American Drug Addict: a memoir

by Brett Douglas

  If this episode were an isolated incident, it wouldn’t be worth mentioning. But the next ten years of my life became an endless tug-of-war between Paula and Robert, and I was the rope. And as we all know, the rope assumes the pressure but never wins the game.

  As Devin got older, he favored his left hand, which is believed to indicate an artistic mind. I don’t really buy that idea. Life is never that cut-and-dry. Robert insisted we force him to use his right hand, being that most things in life favor right-handed people. On cue, Paula railed against the idea.

  Every day presented a new crisis they held opposing views on, and Robert wasn’t always the unreasonable one. As I arrived home from work one evening, I noticed a “For Sale” sign in our yard. Incensed, I barged through the front door, hoping to hear an explanation other than the obvious one. “What the hell is that in our front yard?”

  “I just wanted to find out what we could get for this house,” Paula explained.

  “You can go to Zillow.com and get that information.”

  “I was just curious.”

  “I hope that’s all it is. I busted my ass building this place. There’s no way we’re selling a house that’s paid for.”

  Two days later, Paula informed me she had an offer and wanted to buy a larger home. We viciously argued about the sale, but all attempts to dissuade her failed. To keep the peace, I eventually went along with it. I lost the will to fight.

  Robert was upset with me for allowing her to sell our home. I acted equally appalled but was only telling him what he wanted to hear. I understood Paula’s motivation. I disregarded her wishes by building the house. Now, she was ignoring mine. I resigned myself to the inevitable outcome; someone I cared about was going to be unhappy with me.

  Unexpectedly, Robert made a generous offer. He had recently acquired his deceased uncle’s home, which sat on two acres of land adjacent to an apartment complex. He offered to sell the property to us for the sale price of our current home, predicting the owners of the apartments next door would eventually buy it from us. I knew Robert’s predictions were amazingly accurate. Our next home could be purchased without a bank note.

  Of course, Paula refused to even consider the idea. She claimed the house wasn’t nice enough for her to live in, although we would be there temporarily. Since both our names were on the deed to our current home, I couldn’t run a game around her this time. I reluctantly declined the offer. One year later, Robert sold the land to the apartment complex for a handsome profit, a painful reminder of how I mishandled the situation.

  To an outside observer, my life appeared beautiful and structured, much like a wedding cake. But the whisk never gets respect. I was a tool manipulated by my wife and father to express their resentments. The stress was debilitating. On numerous occasions, I pulled my car off the road, punched the steering wheel, and screamed in anger over the never-ending feud I was unwillingly trapped in. To be clear, Paula and Robert were not bad people. Robert was generous and did what he thought was best for his family. Paula was an educated, hard-working woman who did what she thought was best for her family. But they both failed to recognize a few relevant points. I made the pawn shop profitable, making my parents wealthy. I also built our house, providing my family a place to live debt-free. I felt like an island surrounded by tsunamis.

  But I did have someone on my side who never let me down and always made me happy. Lortabs. I took at least forty every day. For the first time in fifteen years, I no longer needed marijuana. But I had not yet discovered the down-side to my coping mechanism.

  Shit I Know To Be True

  1. Don’t give tube socks to children for Christmas… EVER

  2. A preoccupation with external appearances is sometimes used to hide something unattractive on the inside

  3. The closest we come to immortality is the positive legacy we are remembered by

  4. Those things that make us different, make us better

  5. All good things go bad eventually

  6. Do not moon cars in your own neighborhood

  7. Never eat in a restaurant where the cooks are laughing hysterically

  8. No matter how small the detail, never compromise yourself for love’s sake

  9. Sometimes, what seems like an insignificant decision can become a life changing event

  10. Always fasten your seatbelt, even on short trips

  11. Properly motivated, everybody lies

  12. Never have a bachelor party the night before your wedding

  13. Always anticipate other people’s potential fuck-ups

  14. There is no such thing as a “Free Lunch”

  The Ice Cream

  One night, I noticed an unfamiliar brand of ice cream in the freezer. The label indicated it contained aspartame instead of sugar and Olestra instead of fat. I thought it would taste like Styrofoam but was delighted to find it was delicious. I ate the entire carton. I had finally discovered a “Free Lunch,” a treat which tasted good but was not fattening, no matter how much I consumed. In other words, an indulgence with no consequences.

  At 2:00 am, I was awakened by tremendous stomach cramps and spent an hour on the toilet with diarrhea. I didn’t think much of it.

  The following evening, I ate another carton of the ice cream and was once again awakened by cramps and diarrhea. I sensed a pattern was developing. On the third evening, I examined the carton. On the label was a warning, “May have laxative effect.”

  There is no such thing as a “Free Lunch.”

  The Demon

  After two years of taking Lortabs every day, I ran out on a Saturday and wouldn’t be able to get any until Monday. No big deal. At least, that’s what I thought. Sunday evening, we planned to meet our family at a restaurant to celebrate Paula’s birthday. But I didn’t feel well. This feeling wasn’t like the Darkness. It was an unrelenting anxiety, a physical and mental pain I had never experienced before. I was extremely fatigued. All I wanted to do was lie in bed. But when I did, I couldn’t sleep. My arms and legs relentlessly twitched. My body toggled between hot flashes and extreme chills, sometimes within minutes. Sweat poured from my skin, drenching my shirt in moisture. I could literally wring it out like a dish rag.

  Paula informed me what I was experiencing was withdrawal from the Lortabs and was upset at the timing of my illness. I was catatonic at the restaurant; everyone at the table knew I didn’t want to be there. I ruined her birthday celebration, and she had every right to be pissed. Unfortunately, this event would be the first of many outings spoiled by the Demon, the name I assigned to this painful feeling. People give names to things they encounter regularly. As with the Darkness, the fact I gave it a name should have been a warning.

  Paula loved to go on vacations, especially cruises. But going out of town always posed a problem for me. I tried to bring enough pain medicine to last the duration of the trip, but no amount would have been enough. Moderation was always problematic. I allowed the Demon to ruin numerous family events.

  When I did cocaine, the Darkness was a possibility. But when I took Lortabs, the Demon was a certainty. With this scenario in mind, most people would have stopped taking the pills. But my answer was to never run out, no matter what the cost. I thought I had found the perfect drug when in fact, the drug had found the perfect victim.

  Again, there is no such thing as a “Free Lunch.”

  Thus began the struggle which would define the rest of my life, the unwinnable competition to outrace the speed of pain.

  The Speed of Pain

  by

  Marilyn Manson

  We slit our throats

  Like we were flowers

  And our milk has been

  Devoured

  When you want it

  Goes away too fast

  Times you hate it

  Always seems to last

  Just remember

  When you think you’re free

  The crack inside your fucking heart is me

  I wanna outrace the speed o
f pain

  For another day

  I wanna outrace the speed of pain

  For another day

  I wish I could sleep

  But I can’t lay on my back

  Because there’s a knife

  For every day that I’ve known you

  When you want it

  Goes away too fast

  Times you hate it

  Always seems to last

  Just remember

  When you think you’re free

  The crack inside your fucking heart is me

  I wanna outrace the speed of pain

  For another day

  I wanna outrace the speed of pain

  For another day

  Lie to me, cry to me, give to me, I would

  Lie with me, die with me, give to me, I would

  Keep all your secrets wrapped in dead hair, always

  Keep all your secrets wrapped in dead hair, always

  Hope that we die holding hands, always

  Hope that we die holding hands, always

  The Pregnancy Test

  Paula expressed her desire to have another baby, an idea I rejected. We already had a child, a rather pleasant one at that. Why would we want another? I should have known she had already made the decision, and the discussion was a pointless formality.

  Soon after, I came home from work and found my in-laws’ cars parked in front. As I walked through the door, Paula’s sister greeted me with a stick pregnancy test in her hand and gleefully blurted out, “Paula’s pregnant!”

  Her family scrutinized my reaction. I played it cool but was truly annoyed. Once again, I had been out-maneuvered. What should have been a private moment between my wife and me was purposely displayed in front of others to temper my response. I felt like a caged animal at the zoo being gawked at by strangers.

  Of course, as unthinkable as another child was at the time, my existence is unimaginable without the crown jewel of my life, my daughter…

  Jordan

  The second positive impact I’ve had on the world is my daughter, Jordan. While Devin was easy-going and pleasant, she was the opposite: loud, ornery, and demanding. I often joked if she had been born first, I would have had my vasectomy immediately afterward. She had wispy, light-blond hair which looked like a Jim Henson puppet, piercing blue eyes, and an adorable lisp, which added to her cuteness. But as loveable as she appeared, whenever circumstances deviated from her preference, she was not at all shy about expressing her displeasure.

  As an infant, Jordan screamed and cried all night. She impatiently wailed in her highchair waiting to be fed. And when Paula placed the plate in front of her, she stopped crying, looked her dead in the eyes, and threw the plate on the floor. Paula defiantly replaced the food, only to have Jordan throw it on the floor again.

  Jordan’s disposition turned out to be her most endearing quality. She developed a delightful ability to state the obvious in the funniest way possible. When she was three years old, I decided her brother, who was six, and his cousin, Colby, had reached an age where they should take their bath separate from her. When I informed Jordan of my decision, she protested, “But Dad, I’ve already seen their wieners!”

  That story always makes me laugh, although she hates it and may never speak to me again for writing about it.

  I never knew what was going to come out of Jordan’s mouth. While we ate at Burger King, she picked a sesame seed off the bun and said, “Dad, if I plant this, will I grow a hamburger tree?”

  Despite her disposition during her youth, Jordan blossomed into a beautiful and intelligent young woman. Her interests parallel my own: dice-driven fantasy games, comic book conventions, and bizarre movies. She rejects console video games, like Xbox and PlayStation, for PC games, agreeing with me that console games are for faggots. That’s not the pejorative for homosexuals, but the euphemism for intellectually lazy people. You know, faggots. Perhaps the greatest compliment I’ve ever been given was when my daughter told me her boyfriend, Michael, reminded her of me. Jordan is the pride of my existence and one of the most decent human beings I know. Whether because of me or in spite of me.

  Norm

  I met every drug dealer I dealt with through the pawn shop. But Norm was the one I used the most. At first, he was a just another customer, until I overheard him mention Methadone. I had heard of the drug but never tried it. I arranged to meet him after work. Standing in his kitchen, he handed me a plastic bottle filled with a fluorescent orange liquid. “This stuff is designed for hardcore drug addicts,” he said. “There’s 40mg in this bottle but only take five. You’ll be high for three days. Take any more than that, you’ll be sick as hell.”

  When I got home, I measured out 5mg and swallowed it. The amount was barely enough to wet my tongue, so I drank the entire bottle. As predicted, I was violently sick for the next three days. I couldn’t even go to work. Despite the nausea and vomiting, I had a great buzz.

  The thought process of a drug addict may seem perplexing to someone who has never had such a problem. Robert, who quit smoking cigarettes during the 70’s because the price went up to forty cents a pack, could never understand this reasoning. It seems to run contrary to the most basic instinct: survival. So, I will now attempt to explain…

  Addict Thinking

  1) More Is Better – When you were a child, did you ever gain access to the cookie jar and take one cookie? Of course not. You grabbed as many as your little hands could hold. My drug of choice was MORE. No matter how much dope I had, it was never enough.

  2) The Only Time That Matters Is NOW – On the series The Sopranos, Silvio said, “You’re only as good as your next envelope.” In other words, no matter how much money you gave Tony Soprano in the past, all that mattered was the current payment. Addict thinking is similar. Regardless of how high I got yesterday or how much I spent, all that mattered was today’s fix. The only time that’s important is now.

  3) Consequences Are Not Real – Has anyone ever purchased a pack of cigarettes, read the warning label, which said something like, “Cigarettes killed the dinosaurs,” and never smoked again? I seriously doubt it. The hard reality of getting high will always eclipse the ether-like, future repercussions of an addict’s actions. It’s as if tomorrow will never arrive.

  4) Drugs Trump Everything – Paula’s father had a heart attack, requiring open heart surgery. As he rested in the recovery room, Paula’s mom said, “He’s hooked up to a morphine drip.”

  My first thought was, Lucky bastard. I wish I could have a heart attack. Instead of being happy for my father-in-law’s successful operation, I was jealous of his pain medication. Drugs trump everything.

  Whenever a friend died of a drug overdose, my first thought was, I wish I could get some of that shit. Give me enough to kill me and back it off a little.

  5) Lazy Adrenaline Junkies – Ultimately, a drug addict is a lazy adrenaline junky. I desire the thrill that comes from skydiving; I just don’t want to leave my couch. Drugs give me the best of both worlds. I can get an exhilarating rush while binge watching Bob’s Burgers.

  Anyway, back to the story.

  I complained to Norm about the Methadone making me ill. He laughed and told me he would do me a favor, which, in hindsight, wasn’t really advantageous. He sold me a tan pill called OxyContin, showed me how to cook it in a spoon and instructed me on how to shoot it into my vein without leaving a bruise.

  I stopped taking Lortabs. Graduating to intravenous pain medicine is much like purchasing your first high-definition television.

  You’ll never go back to black and white.

  The Waterbed

  I went home and showed Paula what I had learned from Norm. Since she was a nurse, her skill with a needle proved helpful. She didn’t tell me this wasn’t the first time she had shot up.

  Two methods exist for doing drugs using a hypodermic needle:

  1) IV (Intravenous) – injecting drugs directly into the bloodstream

  2) IM (Intramuscular) –
injecting drugs directly into a muscle

  In my drug-riddled mind, I determined that shooting OxyContin IM was healthier than doing it IV. The rush was not as intense, but it lasted longer. Thus, five times a day, I injected a full 1cc syringe into my upper-arm muscle. After several months, my arms became swollen, misshapen, and had the squishy consistency of a waterbed. I knew if I didn’t drain the fluid from my muscles, I ran the risk of a nasty infection.

  I decided to cut a two-inch vertical gash in my arm with a razor blade to allow the liquid to drain, but quickly discovered a problem with my idea. Cutting into my muscle that deep hurt like a motherfucker. I howled in pain as I pressed the blade into my skin. Pink, viscous fluid poured from the wound, causing a small puddle to collect on the floor. I started feeling nauseous at the sight of it. But my left arm was no longer a waterbed.

  For my right arm, I decided to try a different approach. I stuck the needle of an empty syringe into the muscle and pulled the plunger out. Then, I emptied the full syringe into the sink. I had to perform this extraction about thirty times before all the fluid had been removed. Paula walked into the bathroom while I was doing this. “Oh my God! What the hell are you doing?”