Unlocking Secrets

by Kathe Crawford

  “Of course, I do! I used to see him hanging out at the youth center with you.” He was such a “hot” guy that I’d certainly noticed him. He was 24 years old and about 5 foot 11, with narrow hips like Mick Jagger’s and a gorgeous head of long, dark-brown, shaggy hair like Rick Springfield’s. Always dressed in tight jeans and a fitted T-shirt, he had a chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, the perfect nose, and the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. He was also witty. All the girls wanted to hang out with him.

  He had always been part of the “cool bad boys” group. I had dated a guy from that circle, but once when he and his friends were planning a camping trip, I’d felt rejected because he refused to take me. “You don’t belong with this group, and I’m not going to be the one to take you there.” It was only later that I realized he wouldn’t let me go because he didn’t want to expose me to hard drugs.

  Larry was already at Dana’s apartment when I arrived. The two of them were like brother and sister.

  “I’m really proud that I’ve been able to turn my life around,” Larry told me. He’d come home for Thanksgiving after having moved to Seattle to get away from the drug scene and get clean. His older sister and her husband, who were hard-core addicts, had been responsible for getting Larry and his brother involved in drugs.

  Dana talked me up to Larry. “Kathe’s really got her shit together. She has her own apartment and a great job working in the city. Now that you’ve got it together and she’s got it together, you two could be a good fit. You should ask her out.”

  Besides his looks, Larry was also enormously charming. He seemed so normal and different from the other guys I’d met. He knew a lot of what I called “stuff,” from the best jazz bars to the coolest new bands to the latest coffee spot. He read like a sponge, and I was enamored with listening to him talk. Imagine, a guy I could actually learn from, who also found me interesting! I thought of him as a Renaissance man and, frankly, was in awe of him.

  Yet, the red flags were lit up like neon. I knew getting involved with Larry was a risk and probably a huge mistake. But I was seduced by the possibility of having such an interesting man in my life. Could I finally have the love I’d been craving? Was it possible for me to find someone who’d take care of me for a change?

  Despite my better judgment, I agreed to go out with Larry. We spent time at the jazz clubs on West End Avenue and Columbus Avenue in Manhattan. From the first night, I was just with him. We spent almost all of our time together—it was the proverbial whirlwind romance.

  He had planned to return to Seattle, but he decided to stay with me instead. I was only 23, but I was already tired of dating, partying, and one-night stands. Someone wanted me for me, not what I could do for him, and that’s all that mattered. I was weary of feeling alone. With Larry, I never felt alone.

  In no time, we could finish each other’s sentences. We laughed together, held hands, and kissed as we walked for hours in Central Park or went to fun events like the Big Apple Circus. We dreamed about traveling to Europe together and one day living in the Dakota, the building where John Lennon lived. We would go for days without answering the phone, just enveloped in each other.

  We’d only been dating for a few months when Larry turned to me and said, “Let’s move to Hawaii!”

  I looked at him, surprised.

  Then he said, “Let’s get married!”

  My breath stopped. I gazed into the eyes of this beautiful man and heard myself say, “Yes!”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Had I really just said I’d marry him? After such a short time? I hardly knew him, and my gut was telling me to slow down.

  But I closed my eyes and told myself, It doesn’t matter! He loves me. Do you hear that? HE LOVES YOU, KATHE!

  Freedom was calling us both.

  So I became Kathe Crawford. We made our impulsive move to Hawaii with no jobs and just a little bit of wedding gift money from relatives. But I was on an adventure! I felt for the first time in my life that I was free to fly.

  Of course, the move meant quitting my job with Rose. It was impulsive and crazy, and I wish I could tell you what I was thinking. But the truth is that I wasn’t thinking at all. I was just madly in love. That little girl who had walked down the street mooning over the other families, wanting them to take her in, was going to create her own family! And I was going to do it right. No mess, like in my parents’ house. I was going to be a free-spirited woman like Joni Mitchell.

  Forget all that I had learned from Rose. Forget the success that I’d managed to create for myself. Forget the self-sufficiency that I’d finally achieved. I was willing to give it all up for this elusive love that I was sure I’d finally found.

  Rose was absolutely furious, of course, and never forgave me for quitting. “Who is this guy? What’s wrong with you?” she asked me. It was a legitimate question.

  Yet I’d convinced myself that Larry was my ticket to happiness. I was on cloud nine, but Larry would soon become the heaviest anchor I’d ever have in my life, bringing me right back down to earth with a devastating thud.

  CHAPTER 4

  LIVING WITH MY CHOICES

  My first year married to Larry was everything I’d dreamed it would be, but Hawaii wasn’t what we’d dreamed at all. Jobs were given to people from the islands, not to transplants like us. We were unemployed, bored, and missing home.

  What I didn’t know then was that boredom is lethal for an addict. We’d spent a lot of our time partying, so even though Larry wasn’t using drugs in Hawaii, he was still often high from drinking. Then I noticed that he was no longer satisfied with just a few drinks. At a pharmacy, he bought some cough medicine because it contained codeine even though he didn’t have a cough. Still, I was too naïve to understand that he was struggling with his recovery.

  When we finally returned to New Jersey, we were broke and had no place to live. My mother wouldn’t let us move in, so we had to move in with Larry’s parents. I was able to land a job pretty quickly, but not Larry. Once again, he had too much time on his hands and was stuck living with his mom and dad. I’m sure he felt like a failure.

  Eventually we were able to get our own apartment. One night, I came home from work to find him with the strangest look on his face. It was an expression I hadn’t seen before. As he held up a little packet of cellophane, I could literally feel his energy pull away from me and toward that drug. It was like I no longer existed. I knew in that moment, the dope would mean more to Larry than I did.

  “You know I don’t get high anymore,” he began, “but I really, really want to get high tonight. I’m not sure why. I just feel like it. It’s really no big deal. You’ve been with me night and day. I haven’t been getting high, have I?”

  He said it as though he deserved a “treat” after having been clean for a while. But I could tell he was lying. That look was his lying face—a look that would soon become all too familiar.

  Yet, I was so stunned that I didn’t say a word. And he interpreted my silence as consent.

  Would he have thrown it away if I’d asked? Why didn’t I say, “No! It is a big deal!”

  The truth is, I knew that he’d already made up his mind whether I gave him my approval or not. I guess he wanted to share it with me so he wouldn’t feel guilty about hiding it.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to start shooting dope all the time,” he said. I wanted to believe him—so I did. I convinced myself that I was an open and understanding person and that I had such a great, honest relationship with my husband that it all would be okay.

  I simply couldn’t entertain the possibility of losing Larry, drugs or no drugs. I was deeply in love with him, and our relationship was just as deeply entrenched in my life. Even my parents loved him, which improved my relationship with them. He and my father drank beer together, swapped stories, and listened to Willie Nelson songs.

  Of course, Mom and Dad had no idea my husband was a recovering drug addict. And now, right before my eyes, he was no longer recovering. He was
an active junkie. I knew it, and Larry knew it. But we both kept up the pretense that we’d be fine. In that moment, we believed our survival depended on pretending.

  It was so surreal to watch him cook the dope, draw it into the needle, and slide the needle into his arm. I could tell from the seductiveness that little packet of heroin had for him that our relationship would never be the same.

  He looked at me and smiled. “It’s so much better to be honest with you! You’re amazing. I love you so much.”

  Larry’s drug use was the first secret I would keep for him. My childhood had taught me well.

  Larry and I got up the next morning and started our day just like every other day, both of us in strong denial about his drug use. Nevertheless, I was aware that our relationship was forever changed, and I carried a lot of fear about what the day would bring. I certainly felt betrayed, hurt, and taken advantage of.

  When I was alone, I thought, What have you done to your life, Kathe? If people find out about this, they’ll know for sure that you’re a fuck-up. And what if Larry keeps using? What kind of mess will you be in then? Saddled with a junkie. How did you let this happen? I had portrayed Larry as a responsible man who would take good care of me, especially to my parents. If I admitted I’d made a mistake, I’d be humiliated.

  I was torn apart because I loved this man deeply, and I had made a commitment to him that I didn’t take lightly. I assured myself that I could keep him from using again without anyone ever finding out. Plus, if I left, what would I have and where would I go? I already knew my mother wouldn’t allow me to come back home.

  It was a while before I discovered Larry was still regularly getting high. Whenever I saw him preparing the drug, he would say, “It’s no different from people who smoke a joint now and then. I’m just going to get high on the weekends.”

  He started out getting high about once a month, then a couple of times a month, then once a week, and then every two or three days. Sometimes he did speedballs, which were a dangerous combination of heroin and cocaine that’s strong enough to kill you. He started hanging out with Dana, who had relapsed, and her friends again. I hated them and thought of them as a cancer that was destroying my life.

  And with that, my worst fears became my reality. I had never dreamed that the word “junkie” would become such a big part of my life.

  Surprisingly, Larry could function as an addict. He had gotten a construction job and managed to work hard all day while hiding his addiction. Then he’d either come home and sedate himself with beer or go out after work and get high. I didn’t know which was worse—having him drunk at home, where I knew he was safe and could do no harm, or out somewhere dangerous so I didn’t have to confront my vacant-eyed ghost of a husband sitting on the couch.

  It got to the point where we barely interacted with each other, and before long, we didn’t really have a marriage anymore. I guess you could say we were still friends. He hated hurting me, but the man I had married—the man with so many hopes and dreams for the future—was slipping away.

  Every day, I’d close my eyes really tight and pray, “Don’t let him walk in stoned. Please, not tonight! Let us have just one normal night. Meet friends, watch TV, and just savor our time together.” But nights like that became more and more rare. I was losing my strength—and the battle. I was losing my husband to a chemical.

  Whether he went out late at night or earlier in the day or evening, he’d lie about where he was going: “I’m just going out for a pack of cigarettes.” “I’ll just be gone a few minutes to pick up a loaf of bread.” The lies were ridiculous, of course, and I wasn’t fooled. Sometimes he’d return hours later with lame excuses. “Oh, I ran into Tom, and we got to talking.” “I stopped by my mom’s place.”

  “You’re stoned!” I’d say to him.

  “No, I’m not. I promise!”

  “Larry, I’m not stupid. You might be able to get away with it at work, but I know you. I know exactly how you look and how you act when you’re high. I’m not crazy. Just tell me you’re stoned!”

  “Why do you have to make me say it?”

  “What, do you think not saying it means you aren’t hurting me? You don’t want to say it because it’ll make you feel even worse about yourself. If that’s true, then don’t come home stoned, because I’m living with hurt and disappointment every single day! You hear me? You can’t keep walking into this house high and then have a couple of beers and just crash into bed. I can’t live like that!”

  I wanted him to stop lying and tell the truth. The lying was worse than the drugs. Honesty between us was so important to me, particularly because there had been so much dishonesty in my childhood home. But because of the drugs, we had lost the truth in our relationship.

  I felt like such a fool for getting stuck in this situation, and I hated myself for it. But I still didn’t have the self-esteem, the resiliency, or the belief in my ability to create a life on my own.

  Eventually, Larry’s addiction escalated to the point where I would sometimes troll the streets of Harlem looking for him outside abandoned buildings that had become shooting galleries for junkies. When I’d find him, I’d plead with him to get in the car and I’d drive him home.

  Other times, as hard as it is to admit even now, I drove Larry to Harlem to buy his dope. If I didn’t drive him, he’d take my car and end up driving stoned. I was so worried he’d kill himself or someone else. When he went without me, I had to endure what felt like endless nights of not knowing if he’d overdosed, gotten killed for a bag of dope, or died wrecking his car.

  During this time, my life was the darkest, loneliest place. I prayed every day that the nightmare would end and my world would fall back into place. But I hadn’t encountered anything in my life more powerful than heroin.

  Larry did try to get clean over and over and over. He’d manage it for short periods of time. He hated himself for what he’d become, and he begged me to help him. But my codependency was fully entrenched, because I believed him every time he’d say he’d straighten himself out. And I convinced myself that if I could just think of the right reason to make him stop, he would.

  But whenever he did stop, it wasn’t long before he started again. My life was always a shot away from falling apart.

  Even though he asked for my help, he wouldn’t listen when I dared to suggest Narcotics Anonymous or Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. He’d say, “I’m not a drug addict. Drug addicts live on the streets. They’re criminals.” To him, drugs were just something he did; they didn’t define who he was. He knew he had a problem with them, but he wouldn’t put himself in the same category as other addicts. I guess you could say he had the attitude that he was better than a junkie. Classic denial.

  Rehab wasn’t a great option in the ’80s, either. The facilities were more like psychiatric hospitals where you would detox and be released back onto the streets. Most people in those places had been forced to go there after an arrest. I’m sure there were better rehabs available if you had enough money to pay for them. We just didn’t have the funds for something like that.

  Eventually I talked him into trying a rehab, but not long after, he was using again.

  And there I was through it all, holding his secret like I’d done for my parents. I had friends, but there was no one I felt I could confide in about something so shameful. It may have been primarily Larry’s secret, but I couldn’t help but assume that I’d lose every friend I had if they knew. I was terrified of anyone finding out, and I started to understand how my mother must have felt about hiding our family business.

  Larry and I, along with his dealers and a few other drug users, were the only people who knew. Anything I felt about what I was going through was held inside me like a tornado of fear, pain, and worry. There was no opportunity to release any of these emotions, and I had no skills for dealing with them. I was on my own, so the feelings kept churning deep inside.

  Then, a couple of years into the marriage, we found out I was pregnant.
If I had been thinking straight, I would have used birth control. But I was young, and life was too chaotic to think straight. Plus, in the back of my mind, I thought a baby would finally get Larry to stop using. I wanted so much to believe that I could help us create the family we’d dreamed about. Maybe if my will is strong enough, I thought, I can make it happen.

  “Larry, I’m having this baby. I really want this baby,” I told him. “That means you’re going to have to give up the drugs. You have to straighten up now. You just have to!”

  “Okay, I know, I know. I’m going to stop,” he said. But I could feel his anxiety about becoming a father. What drug addict would feel ready for such a thing, I suppose? You have a demon you can’t control, and you know you can’t be responsible for your own life, let alone a child’s.

  Still, I thought if he really tried, he could give up heroin just like someone could quit cigarettes. Larry wanted to believe the view through my rose-colored glasses, but unlike me, he understood the full power of his demons. He just wouldn’t admit it to me—at least not yet.

  Contrary to my best hopes, Larry’s drug use got worse all through my pregnancy. He tried to play the role of a responsible husband and father-to-be, going to work all day. But then he’d get high and come home late. I waited and waited for him every night, not knowing what would walk through the door.

  “It’s got to stop, Larry. Please . . . Please, I’m begging you!” I said over and over.

  And he’d say, “Tomorrow, tomorrow. I promise I won’t get high tomorrow.” He always promised, and I know he meant it in that moment. Sometimes he’d go as many as three days without shooting up, but by the fourth day, the heroin would call him back. I was in a constant state of disillusionment, fear, and dread.

  Through it all, it was my baby who kept me going. In spite of everything, I wanted this child so much.

  It was a May morning in 1983 at 6 A.M. when I went into labor, which was lucky because Larry hadn’t left for work yet. He took me to the hospital and stayed there most of the day. We called our baby “Little Larry.”