American Drug Addict: a memoir

by Brett Douglas

  But no one else shared my positive outlook. I was consistently late for work and left for extended periods of time, offering no explanation as to where I went. I was making mistakes and falling behind in my responsibilities. My speech was indecipherable. My employees frequently found me passed out in the back of the store. Not to mention, I was robbing the business unmercifully to support my habit. Yet somehow, I thought all was well.

  In a disingenuous effort to calm Paula’s concerns, I started going to AA. But I only went when she noticed and usually got high beforehand. The meeting I attended was called Courage at Noon. You can probably guess what time it was held. I would shoot up in the parking lot or in the bathroom and sit through the meeting in a vegetative state. The least fun place to be when you’re high is around sober people in an AA meeting. Alcoholics Anonymous is one of the few organizations that not only tolerates people who are full of shit, they expect it. In hindsight, I believe I was reaching for something which was out of my grasp, as feeble as the effort was.

  One afternoon, Paula called and asked me to come to my parents’ house. The three of them wanted to talk to me. I politely agreed but knew this impending conversation wasn’t going to be enjoyable. I was about to experience an intervention. My loved ones were going to confront me on my bizarre behavior. Naturally, I did what any accomplished addict would do on the way to their intervention. I called my drug dealer. Unbelievably, for the first time ever, Norm had nothing to sell me. The one time I really needed to get high, I couldn’t. If God exists, He was laughing his ass off at that moment.

  As I drove to my parents’ house, I listened to a song which beautifully described the situation I found myself in.

  Even Deeper

  by

  Nine Inch Nails

  I woke up today

  To find myself in the other place

  With a trail of footprints

  From where I went away

  Seems everything I heard

  Just might be true

  You know me

  Well you think you do

  Sometimes I have everything

  But I wish I felt something

  Do you know how far this has gone?

  Just how damaged have I become?

  When I think I can overcome

  It runs even deeper

  In a dream, I’m a different me

  A perfect you, we fit perfectly

  For once in my life I feel complete

  But I still want to ruin it

  I’m scared to look

  It’s clear as day

  This plan’s been long underway

  I hear the call

  I cannot stay

  The voice inviting me away…

  Do you know how far this has gone?

  Just how damaged have I become?

  When I think I can overcome

  It runs even deeper

  Everything that matters is gone

  All the hands of hope have withdrawn

  Could you try to help me hang on?

  It runs...

  The intervention was much worse than I had anticipated. My parents learned the painful truth; their son was a drug addict. I was forced to admit the extent of my use, although I didn’t tell them everything. Mom cried. Robert physically assaulted me. Paula sat next to them, looking down her nose. How did she end up on that side of the table?

  “Why do you feel like you need to do drugs?” Robert barked.

  My response was simple. “To get through the day.”

  My answer enraged him. He took it as a lack of gratitude for the business we owned and everything he had done for me. I knew I didn’t deserve the life I had. But that was the effect of my actions, not the cause. I could have answered his question by mentioning the daily battle to fend off the Demon, or the never-ending turmoil between him and Paula, or the fact that drugs were the only thing that made life worth living. But any of those answers would have enraged him as well.

  My parents believed my addiction was an affront, that my behavior was done at them or to them. To be clear, I know my actions affected them, but this was not a motivating factor in the least. I never once considered their feelings until I watched Mom cry about it. I suspected Robert and Paula were only concerned about their workhorse expiring prematurely. But I was probably being a tad cynical.

  No excuse exists for my behavior, but a reason does, although I didn’t know what it was at the time. Robert and Paula never considered why I did drugs. In their eyes, they were good, I was bad, and that’s the end of it. On its face, that assumption feels correct. At the risk of sounding long-winded, I will now attempt to explain…

  The Morality Fallacy

  A statement I regularly heard in AA was, “We are not bad people trying to get good, we are sick people trying to get well.” The notion of “good” and “bad” as it pertains to people is a falsehood as if these are inherent characteristics as permanent as eye color. But behavior can be judged as “good” or “bad,” depending on how it affects other people. This judgment is called morality and has no part of the natural world. Instead, it’s a social construct, enforced by cultural norms to prevent basic human motivations from harming others.

  For example, the age of consent for sexual activity in the United States is 18. Yet, the age of consent in China is 14. If a 30-year-old has sex with a 14-year-old, is the elder a “bad” person? It depends on which tectonic plate the sex took place on.

  Actions have consequences, and people should be held accountable for what they do. But people are not intrinsically “good” or “bad” nor are they motivated by morality. The human brain performs only two functions: pursuing pleasure and avoiding pain. If everyone agreed on what is pleasurable and painful, conflict wouldn’t exist. But this is far from reality. Our beliefs as to what is pleasurable and painful explain all human behavior. While one person pursues a social gathering because it brings them pleasure, a different person will avoid the same social gathering because it brings them pain or discomfort. These beliefs are also known as attitudes. They determine a person’s actions and are usually not based in reality. In fact, they are frequently quite irrational.

  Thus far, this discussion is academic. You may be thinking, I’ve enjoyed your story, but now it sounds like a textbook. What the hell does this shit have to do with addiction?

  A drug addict, such as myself, has an extremely distorted belief as to what is pleasurable and painful. The physical bliss of drug use will mentally eclipse any pain caused by the abhorrent behavior that accompanies it. This belief is so ingrained in an addict’s mind, some never recover. Mentally connecting pain with drug use must occur before progress can be made, an exceedingly high hurdle to surmount. Unfortunately, my threshold for pain was extraordinary, preventing me from making this association for quite a while.

  At the time, these thoughts never crossed my mind. I behaved the way I did because I knew of no other way to live. Despite what my family thought, I wasn’t a “bad” person. Although my actions were deplorable, a reason for my behavior existed.

  The Motel

  After the fun-filled intervention, the decision was made to send me to COPAC. It worked for Paula; perhaps it would work for me as well. I packed my luggage, loaded the car, kissed Paula, Devin, and Jordan goodbye, and headed to rehab. The trip would take six hours. I brought a bag of weed to smoke on the drive, determined to finish it by the time I arrived. Most addicts tie one on before going to treatment. After getting stoned, I listened to the Pink Floyd album The Wall, which tells the story of a man who builds a metaphorical wall around himself to hide his true nature from everyone. In the end, the wall is destroyed, exposing him to the world. I could not comprehend how prophetic that album was.

  Comfortably Numb

  by

  Pink Floyd

  Hello?

  Is there anybody in there?

  Just nod if you can hear me

  Is there anyone at home?

  Come on now

&
nbsp; I hear you’re feeling down

  Well I can ease your pain

  Get you on your feet again

  Relax

  I’ll need some information first

  Just the basic facts

  Can you show me where it hurts?

  There is no pain you are receding

  A distant ship smoke on the horizon

  You are only coming through in waves

  Your lips move, but I can’t hear what you’re saying

  When I was a child, I had a fever

  My hands felt just like two balloons

  Now I’ve got that feeling once again

  I can’t explain you would not understand

  This is not how I am

  I have become comfortably numb

  Okay

  Just a little pinprick

  There’ll be no more AWWWWW!

  But you may feel a little sick

  Can you stand up?

  I do believe it’s working, good

  That’ll keep you going through the show

  Come on, it’s time to go

  There is no pain you are receding

  A distant ship smoke on the horizon

  You are only coming through in waves

  Your lips move, but I can’t hear what you saying

  When I was a child

  I caught a fleeting glimpse

  Out of the corner of my eye

  I turned to look, but it was gone

  I cannot put my finger on it now

  The child is grown

  The dream is gone

  I have become comfortably numb

  The facility was in a remote location outside Jackson, Mississippi. By remote, I mean nothing but trees for miles. The building was once a motel but had since been converted into a treatment center. Where the rooms once held travelers and vacationers, they now housed alcoholics and addicts, most of whom were from the medical profession.

  COPAC’s method of rehabilitation was based on the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. While there, I learned a lot about AA and a few things about myself.

  1) I liked playing tennis.

  2) I was still an atheist.

  3) Maybe AA could help me despite the God bullshit.

  4) I had been high for so long, I lost sight of the person I really was. Surprisingly, when sober, I was charismatic around others. I adapted the recovery lingo and acclimated to rehab life. The counselors were happy with my progress. I also befriended most of the other patients and became a leader of sorts in our social group, although it was cast with people who were as flawed as I. Which leads us to…

  5) No matter how desolate the location, I could always find a way to get high. I used my façade to acquire drugs, which was discovered by the staff. Where Paula succeeded, I had failed. After two months of the three-month program, I left COPAC with my tail between my legs.

  As I drove back to Pensacola, my mind wandered back to Richie and me repeatedly repairing then destroying the toy cars we found. I never lost my affinity for that behavior. A pattern was starting to form in my life, one that would continue indefinitely unless I did something different. Also, I would soon have to face Robert and Paula, both with that smug glare of consternation I had grown so accustomed to seeing. I had six hours to plot my next move.

  As the road signs indicated Pensacola’s impending arrival, I decided against going home or to my parents’ house, electing instead to attend an AA meeting. To be completely honest, this book being the first time I have ever done so, my motivation consisted of a 20% desire to get sober and an 80% need to minimize the wrath I would have to endure once I arrived home. But that meager 20% was more than I had ever mustered before.

  Don

  The AA program suggests getting a sponsor, who is someone that will take you through the twelve steps and teach you how to live a sober life. With my feeble 20%, I walked into an AA meeting and announced I needed a real hard-ass as a sponsor, preferably a cantankerous old fart with an abrasive personality, multiple decades of sobriety and a natural intolerance for bullshit. Don happily volunteered. I felt I had made a modicum of progress.

  Of course, my wife and father were not as enthusiastic about my fragile 20%. Paula was aghast at the way I disrespected COPAC, the facility she credited for her sobriety. She took my cavalier attitude as an insult and was not impressed with my newfound interest in AA or the fact I had a sponsor. She accused me of being manipulative, which was only 80% true.

  Robert was even less impressed. He asked me to meet him at the pawn shop the following evening. What he said was completely unexpected. I was informed my employment was terminated and instructed to hand over my keys. I slammed them down on the front counter and yelled, “Here’s your keys. Now shove this shop up your fat ass!”

  I drove home seething. My parents didn’t have the knowledge or experience to run the shop, and Bill was too lazy to do more than a below average job. After building the business for ten years, I was unceremoniously dismissed as if my work was of no consequence.

  I didn’t want to admit it, but I had no one to blame but myself. I was the failure Robert always believed I was and did everything I could to prove him right. I had just destroyed the most lucrative opportunity I would ever have. Perhaps now would be a good time to stop using drugs. And so I did.

  The End

  I’m kidding, of course. We’re just getting started.

  I decided to give AA and sobriety an honest attempt. I went to Courage at Noon every day. I also called Don every day, sometimes wishing his voice mail would answer. He harped at me like a parent scolding a child, which got annoying. But I was mentally puerile and had no idea how to live a normal life. Don pointed out I had stopped maturing emotionally when I started using drugs, which was at twelve years old. The truth does indeed hurt.

  I tried to do everything he suggested. I read literature on recovery. I opened the meetings and made coffee. I socialized with other people in the program and even played golf with them, which is the most foolish of all human endeavors. You hit a ball as far as you can and then search for it. Once you find it, you hit it as far as you can again. An idiotic activity. I also wrote my first fourth step. Some background information is in order.

  The Fourth Step

  I’ve already mentioned the first three steps of the AA program. Step one is admitting to myself I have a problem. Step two is conceding I can’t fix it on my own. I’m going to need help. Step three is deciding to follow the suggestions of the people who have successfully stayed sober. These steps are an inside job. Deciding to do something is not the same as actually doing it. No amount of promising, talking or writing will suffice. I must be absolutely certain I am ready to proceed. The fourth step is when the actual work begins.

  The fourth step reads…

  4. Made a fearless and searching moral inventory of ourselves

  I was instructed to write down every wrong I ever committed, every resentment I ever held, every situation, organization, or idea that had ever caused me pain or anguish, and everyone I had hurt or used sexually. This list was my moral inventory. Sustained sobriety is not possible until I am at peace with the pain, resentment, guilt and shame from the past. Put another way, a reason exists for why I behaved the way I did.

  Have you ever seen the commercial on television where this pompous asshole says, “I was a heroin addict for twelve years. Now I’m not”?

  That man’s name is Pax Prentiss, the co-author of the book, The Alcoholism and Addiction Cure. He claims to have the remedy for addiction, one which isn’t based on the AA program. Wanting to be cured once and for all, I illegally downloaded his book. After reading a long and self-indulgent personal story, I discovered the gist of Mr. Prentiss’s methodology. He described it in the following manner.

  Let’s say you wake up in the morning with a bad headache and take ibuprofen. The next morning, you wake up with the same bad headache and take more ibuprofen. Every morning after, you wake up with a bad headache and take i
buprofen. You don’t suffer from ibuprofenism. Rather, you’re simply responding to pain in a way you know from experience will bring relief. Addiction is similar. Drugs stop emotional pain and alleviate self-loathing, if only temporarily.

  Although Mr. Prentiss claims his method of recovery is not based on a twelve-step program, it parallels the suggestions of AA. The book you are reading started as an exhaustive fourth step inventory, an effort to discover why I’ve struggled with addiction my entire life.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  I’ve written four fourth step inventories in my life. Let’s review them.

  Fourth Step #1 – My first attempt was one page in length. This book is 400 pages. Either I wrote the first inventory with an electron microscope, or I was less than thorough.

  Fourth Step #2 – I put more effort into this one and started feeling uncomfortable, which is to be expected. This step requires revisiting the most painful, shameful, and remorseful events from the past. I responded to the stress as I always did; I shot some dope and got indignant when I didn’t get sober. As silly as this may sound, sobriety doesn’t work if you’re not sober.

  Fourth Step #3 – Writing the inventory is only part of the process. The fifth step reads…

  Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

  Once the inventory is complete, the next step is to share this list with a sponsor. My third attempt was more thorough, but still deficient. I spent two hours bragging about my sexual conquests as well as a few other bad things I had done. This should have been an ego deflating process instead of an ego booster. Of course, I left out the embarrassing stuff. I’m such an asshole.