American Drug Addict: a memoir

by Brett Douglas

  Her shocked reaction made me realize my actions were not normal. Addiction makes the most bizarre behavior seem ordinary. I thought everyone did drugs and had the same problems I had. I was incapable of differentiating the true from the false.

  The Lost Child

  I learned Paula had been stealing potent narcotics from the hospital she worked at. Surely, no one had ever done that before. With Norm selling us dope and the hospital providing it for free, I didn’t see the Demon for quite a while. But the Demon wasn’t the only consequence of my behavior.

  I decided to celebrate Paula’s 24th birthday by renting a limousine for the evening and inviting several friends. I had recently discovered Roxicodone, a small, blue tablet which was much more potent than OxyContin. In preparation for the trip, I purchased ten Roxicodone pills, ten hits of ecstasy, an eight-ball of cocaine, several bottles of liquor, and a box of cigars. I reduced the pills to liquid form and put the solution in an empty saline vial, providing an easy method of extraction. That night, Paula and I injected all the pain medicine, took most of the ecstasy, and snorted half of the eight-ball. But we did share the cigars with our guests.

  As the sun rose and the limo departed, Paula and I were as intoxicated as two people could be without vital organs shutting down. We picked up Devin, who was three years old, from my parents’ house and rushed home before we passed out. I left him in his room playing with his toys and laid next to Paula. We both fell asleep.

  Late afternoon was ending when I woke up. The house was silent, which was odd because Devin’s playful chatter was usually audible to some degree. I looked in his room, under his bed, and in his closet. No Devin. I started calling his name. I looked in both bathrooms. No Devin. My calls got louder. I looked in the living room. No Devin. My voice started to quiver as my concern turned to dread. I didn’t know where my child was. I looked in the kitchen and the garage. No Devin. My calls turned into frantic screams. Paula ran from the bedroom.

  “I can’t find Devin!” I yelled.

  “What? Oh, my God! Devin! Devin!”

  We searched each room again with a panicked sense of urgency, but our son was not in the house. “Call 911. I’ll drive around the neighborhood,” I bellowed through my tears.

  I drove around the block, frenziedly looking for my little toe-headed boy. I asked the people mingling around outside if they had seen him, but none of them had. My mind raced. How did I let this happen? Deep in my gut, I knew the answer to that question.

  Moments like this are when the most hardcore atheists make deals with God. For people like me, desperation always precedes prayer. I asked God for my son’s return, promising I would stop doing drugs if He would answer my plea. But Devin was not in the neighborhood.

  I bolted back into our driveway and found Paula and Devin standing on the front porch. Earlier that afternoon, he had crawled under his desk, pulled a blanket over himself, and fell asleep. Relieved, I gave him a big hug. God answered my prayer, but I quickly forgot my part of the bargain.

  The Blue Wads

  Instead of cleaning up my act, my drug use continued. I developed a habit of shooting up in convenience store restrooms. So as to not arouse suspicion, I devised an ingenious method of tracking how often I used each location for my illicit purpose. Shooting Roxicodone leaves a damp piece of blue cotton in the spoon, which I flicked onto the ceiling. By counting the blue wads, I knew how often I’d been there. My personal record was fifty-eight. Eventually, I didn’t care how many times I visited each bathroom. I just got a kick out of how many pieces of cotton I could stick to one ceiling.

  The Pliers

  Our pawn shop became the largest and most versatile one in Pensacola. Being the only nerd in the business, I had the used computer market cornered. I even started a computer repair service in the corner of the store, something no other shop did at the time. We bought Rolex watches, diamonds, jewelry, sound equipment, coins, sports collectibles, vintage guitars, and anything else our competitors turned down. We were the first shop in town to utilize a computer-based ticketing system. I graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in accounting, which helped with the bookkeeping. We set the standard our competition strived to reach. But I also became proficient at skimming cash to support my drug habit. The shop was so profitable, no one noticed the shortages. I shot dope five times a day but managed to hide it from everyone.

  The pawn business is unlike any other. The reality shows on television, like Pawn Stars, are complete bullshit. No crackheads or dope fiends for customers? Yeah, right! Once, a man asked to pawn his prosthetic leg. I wanted to take it just to have one hanging on our wall. But I imagined him hopping out of the store, so I turned him down. As hard as this may be to believe, I have standards. Not very high standards, but they’re there.

  Once, a gentleman came into the shop and asked Mom, “Do you buy dental gold?”

  “We sure do.”

  “Do you sell pliers?”

  “Uh... they’re over there,” she answered, hoping this situation wasn’t going where she knew it was.

  The man walked to the pliers' bin, grabbed a pair, and pulled a tooth out of his head. Then, he put the pliers back where he found them and tossed the tooth, with a gold filling, on the counter. I reached for it, but Mom stopped me. “I’m sorry you pulled your tooth for no reason,” she said, “but get that God damned thing off my counter and get the hell out of my store.”

  The man collected his tooth and headed for the door. I protested, “Mom, it’s gold.”

  “I don’t give God damn what it’s made of. You’re not gonna’ touch anything that came out of that low-rent motherfucker’s mouth.”

  “I have rubbing alcohol.”

  “Don’t care!”

  The pawn shop was so lucrative, losing money on a transaction was almost impossible, even when we weren’t paying attention. A customer, standing next to a stack of four small tires, asked Robert, “What cha’ want for these?”

  “Thirty.”

  The customer examined them for a moment and said, “I’ll give you fifteen a piece.”

  So, Robert collected $60 for the $30 stack of tires. But the funny part of the story was the Freudian slip he blurted out afterward.

  “Thank you,” the customer said after paying him.

  “No problem. Glad I could do that to ya’… uh…I mean for ya’”

  Robert always had a knack for sticking his foot in his mouth so deep, it would hang out his ass. When the shop first opened, an attractive young lady approached the door.

  “Man, check out the tits on her,” Robert moaned.

  “That’s my daughter,” Bill indignantly replied.

  Thirty minutes later, another attractive young lady approached the front door. “Good God, what a rack,” Robert exclaimed.

  “Dad, that’s my girlfriend,” I said.

  When the third attractive young lady approached the door, Robert asked, “Does anyone know her before I comment on her tits?”

  The Delusion

  I was siphoning $10,000 a month from the shop to support my drug habit. Any other business wouldn’t have survived my theft. Even though the monetary shortages weren’t noticed, my skill at masking my behavior started to slip. Denial is an essential tool in a drug addict’s arsenal. The capacity to lie to myself was how I kept the fear of exposure at bay. I believed no one noticed I was high all the time. I didn’t think the amount of dope I was shooting altered my behavior in any way. I didn’t think anyone noticed I went to the bathroom five times a day for thirty minutes at a time and nodded off in front of customers. I existed in a perpetual state of delusion and couldn’t see how strange my actions were. But other people did.

  And now it’s time for the first (and last) installment of…

  The Top Quotes from Donald Rumsfeld

  We’re counting down the top three quotes from Donald Rumsfeld, Secretary of Defense during the George W. Bush administration.

  At number 3…

  “Dick Cheney alm
ost shot me in the face.”

  Coming in at number 2…

  “Going to war without France is like going duck hunting without your accordion.”

  And the number 1 quote from Donald Rumsfeld is…

  “We have the known knowns, the things we know we know; the known unknowns, the things we know we don’t know; and the unknown unknowns, the things we don’t know we don’t know.”

  The effect my drug use was having on my life was an unknown unknown. In other words, I didn’t know how unaware I was as to how deeply drugs were affecting me. In my mind, life was great, and I was taking care of my responsibilities. Drugs were my reward for working hard and being successful. I didn’t know that I didn’t know how much of a chore life had become, how I had to feign interest in people, how devoid of real emotions I was, and how everyone and everything was an obstacle to my only true interest: getting high. I was clueless to my cluelessness.

  The first glimpse of my “unknown unknown” came at someone else’s expense.

  The Prescription

  Paula and I went out of town to see a concert with some friends. She was detached, distant, and withdrawn the entire weekend. Upon our return to Pensacola, I learned the reason for her subdued behavior. She had been writing her own prescriptions for pain medicine, and her deception was discovered by the hospital the day before we left. The impending loss of her nursing license was hanging over her during the trip. Fortunately, Paula’s employer gave her a second chance. She was sent to a three-month program at COPAC, a drug treatment facility near Jackson, Mississippi. She made me promise I wouldn’t do drugs while she was gone and reluctantly left our two children in my care.

  I was determined not to violate Paula’s trust. Since drugs were not an option, I reasoned that drinking alcohol would be acceptable. Every evening, I poured a drink, sat at the computer and did bookkeeping for the shop. As the amount I drank each night started to increase, I kept waking up to completed work I had no recollection of doing. Then one night, I woke up standing in a bar with my children at home unattended. I couldn’t remember when I left the house or how I got there. That incident scared me, so I stopped drinking and started shooting dope again.

  When Paula returned, she wasn’t the same person who went to rehab three months prior. She was sober and insisted on living a clean life. That was fine for her. I wasn’t the one who got in trouble; why should I have to suffer through a miserable, sober life? Drugs were the only thing that seemed to work for me. Without them, how would I get through the day? What would I have to look forward to? How would I ever enjoy anything? Drugs were the answer to all life’s questions. I couldn’t fathom the notion of living sober. I didn’t know that I didn’t know drugs were actually the problem, and I had just been introduced to the solution.

  The Ballet

  COPAC transformed the bitter, needy, and controlling woman I married into a happy, energetic, and loving person I hardly recognized. How often does a partner actually improve in a relationship? If only I would have appreciated that.

  Since Paula no longer condoned drug use, I had to hide my habit from her. She started attending Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meetings. I didn’t understand or care why she went. While she was gone, I could shoot dope without concern, if only for a short time. I never considered being honest with her. Since I hid my addiction from everyone else, or so I thought, deceiving Paula shouldn’t have been a problem. I didn’t know that I didn’t know I was only fooling myself.

  I kept my “works” in a black, leather pouch. By “works” I mean a spoon, needles, cotton, and pills. It was on me or near me always. Keeping that pouch hidden was of paramount importance. On several occasions, Paula found it and threw away its contents. She finally disposed of the pouch itself. I started stashing my “works” in the seams of my pants, inside my shoes, and other unusual places.

  Paula scrutinized my every move. When I was high, I was in an exceptionally good mood. So much so, I didn’t behave normally, and she noticed it. I was too helpful around the house, overly playful with the children, and disingenuously attentive to her. A drug-induced happiness is a form of dishonesty. Much like watering a plastic houseplant and hoping it will exhibit some sign of life, my elation was a synthetic act. Of course, I couldn’t understand how I could be too happy. My response to Paula’s complaints was something like, “You’re bitchin’ because I’m in a good mood? Would you rather me treat you like shit?” In time, I would come to understand exactly what she was complaining about.

  Despite my crazy behavior, Paula was happier than I had ever seen her. If she would only leave me the hell alone, I could be equally as happy shooting pills. I decided to temper my mood when I was around her, deliberately acting distant or upset. This charade was stressful and tiresome but, in my mind, worth the effort. My artificial demeanor worked for a while, but Paula’s inquisitiveness wouldn’t be satisfied that easily.

  She soon discovered a new way to tell if I was high, one that was much harder to disguise. Whenever I injected pain medicine, my pupils would constrict. All she had to do was look at my eyes. And every time she caught my attempted deception, her response was always the same, “Your pupils look like two piss holes in the snow.”

  Whatever the fuck that meant, I heard it a lot. Again, being a good husband was not an option. My answer to this new challenge was a comical, or tragic, ballet I performed every night. I simply wouldn’t look Paula in the eyes. This Kabuki Theater may not sound difficult, but it was quite exhausting.

  First, so as to not arouse suspicion, I had to alter my mood. Next, when Paula asked me a question, I had to be preoccupied with something, so I didn’t have to look directly at her when I answered. I would play with the children, fiddle with my phone, or drop something and pick it up. When we ate dinner, I insisted on eating in front of the TV so we wouldn’t be facing each other. When she turned to talk to me, I would face forward. When I observed through my peripheral vision she was looking at the television, I turned to answer her.

  I knew from experimentation my pupils would return to normal size after six hours. Therefore, I would shoot up at work around 2 pm and wait until after dinner for the next shot. I made sure Paula looked at my normal pupils then went into the bathroom to get high. The wait was excruciating.

  This evening routine became tedious, so I started coming home later in the evening. Every day, I lied to Paula about being high, the amount of money I was spending, and where I was after work. A distance formed between us. She was a different person but married to the same man she met at Applebee’s years before. We developed our own separate lives and spent little time together. She avoided me to focus on her career and sobriety. I avoided her so I could do whatever I wanted.

  I could have told Paula, “Look. I’m getting high. Deal with it.” She would have had more respect for me with that approach. I was making so much money, she probably wouldn’t have said another thing about it. But honesty was a word I was quite unfamiliar with. Of course, I could have stopped shooting dope, but I never considered that option in the least.

  The Comic Book Salesman

  Paula asked if I would attend an AA meeting with her. At first, I respectfully declined. But I knew from experience if she asked for something, the decision was already made. After some consistent prodding, I begrudgingly agreed to go. I went for one reason: to shut her ass up about the idea.

  The meeting was at a church near downtown Pensacola and was attended by eight other people, most of whom probably remembered the Civil War. I looked at those old farts and thought, What the fuck am I doing here?

  Hanging behind the person who was leading the meeting was a poster titled, “The Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous.” As the chairperson rambled on, I read the steps.

  We admitted we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable.

  Step one was no problem. I didn’t like alcohol, so again, why the fuck am I here?

  Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves
could restore us to sanity.

  Step two bore the stench of God. I didn’t like where this was headed.

  Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him.

  I knew it! This is a bunch of God bullshit. Paula has joined some religious cult, and these fossils are going to try to ram Jesus up my ass. Well, these petrified Bible freaks have met their match. I didn’t bother reading the rest of the steps.

  Everyone in the room took turns speaking, but I had nothing to say. Although no one mentioned Jesus, I knew AA wasn’t for me. After the meeting, a fat, bearded, comic book salesman walked up to me, poked his sausage finger into my chest and said, “You need to get a sponsor, and you need to work the steps, and…”

  While he spoke, I looked at him and thought, And you need to suck my cock! He might as well have been speaking Klingon because I had no idea what he was talking about, nor did I care. I just wanted out of that room so I could get high.

  On the drive home, Paula asked, “So, did you like it?”

  “Yes,” I said. But I was thinking, Fuck AA! That’ll be the last God damn meeting I ever attend! Fortunately, that thought was quite inaccurate.

  The Intervention

  In my mind, life was grand. I had plenty of money, a beautiful wife who was sober, drugs I didn’t have to share, a home which was paid for, and two healthy children. Everything was exactly to my liking.