American Drug Addict: a memoir

by Brett Douglas

  One day, Paula called me. “I just found out you stole my jewelry!” she yelled.

  “No I—”

  “Stop lying, you piece of shit! Meet me at home right now!”

  I had filed this betrayal away and ignored it. But I couldn’t hide any longer. I could live with what I had done as long as no one else knew. Even my guilt was selfish. I had another crying fit. Afterward, I knew what I had to do. But before I did it, my family deserved to know the truth.

  I purchased a bottle of sleeping pills and a pack of razor blades at Walgreens, and a large amount of crack at Money’s. Then I drove home, listening to the Nine Inch Nails’ album Hesitation Marks. How appropriately named.

  When Paula barged through the front door, Devin and Jordan were already sitting with me in the living room. “I wanted to tell you this myself,” I said, paused, then continued. “I stole your mother’s jewelry and blamed it on Cade.”

  Rage distorted Devin’s face. “What the fuck did you just say?!” he screamed. “You let me beat Cade’s ass, and you knew the truth the whole time! You fucking piece of garbage!”

  I stared at the ground while Devin and Paula bellowed their anger at me. But the most painful statement was from Jordan. “Dad, what’s happened to you? I used to be so proud of you. I used to look up to you. I don’t even know you anymore. You disgust me.”

  When Devin and Jordan left, I went to grab my car keys. “Oh, hell no! You’re not leaving!” Paula yelled, as she grabbed the keys and started searching my pockets. She found some of my crack, but not all of it. I always kept my drugs separated in different pockets. She also found the sleeping pills and razors. “Here, go kill yourself, motherfucker,” she said as she threw them on the floor and walked into the bedroom.

  I swallowed the bottle of pills, exited the house, and started walking down the street. I assumed Paula would jump in the car and come looking for me when she noticed I was gone. So, I hid in the bushes next to the entrance to our neighborhood. As I smoked crack and waited for her car race by, I slit my left wrist with the razor blade. The cut was painless at first. But as blood rushed from the open wound, it started to hurt considerably.

  Paula never left the house. I realized she didn’t care what happened to me. So, I hid in the bushes and smoked crack until the wound started to clot. With nothing better to do, I left our neighborhood and walked down the street. The sleeping pills started to take effect; waves of blackness fell over me. The crack was probably the only reason I made it as far down the street as I did. After walking for about a mile, I blacked out.

  When I came to, I was standing on a porch I didn’t recognize. An old man was screaming at me to get the hell off his property. As I staggered around, a police cruiser pulled up. The officer searched me. Luckily, I must have smoked all the crack and dropped the pipe. He handcuffed me and put me in the back of his car. To my amazement, Devin was sitting in the front seat.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I just wanted to check on you,” he replied, looking back at me.

  “I thought you were mad at me,” I mumbled as tears dripped from my eyes.

  “No, Dad. I just want you to be honest with me.”

  “Okay.”

  “You lost your business because of drugs, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.” My sobs increased.

  “You sold your customer’s computers for drugs, didn’t you?” Devin asked, looking squarely at me.

  I cleared my eyes. “How did you know?”

  “Just be honest with me.”

  “Yes, I did,” I responded, looking at the floorboard.

  “You haven’t made the mortgage payment in a long time, have you?”

  “No, I haven't.”

  “I’ll always love you. I just want to respect you again.”

  “I know, I know,” I stammered. “I’m sorry about Cade.”

  “Dad. Look at me.”

  I looked up at him.

  “It’s going to get much worse before it gets better.”

  The car door opened, and I was led into a building. I thought it was jail, but it was the Adult Stabilization Unit. In other words, the nut ward.

  As nurses raced around me on the hospital bed, I asked one of them, “My son is outside. Can he come in?”

  “Just relax. Wait until we finish,” a male nurse responded.

  I fell asleep. When I woke up, a bandage covered my wrist. The same male nurse was standing by my bed. “My son came in with me. Is he still here?”

  “Sir, you came in here alone,” the nurse replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I helped the officer bring you in, and you were the only person in the car.”

  I thought the nurse was mistaken. I clearly remembered the heart-wrenching conversation I had with Devin. I asked to use a phone.

  “Devin.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “We had a conversation last night. Do you remember?”

  “Of course. I’m at Cade’s trying to make up for what you’ve done.”

  “No. I mean in the police car.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Where were you after you left the house last night?”

  “I spent the night at Cade’s.”

  “And you weren’t in a police car with me last night?”

  “No, Dad. I’ve been here all night. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Never mind.”

  The police report stated I was talking to myself during the drive to the Twinkie ward. To this day, I vividly remember talking to Devin that night, although I now know the entire exchange was a hallucination. Although the conversation never took place, I should have listened to him. Even Devin’s apparition was wiser than I.

  My suicide attempt was not a cry for help or attention. It was a direct result of my venture down the Dark Corridor. Abhorrent behavior comes with a price. I despised the person I was. Whether through drugs or death, I was determined to erase my self-hatred.

  Are you sensing a pattern here?

  I have never attempted suicide

  Life had become a sad routine consisting of two iterations. The first was lying around suffering through drug withdrawal, waiting for an opportunity to bilk someone out of cash. The second was lying around while I was high. I began bullshitting Mom about needing money, telling her Devin and Jordan were hungry or a bill needed to be paid. I only bathed when I went to meet her, an attempt to hide my desperate situation.

  Paula had just made the last payment on her Lincoln Navigator when I used it on a drug run. On the way home, I stopped at a convenience store and shot up in the restroom. As I drove home, I could barely keep my eyes open. Less than a mile from our house, I crashed into the car ahead of me. The entire front end of my vehicle was demolished. The headlights and front bumper were lying in the street. The hood was folded up so high, I couldn’t see past it from the driver’s seat. Steam shot from the radiator, which was detached from the frame and hanging by the hose, touching the pavement. The car was destroyed.

  Here we go.

  I have never totaled a car

  The sudden crash snapped me out of my drug-induced stupor. I jumped from the Navigator to examine the damage. Then, I noticed the car I hit was in worse condition, and the driver wasn’t moving. Panicked, I got back in my car and attempted to drive away. The radiator dragging the ground caused sparks to fly up from the engine well. Although I couldn’t see past the folded hood, I pulled a quick U-turn and sped away. As smoke billowed from the engine, I parked the Navigator behind a convenience store, ran into the men’s room, hid in a stall, and waited for the police to walk in and arrest me. The authorities never showed up.

  Yet another one off the list.

  I have never committed a hit and run

  Sitting in the bathroom stall, I shot up again and passed out. Several hours went by before I woke up and was stable enough to leave the restroom. I walked home and told Paula
I put the Navigator in the shop for repairs. I believed I could keep lying to her about the missing vehicle, but after three weeks, I had no choice but to admit what had happened. By that time, the Navigator had been towed. Since we had let the insurance lapse, we never claimed it. Paula purchased a Honda Accord, which I destroyed in a similar manner.

  With no vehicle, I started borrowing Devin’s car to make drug runs. Once, I found $400 under the lid of the center console. Although I knew it belonged to him, I spent it on drugs. Later that evening, Devin discovered the money was missing and broke down. “Oh my God! I needed that money! Why does my life suck so bad!” he wailed, tears streaking his face.

  I watched my son’s pain, completely devoid of feelings. The carcass of a human I had become consciously felt nothing, but my self-loathing was only masked by drugs.

  That was a tough one.

  I have never stolen from my son

  I walked back inside and sat on the couch. Minutes later, Devin stormed through the front door. “You took my money, didn’t you?” he screamed, his face reddened and glistening with tears.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I weakly answered.

  “Stop lying to me, you crackhead piece of shit!”

  I walked into the kitchen where he was standing and looked at his face, twisted with pain. My emotions started to bleed out. “I’m sorry,” I quietly mumbled.

  “GOD, I’M SO SICK OF THIS SHIT!” Devin screamed as he grabbed the toaster oven off the counter and threw it against the wall.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I sobbed.

  Devin punched me twice in the head. I fell to my knees, my ears ringing from the strikes. I started bawling. “I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry.”

  “I FUCKING HATE YOU!” Devin screamed as he walked out the front door. My children moved out of the house soon after that incident and got an apartment together.

  Nothing is more selfish and destructive than an addict in the midst of their disease. People stop appearing human and instead are seen as opportunities. I didn’t think twice about stealing from my son. But after mentally rehearsing his reaction for several days, my despondency got the best of me. I Googled suicide methods, trying to find one that didn’t hurt. Most of them are painful. But according to the website I studied, carbon monoxide poisoning is painless and should take no more than thirty minutes. I cut a section out of the garden hose in our front yard, parked my car behind a vacant building, placed the hose in the tailpipe, and ran the other end through the trunk and into the backseat. I cranked the car and waited to die. After thirty minutes, as the car started to fill with the odor of exhaust, I fell unconscious.

  Two hours and fifteen minutes later, I woke up. The car was filled with the burnt smell of exhaust. Yet, I was still alive. I grabbed the end of the hose and started sucking on it. All I got was a headache. After another forty-five minutes, I removed the hose and scored some heroin instead.

  I was always looking for new drug dealers. If I perceived them as having the propensity for violence, I paid for their product and moved on to the next one. But when I found one I judged as weak, I would ask for a large amount of dope on credit and then not pay them. Basically, I was daring them to do something about it. And I was usually a good judge of character.

  Money had a rather cavalier attitude when it came to my drug debt. He also had the hots for Paula. I decided to stop paying him. I ran up a massive bill and started buying from other dealers. After a couple of months, I forgot about Money and the debt I owed. That is until I pulled into the driveway of another dealer, and Money was standing in the front yard. I didn’t see him. He grabbed me by my shirt and shoved me against the car. “You best have some fucking money for me!”

  “You know I’m going to pay you.”

  “What you got on you?” He started to reach in my pocket. I had money to buy crack but wasn’t willing to give it to him. I knocked his hand away.

  “I don’t have any money,” I protested.

  “Then why the fuck are you here?” With that question, Money reared back and punched me in the side of the head. I dropped to the ground, almost blacking out. He rummaged through my pockets and took my money. “You best start paying me, motherfucker!”

  That one hurt.

  I have never been physically assaulted

  Afterward, every time I had money, I had a choice to make: pay my debt or purchase drugs. I always chose the latter. One evening, Paula and I were awakened by banging on the front door. Like a coward, I hid in the bathroom, while Paula answered it. Money shoved her to the ground and walked into the bedroom, yelling, “Where’s that piece of shit husband of yours?”

  I walked out of the bathroom and stood nose to nose with him. “If you don’t have my money by this weekend, I’m shooting this place up,” he hissed through his teeth.

  The next few nights were sleepless, waiting for the retribution I knew was coming. A week later, I came home and found our house had been broken into, and every remaining possession I owned had been stolen. I never heard from him again. Eventually, Money was sent to prison for shooting a man.

  They’re dropping like flies.

  I have never had my home burglarized

  My relationship with Paula had become a codependent nightmare. Getting high was the only relief from her hostility. I deservedly became her scapegoat. Our relationship was no longer based on love. We coexisted simply to feed each other’s need for drugs. When Paula was high, she amorously expressed her love for me. But when it was over, sheer hatred was all I heard. Maintaining our high was the only way I knew to make her happy, and I would do anything to keep the peace.

  We had been paying into a college fund for Jordan since she was two years old. While dope sick, I cashed in the fund, receiving $11,000. Paula was unaware of this theft. I spent every dime on crack and heroin. The fund took fifteen years to save, and one week to blow. I stuck my beloved daughter’s future education into my veins.

  And there goes another one.

  I have never stolen from my daughter

  I bought a half gram of heroin from Jennifer, a drug dealer I frequently used. Although all dealers brag about the potency of their product, most of the time they’re exaggerating to compel you to buy. But Jennifer never warned me unless it was warranted. “Brett, listen to me. This shit is strong. Please be careful, Okay?”

  “Sure thing.” Once at home, I conveyed Jennifer’s warning to Paula.

  “They always say that bullshit,” she said as she walked to the bathroom.

  “If Jennifer said it, you better be careful,” I yelled as the door closed.

  Fifteen minutes later, Paula stumbled into the living room and collapsed. I’d seen her do this before, so at first, I thought nothing of it. But, as the minutes passed, I noticed her chest wasn’t moving. I walked over to her and saw something I had never seen before. Paula’s face was purple, and her lips were dark blue. Panic struck me. I knelt next to her and tried to shake her into consciousness. Paula was dead weight. The hue in her face and lips were slowly transitioning to a darker shade. As loud as I could, I screamed in her ear, “PAULA! WAKE THE FUCK UP, PAULA!” Absolutely no reaction. I shook her vigorously. “OH, MY GOD! PAULA! PLEASE WAKE UP! PAULA! PLEASE!”

  I threw cold water in her darkening face. Still no reaction. My hands started to tremble. I fell to the floor and carefully examined her chest. No movement. I felt her nostrils. No breath. I grabbed her wrist trying to get a pulse, but my hands were shaking so badly, I couldn’t find one. I placed my ear against her chest. No heartbeat. The inescapable truth hit me like an anvil in freefall. Paula was dead.

  One more crossed off.

  I have never watched someone die

  I grabbed my cell phone to call 911 but stopped after looking at our house. Needles, spoons and crack pipes were lying on every table and countertop. I dropped the phone and knelt at Paula’s side again, forcing myself to calm down so I could think clearly. I remembered her practicing CPR on me years ear
lier. So, I placed my mouth over hers and blew. Air exited her nostrils, hitting me on the cheek. I pinched her nose and blew into her mouth again. I sensed a faint movement in her chest, so I blew several more times. I then placed my ear against her chest, discerning a faint heartbeat. I blew into her mouth several more times, each session causing her pulse to increase in strength. But Paula was still completely unresponsive. Every time her pulse started to taper off, I would breathe into her mouth again, not knowing if I was doing the right thing. I knew the phone call I didn’t make might be responsible for my wife’s death

  After forty exhausting minutes, Paula finally bowed up and drew a deep, loud breath on her own. I watched her chest heave sporadically for the next fifteen minutes. When at last she opened her eyes, the crippling emotions I had suppressed for the last hour spewed forth. I balled up on the floor and loudly sobbed. Paula placed her hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong, baby?”

  “You just died, I had to breathe for you, I just watched you die….” I inaudibly sobbed.

  “No baby, it was just a bad dream,” she gently whispered, trying to console me.

  “It wasn’t a dream,” I mumbled.

  “It’s okay. You just had a nightmare.”

  I sat up, grabbed her by the shoulders, and screamed, “IT WASN’T A FUCKING DREAM! I JUST WATCHED YOU DIE! I’VE BEEN BREATHING FOR YOU FOR THE LAST HOUR!”

  Horror twisted Paula’s face. We both held each other and cried. I told her I was a coward for not calling an ambulance. She responded by saying I had done the brave thing. Paula was wrong. Afterward, we both shot more heroin.

  Mom and I have always had a special relationship. She was the only person who stood by my side throughout the darkest moments of my life, holding on to the elusive idea my life had worth. I did everything I could to prove her wrong.