the street—and because on paper I appeared to be successful to the outside world—I would try to outsmart their recommendations.
Mike F. was a native of the Coachella Valley, in his mid 40s, when I met him in late 2009. He had a bright, energetic spirit. In my uneducated—to the ways of sobriety—view he represented everything I wasn’t. He was a grown man but acted like a street kid, rode a skateboard to the meetings every day, and had a couple of years clean and sober at the time. Mike was rough but charming. He was honest—as far as I could tell. He talked a lot about his traumatic life and his juvenile incarceration like it was a badge of courage. I thought, if this guy can get sober, anyone can. One morning I eased up to him after a meeting and asked him to sponsor me. His response was that he’d never been asked, and that he needed to ask his own sponsor about the idea. The next day he agreed.
We would meet at the Hovley soccer fields in the late afternoons and talk. Frisbee golf was on the agenda many times, as there were 9 basket holes positioned throughout the park. He played with his full backpack of assorted frisbee golf discs, while I’d sling my trusty 175 Discraft ultimate disc. I kicked his ass repeatedly and finally told him of my earlier life as an Ultimate player. Our far-flung talks would be of family, friends, the meaning of life, living sober, and relationships. An unlikely pair to be sure but we developed a working friendship based on our common purpose. He always gave me homework. Slowly and painfully, I worked my way through the 12 steps. The fearless and moral inventory required by the 4th step is a place where many early alcoholics get tripped up. It can be so shame-inducing as to stop us in our tracks. It took me weeks. The 5th step involves the telling. Mike F. would say to me, what are you so afraid of? Have you ever killed anyone? No? Then get on with it. How bad can it be?
After my release from treatment, I flew Mike F. back to Denver to spend the first sober week or two in my own environment with me. It was early March—I had been clean and sober for nearly 100 days—but I hadn’t been back in my home scene since Thanksgiving. We went to AA and NA meetings every day. He hung a boxing speed bag in my backyard and taught me to use it. His kinetic energy was so intense that it caused an inverse reaction in me. I found peace and calm just being near him.
Having served his purpose to me, Mike went back to the Coachella Valley, and I went to work. I began working with another sponsor in Denver in those early days but stayed in touch with Mike. I even invested some money in a skateboard company he had started, manufacturing long boards for downhill competitions. Later in the next summer, he and his merry band of racers were leathered up and ready to race down Lookout Mountain, just west of Golden, Colorado. The start was near the gravesite memorial of Buffalo Bill Cody, and the road rockets down steeply through sharp turns for approximately 6 miles. It was mayhem, and the spectators loved it.
Even then I knew Mike had relapsed and gone back to using. Meth was his favorite, but it was always weed that broke down the sober resistance and led to the other. He was a stone-faced and believable liar—like so many of us are when we’re in the grip. He and I started losing touch. I was one piece of accountability he didn’t want anymore. I would go back to Palm Desert every year for alumni reunion events and other business, and I’d always ask about him at the meetings in Fellowship Hall. The reports would be something like this:
He’s off on a bender.
Haven’t seen him in months.
He called me asking for money last month.
I saw him at the gas station buying candy…didn’t look good.
He’s been seeing a psychiatrist and getting meds for depression.
Mike’s sponsor, a local dentist in the area, got him a scholarship entry to Betty Ford’s day treatment program. From all indications, he completed the program and was living in a sober house with a couple of other guys. I’m not sure how long he actually stayed sober, cuz the next time I saw him was really rough. He wanted cash and I wouldn’t. I took him to breakfast, bought him some groceries at the super, filled up the gas tank on his small Toyota truck, and hugged him. Over the next couple of years, he’d be in and out of meetings. Occasional sightings.
What is often understood in recovery—and evidenced in long-term addiction—is that there are three places an addict ends up if they cannot grasp this simple program of spiritual living through sobriety—the hospital, prison, or the morgue.
It was January 2014. I got a call from a friend down in Palm Desert. Did you hear about Mike? I had not. He forwarded me a local Desert Sun article, and a KTLA news story. Mike F. had been arrested for the brutal murder of a popular local teacher, a woman he’d been living with. Apparently, she’d taken him in as long as he stayed clean. He couldn’t—and when she confronted him—he slashed her throat. An inadvertent butt dial with his cellphone captured him telling her that he’d take her to the hospital for treatment of the wound. Instead, in the wee hours of December 23rd, he dumped her alongside a golf course and ran her over several times with her own Prius to make sure she was dead. On a two-day methamphetamine binge, he used her ATM card within minutes of killing her, then went back and sat in the driveway of their home, with his newly purchased pile of meth—so unhinged that he unable to go anywhere or do anything. The cops arrived hours later and took him into custody. Evidence was so overwhelming that his defense strategy during the quick trial was that he had no memory of the events due to his intoxication. The jury took 2 hours to convict him on all charges. I was never able to visit or speak with Mike F. after that. I really didn’t want to. I prefer to this day to remember him for the man I knew briefly, but powerfully, when he was sober and—at least temporarily—winning his fight with his demons.
Are some people murderous and others not? Do drugs alter a person’s core ability to judge right vs. wrong? Much smarter people than me have yet to figure that out. What we do know is that our perceptions—the ways in which we relate to the world around us—and our impulse control are dramatically affected. I know in Mike’s case; he lost the path. He let go of the string that connected him to his health and his future.
I learned from Mike F. He helped me. During that time we spent together I found him to be interested and interesting. He was trying. Sometimes it doesn’t work. It truly is a daily practice. What I learned from Mike is simply the most powerful lesson a person in recovery can learn. To bear witness to just how precarious—how absolutely fatal a relapse can be. I’ve never come close. Thank you Mike.
Another friend of mine from my days at Betty Ford, gave me a necklace on my first sober anniversary as a memento mori. It has a skull to remind me of how close we all are to death on any given day. Alongside the skull is a heart, to remind me to remain open to the connections and love which keeps me sober and alive. There are many times I touch the necklace and think, there but for the grace of God…