American Drug Addict: a memoir

by Brett Douglas

  My parents decided to take turns watching me while I went through this torture. Robert witnessing my ultimate failure made it worse. As hard as I tried to act normal in his presence, my masquerade was pointless. I was definitely not the son he wanted. After he left, I would never see my father again. To this day, he refuses to speak to me.

  While I suffered on the couch, Mike convinced Mom to send me to rehab. He told her the same “buy your son a suit” line he used with me. “Brett, Mike will be here at five to take you to the Friary,” she said. The Friary was the most prestigious drug rehab facility in the Pensacola area.

  “Okay. Thank you, Mom.” My expression of gratitude was genuine. The Demon was getting more vicious by the hour and showed no signs of abating. I laid back on the couch and waited for 5 pm to arrive.

  My cell phone rang. Before I could sit up, Mom answered it. She was not going to let any drug dealers reach me. “It’s Jerry,” she said as she handed me the phone. I hoped my attorney would have some good news.

  “I just finished the deposition with the female officer that arrested you. She said you looked very intoxicated that night. Unfortunately, that gave her probable cause to search you. I’m sorry, Brett. The best we can hope for is leniency in front of the judge.”

  “Okay.” I hung up. I was in no mood to talk to him anyway.

  The Mailbox

  Let’s start this chapter by saying…

  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”

  15. Alcohol is a drug, and alcoholics are drug addicts

  16. Not only should you stare at handicapped people, you should actually talk to them as well

  17. Never underestimate a motivated addict’s prowess

  After abruptly ending the conversation with Jerry, I attempted to place the cell phone on the coffee table, but it fell and rolled under the couch. As I searched for it, I found a used syringe.

  Every time an addict awakens, their very first thought is the plan for the day: where to get dope, how to disguise their actions, where to get money, and who will be victimized getting it. Before I dropped the phone, I hadn’t thought about getting high. But when I saw the syringe in my hand, my brain instantly concocted an elaborate plan. Drugs are the only motivation for an addict, and plans such as this are not thought out step by step. Instead, they materialize instantly, from beginning to end. I knew exactly what I had to do. I crammed the cell phone in my pocket, walked into the bathroom, and called Norm. “I need ten blues right now.”

  “Well, I got to go….”

  “Fuck that. I’ll give you fifty a piece, but you have to come right now.”

  “You got it. Where are you?”

  “I’m at home, but you can’t come inside. I’ll leave the money in the mailbox. Just put the shit in there. Call my cell phone once when it’s done.”

  “Okay. Be there soon.” Never soon enough.

  Mom wouldn’t let me out of her sight. She was becoming aware of my sneakiness. Just not fully aware.

  I placed my phone on vibrate and crammed it in my pocket. I went into the bedroom to change clothes, put $500 in an envelope, and walked into the living room.

  “Can you get me something to drink?” I politely asked as I sat on the couch.

  As Mom walked into the kitchen, I darted outside to the mailbox, grabbed the mail, and replaced it with the money-filled envelope. But before I closed the door, Mom rushed outside. “What the hell are you doing?!”

  “Just getting the mail.”

  “I’ll get that. Don’t you leave this house again!”

  We walked back inside. After a hour, Mom’s phone rang. As she walked into the kitchen talking, I felt my phone vibrate once. Relief was sitting in the mailbox.

  “That was Mike. He’s coming early to get you. He’s on the way,” Mom said.

  Shit! I can’t leave with those pills in the mailbox. Paula will do them.

  I saw Mom’s cell phone sitting on the arm of the couch. I managed to palm it without her noticing, then walked into the kitchen, took a pudding from the refrigerator, grabbed a spoon from the drawer, and placed her phone behind a sugar canister. As I walked out of the kitchen, I dialed her number preceded by *67, so my number wouldn’t show up on her phone, and sat down to eat the pudding. As soon as Mom stood up to look for her ringing phone, I rushed outside and grabbed the package in the mailbox.

  Mom once again ran outside. “I thought I told you not to leave my sight!”

  “I was just seeing if Mike was here. I thought I heard him. I’m ready to get this started.”

  I sat on the couch, quickly ate the pudding, and stuffed the spoon in my pocket. As I darted to the bathroom, Mike walked through the front door. Without acknowledging him, I closed the door and locked it.

  I had never shot 300mg of Roxicodone at once. The pile of pulverized pills in the spoon was difficult to melt down, but after several attempts, I did it. Mike started banging on the bathroom door, demanding I unlock it.

  I held in my hand the most potent shot of dope I had ever concocted. Either I’m going to feel great, or I’m going to die. Either one is fine with me.

  I felt the sting in the fold of my arm, which no longer mentally registered as pain. The shot hit me hard. I fell to my knees, grasping the sink and trying to stay awake, but wishing I would sleep forever. Mom joined Mike banging on the door and yelling my name. I couldn’t answer. All I could do was stare in the mirror, my face barely visible from my position. I looked like a zombie from some George Romero movie.

  I don’t remember the trip, but Mike eventually got me to…

  The Friary

  I spent the first few days in the detox room, catching up on sleep. I was given medicine to lessen the withdrawal symptoms, but, unfortunately, the nurse wouldn’t bring the meds to me. I had to stumble into the nursing area to get them. I must have looked and smelled awful since I hadn’t bathed in over two weeks. Withdrawal sweat has a pungent odor. Robin, the tech who was taking my vital signs, looked at me over her glasses and said, “When we’re done here, go get your butt in that shower. I don’t want to see you in those nasty clothes anymore. Ya’ hear me?” I did as I was told.

  Opiates, like Roxicodone, had the exact opposite effect on my libido that cocaine had. I couldn’t get an erection to save my life. They completely killed my sex drive. Thus, a minuscule benefit of the withdrawal process was the need to “catch up,” so to speak. After my shower, I laid in bed and masturbated three times in a row.

  The next day, I was allowed to attend the group counseling sessions. The first one was led by John, who was once a patient at the Friary and had been clean several years.

  “I actually brought crack with me into the detox room when I first got here. I didn’t know they had cameras in there,” John revealed.

  I leaned over to the cute blonde sitting next to me. “They have cameras in the detox room?” I whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, they got a show last night.”

 
The blonde barked out a loud laugh, causing everyone to look at us.

  After the meeting, she said, “Hi, I’m Barbie.”

  “Brett,” I stammered. I still felt like shit.

  She had light blonde hair with tight curls and a genuine smile, accentuated with a deep, hearty laugh, which made her even more attractive. Her voice reminded me of Fran Drescher’s, except not excruciating to listen to.

  “So what got you here?” she asked.

  “My sponsor’s truck.”

  “No silly, what drug?”

  “Roxies and crack,” I shamefully mumbled.

  “Yeah, I’m a crack smoker too,” she acknowledged.

  “Really? You don’t look like a crack smoker.”

  “Yeah, well, you do,” she said. We both laughed.

  Barbie was leaving the Friary the next day. We spent the afternoon talking, and I wished her well.

  For the first time, I wandered around the facility I would be spending the next month. Because of my medication, walking was a challenge. The floor never seemed to be where I expected. Eventually, I found the snack room, which had all the ingredients for a roast beef and Swiss sandwich. All I had to do was build it.

  As I struggled with the intricacies of sandwich construction, a short, perky red-head walked into the snack room. “Oh, you look like shit!”

  “Thanks.”

  “You know what I mean,” the red-head said, smiling. “Here, let me help you.”

  She prepared my sandwich and placed one of every snack available on my plate. My hunger suddenly became real. As I stuffed my face, the red-head said, “I’m Marion, by the way.”

  “Brett,” I mumbled with a mouthful of food. Our conversation was short.

  As the days passed, I started to feel anguish over my situation, which came out as emotional outbursts or rude comments to the staff and other patients. I was not very popular, but Marion found my insults amusing, a fact I quickly picked up on. Her voice had an affluent tone, and her speech had the mark of intelligence. Not to mention, she made me laugh. I found myself drawn to her.

  Marion and I played a game where we would watch the other patients and guess how long they would stay sober.

  “What about that guy?” I quietly asked.

  “I think he’ll stay sober a year,” Marion whispered.

  “Ya’ think?”

  “Oh yeah. What about that one?” She pointed to someone else.

  “That guy won’t make it a month,” I predicted. “What about her?”

  “She’ll be drunk before she gets home.”

  A frail, elderly man walked by with the aid of a walker. Marion pointed to him. “I give him six months…………to live.”

  As much as we laughed together, I was frequently the butt of Marion’s jokes. She poured pepper into my jacket pockets and laughed while I sneezed during a phone call. I had to retire the jacket.

  The staff noticed the chemistry that was developing between us. The Friary had a van which was used to transport patients to AA meetings, affectionately known as the Druggy Buggy. One evening, as I walked down the steps to exit the van, I heard Marion call my name. I turned to face her. “Catch me,” she yelled as she jumped into my arms. I tripped over the curb behind me, and we both tumbled onto the sidewalk, laughing hysterically. The crowd standing outside the meeting thought we were drunk.

  My counselor suggested Marion and I were enjoying rehab a little too much. Perhaps she was correct. Yet for the first time in two decades, the urge to get high was gone. In the past, drugs were always in the back of my mind. Sobriety felt like a loss instead of a gain. The only peace I knew involved having an illicit substance coursing through my veins. That synthetic serenity had now been replaced by something substantial.

  The Showdown

  While I was enjoying my stay at the Friary, Paula discovered Robert had removed my name from the corporate charter, thus ending my ownership of the pawn shop. Paula and her mother went to the shop to talk to my parents. The showdown had begun.

  Without me as a conduit, Paula and Robert faced-off for the first time. It did not go well. Since I wasn’t present, I can only relay what I heard from witnesses.

  Paula started the conversation by telling Robert he was an “arrogant sawed-off motherfucker” who was the reason I used drugs. Robert responded by telling Paula she was just like Bea, an ignorant, loud-mouthed drunk who was unappreciative of everything he did for her. They continued yelling obscenities and finally lunged at each other as if they were going to fight. My mom and Paula’s mom had to get between them. Paula and Robert finally got a sample of what my life had been like for the past fifteen years.

  While my wife and father were trying to kill each other, I was learning a few things at the Friary.

  1) Although I still didn’t believe in God, my counselor suggested a concept I found acceptable. “Why don’t you use the word God to mean ‘doing the next right thing,’ as in Good Orderly Direction, or use the people in AA as your higher power, as in Group Of Drunks?”

  2) I had achieved two of the big three. During a group session, a counselor mentioned, “An addict’s lifestyle has only three possible outcomes: jails, institutions, and death.”

  To which I responded, “Well, I’ve been to jail, but I’ve never been to an institution, and I’m still alive.”

  The counselor smiled and said, “What do you think the Friary is? Rehab is a mental institution.”

  Shit.

  3) Wearing cowboy boots with jeans tucked inside looks ridiculous.

  4) Happiness isn’t derived from external things like drugs, relationships, status, money, or food. It’s found within ourselves. I’ve heard that statement before and thought it was a hokey cliché. External things like honeybuns made me happy. So did Ann. So did the prestige of owning the pawn shop. So did money and dope. But those things are temporary. I eat, then I’m hungry again. Ann was gone. So was my business, money, and dope. Oddly enough, I was content. Why?

  5) I was content with myself. Years before, during my stay at COPAC, I felt the same way. For some reason, the seclusion of rehab seemed to improve my self-esteem. Sure, I wasn’t getting high, but drugs were the effect of my self-hatred, not the cause. As I wiped away the smut of addiction, the person I found was someone I liked. And Marion played a role in this. She made me feel good about myself, something I didn’t know other people could do. Which leads us to…

  6) I was falling in love with Marion. More than once, she said, “I can’t wait to tell my friends I found the love of my life in rehab.”

  Unfortunately, two problems existed with our new-found affection: my wife and her husband. Our children complicated things further. Marion and I never had a physical relationship. I didn’t want to taint our chemistry, which I had grown to cherish. After leaving the Friary, Marion and I spent time together but were both preoccupied with our own families and responsibilities. We were no longer isolated from the rest of the world, which allowed us to focus solely on each other. Outside of the Friary, our relationship changed. We eventually stopped seeing each other. I truly miss Marion, the one person who took my hand and said, “I love you just the way you are.”

  The Meeting

  After leaving the Friary, I was ready to start a clean life, convinced this stab at sobriety would take hold. I could finally put my problems behind me. At my court hearing, the judge gave me a year and a half of probation, which required a monthly meeting with my probation officer and successfully passing a drug screen. Since I was sober, the requirements of my sentence shouldn’t have been a problem. But I tend to unnecessarily complicate things.

  Paula tried to hide her drug use from me, but I knew. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. My only option was to focus on myself and stay out of her way. Thus, I attended a lot of meetings. Being a felon, I knew the job market wasn’t clamoring for me, so I decided to do something Robert said I wasn’t capable of doing: start my own business.

  Over the next two months, I secured a loan,
purchased the necessary permits and licenses, rented a storefront in a shopping mall that was still under construction, and bought an illuminated sign to go on the front when the mall was completed.

  One typical evening, I went to an AA meeting. I knew how excited Paula must have been when I left because I felt the same way when she was sober. I could stop pretending, if only for a couple of hours. When a sober person is living with a practicing addict, even when both people are cordial, a tension exists, a disconnect that is near impossible to mend.

  At the meeting, I was surprised to see a familiar blonde sitting outside smoking a cigarette. “Barbie?”

  “Oh, my God! Brett. How are you?”

  We hugged and exchanged stories about sober life. I also offered to give her a ride to meetings in the future.

  Now, let’s pause for….

  Addict Thinking II

  Yes, it’s a sequel. In normal circumstances, the mind’s thoughts and the body’s actions complement one another. In other words, the thinking of a normie will not deceptively put them in harm’s way. An addict’s mind, however, works to the body’s detriment. It will seek out situations which could lead to drug use, whether the addict is currently using or not, and mask the actual motivation with noble intent. When I offered Barbie a ride to meetings, I had no conscious desire to use drugs and just wanted to be helpful. But I didn’t offer any male friends a ride. I didn’t offer any women I didn’t find attractive a ride. I certainly didn’t offer anyone with long-term sobriety a ride. Most importantly, I didn’t tell anyone of my generous offer. If my motivation was indeed noble, why the secrecy?

  My brain was fooling me. That statement may sound absurd as if I’m a hapless victim of my thinking. Sadly, it’s true. Addicts struggle with this dichotomy. For example, while sober I would sometimes drive past places I had purchased drugs in the past. I had no intentions of buying dope nor stopping the car. I just wanted to see that spot again. An addict’s mind is constantly playing a chess game with the body, and the mind is always ten moves ahead. This disconnect between the mental and the physical is the most important reason for having an AA sponsor. If I had informed Mike of my vacuous benevolence, he would have seen my true motives. I didn’t tell him.