ALSO BY BRETT DOUGLAS
Celebrity Autopsy Photos
(and other things I find amusing)
American Drug Addict
a memoir
Brett Douglas
TCA Books, LLC
Copyright © 2017 by Brett Douglas / TCA Books, LLC
Cover photography by Paul Price-Williams
Cover design by TCA Books, LLC
Cover design copyright © 2017 by TCA Books, LLC
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portions thereof in any form whatsoever, other than for review purposes.
All lyrics used with permission.
“Condemnation” by Martin Gore. Performed by Depeche Mode. © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
“Asleep” by Steven Morrissey, Johnny Marr. Performed by The Smiths. © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc, Universal Music Publishing Group
“All the Time” by Barry Manilow, Martin Panzer. Performed by Barry Manilow. © Universal Music Publishing Group
“Religious Vomit” by Carlos Cadona, Darren Henley, Eric Reed Boucher, Geoffrey Lyall, Raymond John Pepperelle. Performed by The Dead Kennedys © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.
“Stories of Old” by Martin Gore. Performed by Depeche Mode. © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
“Down in a Rabbit Hole” by Nick Zinner, Conor Oberst. Performed by Bright Eyes. © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
“Mr. Self-Destruct” by Trent Reznor. Performed by Nine Inch Nails. © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.
“The Perfect Drug” by Charles Clouser, Chris Alan Vrenna, Daniel Patrick Lohner, Trent Reznor. Performed by Nine Inch Nails. © Universal Music Publishing Group
“The Speed of Pain” by Brian Hugh Warner, Manson Marilyn, Ramirez Twiggy, Jeordie White. Performed by Marilyn Manson. © Peermusic Publishing, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc, Universal Music Publishing Group
“Even Deeper” by Daniel Lohner, Trent Reznor. Performed by Nine Inch Nails. © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.
“Comfortably Numb” by David Jon Gilmour, Roger Waters. Performed by Pink Floyd © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc, BMG Rights Management US, LLC, Imagem Music Inc
“My Evil Twin” by John Flansburgh, John Linnell. Performed by They Might Be Giants. © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc
“The Line Begins to Blur” by Trent Reznor. Performed by Nine Inch Nails. © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.
“Clean” by Martin Gore. Performed by Depeche Mode. © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
“Note to Self” by Neil Hannon. Performed by The Divine Comedy. © Universal Music Publishing Group
Manufactured in the United States
ISBN-13: 978-1544849454
ISBN-10: 1544849451
www.brettdouglasauthor.com
[email protected]
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following people:
My mom, Joan, for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself. I truly have the nicest mom.
My children, Devin and Jordan, for giving me the opportunity to be the father you both deserve.
My girlfriend, Barbie, for loving and supporting me despite my faults.
My sponsor, Chris, for providing a good portion of the wisdom found in this book.
My former sponsors, Mike and Don, for putting up with my bullshit for many years.
My homegroup, Courage at Noon, for the aforementioned reason.
The Panhandle Writing Group for teaching me the craft and tolerating my course language.
Micca and Jimmy for letting me take up space in your restaurant. Please don’t ban me.
And finally, Bill W, Dr. Bob, and the organization of Alcoholics Anonymous without which I would have never found recovery.
American Drug Addict
a memoir
The story you are about to read is true. None of the events have been fabricated. If you happen to be one of the people mentioned in this book and have a problem with what I’ve written, do not contact me and complain. Write your own damn book.
Condemnation
by
Depeche Mode
Condemnation
Tried
Here on the stand
With a book in my hand
And truth on my side
Accusations
Lies
Hand me my sentence
I'll show no repentance
I'll suffer with pride
If for honesty
You want apologies
I don't sympathize
If for kindness
You substitute blindness,
Please open your eyes
Condemnation
Why
Because my duty
Was always to beauty
And that was my crime
Feel elation
High
To know I can trust this
Fix of injustice
Time after time
If you see purity as immaturity
Well, it’s no surprise
If for kindness
You substitute blindness,
Please open your eyes
Sanity had returned. As I stirred from my slumber, I slowly scanned my surroundings. I was lying on a concrete bed located in the back of a cell. An impenetrable, metal door adorned one wall, the only means of leaving the room. It was locked from the outside. The cell was barren, except for a stainless-steel toilet and sink in the corner. The lack of windows made gauging time impossible.
I looked down at my body. It was covered with a thin, paper smock. My feet were bare. The temperature felt like a walk-in freezer, causing me to shiver and ball up in a fetal position. A wound on my neck throbbed, covered with what felt like tape. The cause of the injury was no mystery; I had cut my own throat.
I stretched my legs out on my cement bed. My mind was blank, a mental rest from the storm I had just emerged from. Lying on my back, I studied the concrete ceiling while waiting for a thought to move to the forefront of my mind. What the fuck am I doing? I remained motionless for some time, then turned my head toward the cinder block wall next to me. All places like this are constructed with these types of blocks and painted with a lifeless, sterile shade of white. I placed my hand on it. I put this wall here.
After fixating on my hand for a while, the next thought rushed forward. It was the most compelling one. I need to write this down.
By the way, my name is Brett. I’m a drug addict. That sounds bad, and ultimately, it is bad. If the very first time I used drugs my entire life disintegrated, all the people I loved disappeared, all my possessions were discarded, and I stared Death in the face, I would have nothing to write about. My drug use would have stopped there.
Although drug addiction is bad, drugs are great. I love getting high. Drugs are the only thing in life I always want. I can’t even say that about sex. I’ve never laid my head on a pillow at night and thought, Damn, I forgot to get high today. I may have forgotten to pay a bill or show up for some important appointment. I have never forgotten to get high.
Drugs are my best friend. I can always count on them to make me feel better. Drugs cure what’s ailing me and ease my discomfort and anxiety. I choose drugs over human companionship every time.
I love the process of acquiring drugs; the shady characters, the dangerous situations, the clandestine meetings in sleazy motel rooms, parking lots, or public bathrooms. I love the thrill of breaking the law and thumbing my nose at the police.
I love the process of doing drugs; the equipment which must be procured, the meticulous ritual of preparing them, the methodical steps taken to create the perfect buzz, and the search for a private but perilous location to do it.
I love the sneakiness required to pull off an awesome high without my exploits being discovered. I love fooling people, making them believe I’m something I’m not. The more audacious the deception; the more I get a thrill from it. I love the tension which comes from being intoxicated in situations which require sober thoughts and actions. I love toying with the risk of bringing the wrath of my loved ones down on me. I love having something that’s mine, something I don’t have to share, something about myself only I know. Drugs are like an illegal, exotic pet; I must nurture it but, at the same time, keep it hidden.
Drugs are my only true motivation; they’re my reward when life goes my way and my consolation prize when I experience failure. Drugs are the one thing I always look forward to when all other endeavors in life which once brought me joy align themselves in the mundane column.
Above all, I love the anticipation of getting high after an arbitrary period of abstinence, the race to the purchase location, the slowing of time, and the unrelenting knot in my stomach as I yearn for that first hit. Sometimes, this stress is better than the high itself.
Drug use is two-tiered. Tier one is the first time you do a drug; this time is always the best. Tier two is the rest of your life spent pursuing that first experience, hoping in vain you might relive that thrill again. If only some way existed to capture that feeling, to contain it in some manner, so you could savor it whenever the urge arose. But that’s not possible; when excitement fades, all that’s left is routine.
A sentiment I frequently hear is, “My worst day sober is better than my best day high.” That statement, at least in my experience, is complete bullshit. Some of the most exciting, memorable, and socially fulfilling moments of my life occurred while I was high. Of course, now that I think about it, most of my life occurred while I was high. Although those grand sober moments are purer and have more meaning and depth, they pale in comparison to the intensity, exhilaration, and humorous insanity of those drug-riddled ones. So, as sad as it is to say, my best day high was better than my best day sober.
Of course, the opposite is true. To use a physics analogy, Newton’s Third Law of Motion states, “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” This law applies to drug use as well. Thus, my worse day high was definitely worse than my worse day sober. The intensity of a drug-induced low is an order of magnitude greater than any low which can be experienced while sober. If we rewrote Newton’s Third Law to apply to this situation, it would read, “Every action produces a reaction that is opposite and exponentially more intense than the action which created it.”
What makes a drug-induced low so terrible? If you don’t know, you’re lucky. The low points which most “normal” people experience come in one of two varieties: physical or mental. A bad stomach virus is a physical low, while the death of a loved one is a mental low. But a drug-induced low includes both components. The physical part includes some or all the following: shakes, tremors, intense flu-like symptoms, extreme hot and cold flashes, body sweats more copious than a marathon jogger in August, twitching, debilitating fatigue, vomiting, and diarrhea. In other words, it’s no trip to Disneyworld.
As hard as this may be to believe, the mental low which accompanies the physical one is sometimes worse. Only two thoughts run through a person’s mind who is experiencing this affliction. The first thought is What is the quickest and most painless way to kill myself? This thought is usually, but not always, blotted out by the second thought, which is What is the quickest way to acquire more drugs?
The lowest of the low moments is knowing where to get drugs but having no money to purchase them. This situation is hitting a low from a freefall. I call it “The Septic Tank Under Hell.” This desperation causes an addict to venture down the Dark Corridor, a place in everyone’s mind where sane people never go. The Dark Corridor houses those thoughts which are so insidious and actions which are so destructive, it’s only visited by those among us who are truly evil. The Dark Corridor is where morality and personal values are disregarded, the Dark Corridor of despicable behavior, the Dark Corridor of depravity.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
My father, Robert, bristled whenever I referred to myself as a drug addict. He has told me on several occasions, “Don’t call yourself that. It’s a defeatist attitude and will only drag you down.”
My father is wrong. I can’t think of a single instance where the truth would be detrimental to my life. Unless, of course, I’m confessing a heinous crime to the police. Let me rephrase that last statement; being completely honest with myself can never be detrimental to my life. But that level of honesty is impossible while I’m using drugs. The reason is simple; knowing and accepting an untenable fact about myself is difficult. Who wants to accept in the pit of their soul they’re a douchebag? Who wants to stare at the fact that all the positive attributes they believe they possess don’t exist? Who wants to admit they’ve been defeated by the oldest cliché in the book? In the 21st century, where cameras and mirrors are everywhere, I’m amazed at how difficult seeing myself really is.
I would imagine the source of Robert’s disdain over me labeling myself a drug addict centers around the mental image which is produced by that phrase. So, let’s perform….
A Simple Experiment
1) Clear your mind
2) Close your eyes
3) If you’re listening to this book in audio format while driving, reopen your eyes
4) If #3 is applicable, center your car between the lines on the road
5) Think of the type of person the term “drug addict” creates
Now, let’s make a quick comparison. Did the mental image produced in #5 have any of the following traits?
1) A clean cut white guy with all his teeth intact.
2) A middle-class husband of 27 years with two well-balanced and intelligent children, three cats, one dog, and a house in the suburbs with an actual white picket fence.
3) An educated man with a Bachelor’s degree in Computer Science and a minor in Mathematics, and an additional BSBA in Accounting.
4) An intellect who owned a computer 10 years before the Internet was available, has read the works of Hawking, Penrose, Green, Kaku, Darwin, Einstein, Copernicus, and Newton, and is a Star Trek fanatic.
5) An accomplished businessman who has owned three businesses.
I imagine your mental image of a drug addict didn’t include any of the preceding traits. If you haven’t already guessed, the person described above is me.
The title of this memoir is based on the Bret Easton Ellis book American Psycho, which is the story of a killer who doesn’t fit the stereotypical image of a psychopath. The American version of anything usually doesn’t fit the mold. While Mr. Ellis’s book is a work of fiction, unfortunately, this story is true.
At this point, you are probably thinking Okay, you’ve piqued my interest. Let’s hear some drug war stories.
Well, slow down, Kemo Sabe. You can’t understand the story without hearing the back story. I believe the person we each turn out to be, the good traits as well as the bad, are 10% genetic and 90% environmental. In other words, each person’s personality is the sum of all the relationships and experiences they have had during their life. Following this reasoning, I am a component of my son and daughter’s personality. And for that, I offer my sincerest apologies. The story wouldn’t be complete without discussing what made me “me.”
You may be a bit disappointed. You may be thinking, But I want to hear about all the fucked-up stuff you did.
Relax! We’ll get to that.
George and Callie
George and Callie, or Memaw and Pawpaw as I called them, were my mom’s parents. They were both simple, hard-working, country folks who were the most decent and loving people I would ever meet. They’re the reason a vein of humanity still runs through my caustic heart.
My parents were young when I was born. Thus, every weekend of my early life was spent at Memaw and Pawpaw’s house w
hile my parents did what people their age do: party. I absolutely loved this arrangement because, at their house, I got anything I wanted. And, being an only child, I didn’t have to share.
The weekend started with a stop at the 7-11 to get a large Coke Icee. And no matter how large the drink, I always said the same thing when Pawpaw handed it to me. “Go back in that store and tell that man I want a big one!”
Next stop, Kentucky Fried Chicken. Not KFC. Not calling the chicken fried doesn’t make it healthier. My order was always the same: four original recipe legs and mashed potatoes with gravy.
Last stop, the A&P to purchase four Morton honey buns for breakfast and a Mad magazine. One weekend, my cousin, Ryan, spent the night with me. All was well until Saturday morning came and I realized I would have to share my honeybuns.
“Can’t Ryan eat something else for breakfast?” I asked with all the virtue I could muster.
“No. Two honeybuns will be enough for you this time.” I made sure he never spent the night there again.
In addition to the countless weekends, I spent endless summers with my beloved grandparents. Memaw took me to the store one day and purchased a new pair of white tennis shoes. When we returned home, Pawpaw decided to do some yard work, and, of course, I volunteered to help him. Being four years old, I expended a lot of energy without accomplishing much. All that mattered to me was being with my grandfather. As I ran around the yard, I was suddenly intrigued by a fresh, hot pile of dog shit. I assume a dog left it there. Pushing a wheelbarrow, Pawpaw rounded the corner in time to see my raised foot, adorning my new shoe, hovering over the doggy prize.
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