Answer Addiction

Tag: GHXSTORIES

  • Nice to Meet You, Will You Marry Me: Life as a Newcomer in Sobriety

    Nice to Meet You, Will You Marry Me: Life as a Newcomer in Sobriety

    Relationships make us feel good. And if we haven’t done the work to grow in the areas of emotional sobriety, we will quickly find that being in a relationship has become our new fix.

    One of the trickiest things to do in recovery is practicing mindfulness and awareness after putting the dope down and learning how to stay sober. Emotional sobriety is paramount when it comes to remaining sober. I believe that if I can grow in the areas of low self-esteem, codependency, anger management, and intimate relationships, then the act of not self-medicating becomes extremely easy.

    Those four areas are very important to address and work on while getting sober.

    I use because I am obsessed with the desired effect. When I put the drug in me I feel better. So when I’m not feeling good about my image or who I am as a person, I want to medicate. When I’m acting out in a codependent way, I want to medicate. When I’m struggling with anger, I want to medicate. I don’t feel good; I want to feel good. Drugs help me feel great.

    If it weren’t for all the consequences that come along with using, I’d be high right now.

    Love Is the Drug

    Let’s talk about the fourth area: relationships.

    A wise man once told me that relationships would be the hardest thing I’ll ever do in recovery. Those words never rang truer in my life than the day I finally got into one. It takes work, it takes patience, it takes a whole lot of faith and trust. It takes looking inward and being mindful of many things: who I am as a person, my morals, my ability to listen and show empathy, and making sure I’m living honestly with integrity. It takes courage and many other things that only come by living a holistic recovery lifestyle. When I do these things, my relationship is very rewarding for myself and for my partner. Even through conflict, we come out stronger.

    So factoring in all that, imagine being someone with low self-esteem; somebody that struggles with codependency and is quick to anger. Now imagine getting into a relationship when you haven’t grown in those three areas. On top of all that you’re still figuring out how to simply stay sober. What a beautiful recipe for disaster. It would be a miracle if you didn’t use in the end.

    If I haven’t grown in those three areas, it’s safe to say that I still don’t feel good about myself. And if I don’t feel good about myself, my knee-jerk reaction is to find something to make me feel better. And if the lifestyle of a person in active addiction is codependent in nature, imagine how potentially deadly it would be to engage in an intimate relationship.

    I mean, let’s be honest. Relationships make us feel good. We feel wanted, we feel important, depending on the situation we feel attractive, the endorphins are flowing, the dopamine is at an all-time high, not to mention the sex is probably amazing! Relationships make us feel good. And if we haven’t done the work to grow in the areas of emotional sobriety, we will quickly find that being in a relationship has become our new fix.

    It’s intoxicating and obsessive. The desired effect is immediate. Almost sounds like using drugs. Now the term “drunk in love” isn’t such a stretch, is it?

    And that’s why it’s recommended to stay out of a relationship your first year in sobriety. It’s not because sex is bad or being in love is wrong. It’s because relationships make you feel good too soon, too often. I need to give myself an opportunity to recover in all areas of my life before I can think about anyone else.

    Essentially, I have replaced the drug with a person, most likely another person in recovery because those bonds are deep. And now there are two lives at stake. It’s dangerous.

    I’m not trying to scare anyone away from pursuing a relationship, I’m simply saying to be mindful and aware. Assess where you’re at in your personal recovery before you start messing with someone else. Especially if they are in recovery as well.

    That reminds me of a story.

    Falling in Love at a 12-Step Meeting

    I remember one of my first 12-step meetings. I was at an all-time low. I had just gotten out of jail, I looked like shit, my car had gotten repossessed, I was jobless, on probation, and coming off of painkillers, my real true love. When I got to the meeting there was a woman standing by the door greeting everyone. She made eye contact with me, smiled, gave me a hug and told me her name. She opened the door and pointed towards the coffee. I’d finally found her! The one I had been waiting for my whole life! I was in love!

    I sat through that whole meeting obsessing over her. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. When it was her turn to share, I thought I heard the voice of an angel. I imagined what it would be like to date her. I imagined the highs and the lows of being in a relationship with her. I thought about our wedding and how many kids we would have. I thought about the breakup and the make-up sex. I thought about her cheating on me and imagined what it would be like to win her heart back. I saw us growing old and dying together. The perfect couple, in love until the very end. I pictured all that in 60 minutes. The entire time I was at that meeting, that’s all I thought about.

    I didn’t hear about recovery that evening. I didn’t hear a solution to my drug problem. I just sat there and crazily obsessed over this woman. She was the one. Perfect for me.

    I never saw her again after that. I couldn’t even tell you her name.

    My first few months in early sobriety, that’s kinda how it went. I would show up at a meeting, meet a woman, live an entire life with her in my head for 60 minutes, and go home. I did that dozens of times with dozens of women. I know none of their names and they have no idea who the hell I am.

    It was a miracle I never engaged or acted on the thoughts going through my sick unrecovered head. I can’t imagine the damage I would’ve caused in those meetings.

    I’m blessed to have had sponsors who told me to leave the women alone; to give them a chance to recover too.

    They told me two dead batteries can’t start a car.

    I’m grateful for the men in my life who instilled good values in me during early sobriety. I haven’t lived a perfect life in recovery but I have been super mindful and aware of the fact that I don’t want to hurt anyone.

    If I’m still creating chaos and causing as much damage in recovery that I used to cause while in active addiction, what’s the fucking point in staying sober? I might as well use if I’m going to be a sober scumbag.

    How I Got Healthy Enough for an Intimate Relationship

    Today I focus on myself, who I am as a person. I work on my self-esteem every day. Some days are better than others. I combat codependency whenever it rears its ugly head. I address the areas in my life where I may struggle with anger and find ways to work through them. I’m a better man for it.

    And because of that, I have the ability to practice being in a healthy relationship. Because I’ve gained so many tools while on this recovery journey and I’ve found all are indispensable, interchangeable, and useful within my intimate relationship.

    It’s been a long time since I’ve walked into a meeting and asked a woman to marry me in my head.

    My hope for you if you’ve read up to this point, is that you find a place in your life where you have fallen in love with yourself; knowing all the good and all the bad that makes up who you are. I think when we can become our own best friend without all the false pride is when we finally become an awesome partner for someone else. I hope that happens for you (if that’s what you’re looking for).

    If nobody told you today that they love you, fuck it, there’s always tomorrow.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Winter Is Coming

    Winter Is Coming

    Then I heard it. I’ll never forget it. The worst sound I’ve ever heard in my life. My mom began to wail. No words, just tones of sadness and helplessness.

    I used to wonder why a lot of people seek treatment around the winter time. And it’s weird because for people in recovery, the winter is usually the time they go back out. The drop in temperature does something crazy to an addict like me. I used to love getting high in the winter. Today it reminds me of the first time I came out as an addict.

    November 2013. That’s when I told my family I was shooting up Dilaudid and smoking crack, and that I couldn’t stop. The walls had finally caved in. I couldn’t hold a job any longer, I was thieving just enough to keep my car legal and on the road with enough left over to support my habit. I had lost a lot of weight because the only food I was taking in was whatever I was stealing out of the 7-Eleven before or after getting right. My diet consisted of string cheese, blueberry Red Bull, and the cigarettes I scooped out of their ashtrays. I had a routine of hitting them either late at night or first thing in the morning. I needed the ash for the cans I was using to smoke crack. I had two cups filled with cigarette ash in my car at all times. It smelled like shit. I was too scared to keep a crack pipe on me or the chore boy to go along with it, so I kept soda cans and ash on deck, ready to go whenever I scored.

    If you knew me growing up, you’d remember me as a generally happy kid. Aside from the slight anger issues and ADHD, I was usually smiling and filled with joy. The criminal lifestyle I adopted while blooming into a career dope-fiend slowly took that away from me. My eyes were no longer clear, and my voice always sounded like I just woke up; there simply was no life to me. I was a shell of a man. My default look resembled a man who was just informed that he had three days to live. Hopeless, defeated, weak and suicidal.

    Over time, I forgot how to keep up with my hygiene. Drugs had a funny way of making me neglect my self-care. There’s no way in hell I’m paying for a $12 haircut, that’s damn near half a pill. I was starting to lose my mind. The crimes I was committing and situations I had been getting myself into were affecting me. Sleep was out of the question. Whether it was from the crack or the insomnia, I’m not sure. Probably a combination of both.

    I am a firm believer and supporter of men and women in recovery who now suffer from PTSD because I know firsthand the horrors that go along with being a really good junkie; the shit we do, the things we see, the things we endure or narrowly escape. It’s hard to come back from that after doing it for so long to survive. I totally understand how when we finally get sober it’s a struggle to let go of certain character defects. Those defects were critical survival skills. 

    I told my brother first. That November, right before winter, I remember losing my job because my boss caught me on camera taking out his MacBook Pro along with some power tools we kept in our warehouse. He told me he wasn’t going to press charges but I knew they were coming. You can smell the police sometimes. I had run out of ideas and was in so much pain emotionally. I was dopesick and needed a fix, with no one to call and nothing to steal. My bright idea was to confess to my brother that I had been using for however many years, explain to him what withdrawing is, and proceed to ask him to buy me drugs. How low can I go? Let me tell you.

    I called him and told him the deal and he was in my driveway in 20 minutes. I explained to him that I wanted to tell Mom but first I had to get right. He was devastated. He loved me. He knew something was up this whole time but couldn’t believe just how bad it was. There were tears rolling down both of our faces. He told me he’ll do whatever he can to help but then we go straight to Mom. At this point I didn’t care, I was minutes away from my next fix.

    The fucked-up thing about this whole situation is that my brother is the complete opposite of me. He is the purest man I know. He shits integrity and pisses excellence on a daily fucking basis. I remember watching him cry the first time he got drunk. It was his 21st birthday and he believed he was letting so many people down. Fast forward to a cold night in November. Now I got him hitting an ATM and taking him to one of the most notorious drug dealers on our side of town.

    I got my pills, I got right, and I lay down. I wasn’t man enough to tell my mom after we got home so I hid under the covers like the bitch I was. My brother came in and asked me when I was going to tell her. I didn’t care anymore because I had a pill waiting for me hidden in the closet, along with a 40 piece of crack I fronted from the dopeman when I was getting the pills. It’s weird, I got what I wanted and I instantly forgot about all the pain and turmoil I’ve been through, like I’m ready to continue this shit show of a drug binge.

    I conceded and told him to tell Mom himself. I threw the covers back over my head and curled into a fetal position. I could hear them whispering in the living room. I couldn’t make out any words but just the tones they were using sounded sad and concerned. Like sitting in the waiting room of a hospital and overhearing doctors talk about something serious, knowing the prognosis is death. This was serious.

    Then I heard it. I’ll never forget it. The worst sound I’ve ever heard in my life. My mom began to wail. No words, just tones of sadness and helplessness. The kind you hear at a funeral when a wife is mourning over her dead husband and finally breaks down as she reaches the casket to glance at the lifeless love of her life. My mom sounded like she just received news that her first born child was murdered. At least that’s how I felt. I instantly began to cry. What the fuck am I doing to my family right now?! I am such a piece of shit. I just want to die. I also want to take a huge hit of that rock right about now too.

    I heard footsteps coming to the door. I knew it was my mom and I didn’t know what to expect. I know how my mom walks. I know what it sounds like to hear her roam around her house. I know it well because usually it’s 3 or 4 in the morning and my ear is under the door listening for her night in and night out while I get high in my room. The fervency in her footsteps caught me off guard. I never heard her walk this way before. I began to tremble. She comes into the room and sits right on my bed, wraps her arms around me and pulls me close to her. With fear in her voice, she says, “I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care how we do it, but I will do whatever it takes, Eli. We will beat this! I will not lose you like I lost your father. We will do this together and figure this out. I love you.” Tears fall as I type this out for you right now, but the tears I shed that night hurt worse than any pain I have ever felt.

    Neither of us could have predicted what was to transpire over the next few years. Her words of “doing this together,” although noble and very motherly, amount to nothing if I do nothing for my recovery. This journey was mine to take and mine alone. My mom can’t get me sober. Her prayers can’t get me sober. Neither can my brother’s. Recovery is up to me.

    Now don’t get me wrong, I have been blessed. My family are not spectators in my recovery, they support me in their own way. At times they have had to give me the “hard no” and love me from a distance. But I have always felt their touch. I’m one of the lucky ones. It’s not like that for a lot of my junkie friends, especially the ones that have undergone a geographical change to seek treatment. I know firsthand the lengths my family members have gone to understand me and encourage me along the way and for that, I will forever love them.

    That was the beginning of my journey. I didn’t attempt to get sober until a few months later but I will never forget that night.

    The dialog was started. The truth came out. The jig was up. The smell of police was in the air and Christmas was right around the corner. Santa would bring a lot of heartbreak that year and for a few more years after that. But the truth came out. The yarn would finally begin to unravel and I would begin the most important fight of my life.

    The fight for my life.

    Today I’m sober. Today in this moment I am alive, I am happy, I am free… Life isn’t perfect, but I am in love with living and I have a purpose.

    My name is Eli and I am an addict. Until the day I spoke those words aloud, I was a dead man walking. One day at a time, I do the things necessary to stay alive one more day. 

    If nobody told you today that they love you, fuck it, there’s always tomorrow.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • A Christmas Gift from the Dopeman

    A Christmas Gift from the Dopeman

    You know what sucks about being an addict? A ten mile walk in the freezing cold to get pills on Christmas morning because you have no other options.

    You know what sucks about telling your family you’re an addict right before the holidays? Everything.

    I come from a very large Puerto Rican family. So usually for the holidays, we pick a house and see how many people we can cram into it while we stuff our faces with some of the best cuisine known to man. There’s music of course, and lots of love and laughter.

    A few weeks before our annual Christmas party, I told my family I had been using drugs for a few years. My mom’s house was the lucky one picked to host the festivities that year and I was going to do my best to be a good little junkie and try not to ruin it like I had just ruined the last 10 years of my godforsaken life.

    In the days leading up to the party, I had successfully weaned off the crack and was only shooting up opioids. I didn’t want to be too fucked up once family started to arrive.

    You know what doesn’t suck about Christmas parties? All the purses, wallets, and car keys all over the house. I had only confessed to my mom and my brother about my substance abuse and I don’t think my mom had told anyone. I hadn’t yet graduated to fucking over every family member so the forecast to get over on a few aunts and cousins was looking really bright.

    But I had to be on my best behavior, so I put that thought out of my mind. Just for tonight, I will not steal from my family. I shot up the rest of my pills earlier that day and decided I would just drink all the holiday beverages my family would take part in. I can do that, right? A little controlled drinking? Sure I can.

    Keeping Up Appearances

    You know what’s worse than drinking with family members who know you’re a junkie? Not being able to drink the way you want to, like a drunk. It’s a special kind of hell. Even before they knew, get-togethers and dinners sucked. They could all have a sip here and there, maybe get a little buzzed. But me, I just want to finish everyone’s glasses. Can’t they see the alcohol stuck on that ice cube?

    Amateurs.

    I just want to feel good. I want to feel normal. Everyone is smiling and having a good time. I’m over here nursing this Bud Light about to freak the hell out. It’s amazing the torture we put ourselves through while trying to keep up with appearances. I’m talking way before we hit the fuck-it button and stop giving a damn about what they think. I was still trying to save face but oh god, the pain. The withdrawals from the opioids are sneaking up and my thought is: if I’m not going to get right the way I want, I can at least get shit-faced off of this free liquor being sipped on by my family.

    Fuck. There are too many people here and my brother is watching every move I make. I know he’s concerned. I can see my mom texting my brother to check up on me and it’s pissing me off. I go out front to have a smoke and bring two beers with me. I can kill these quickly and ditch the bottles before anyone comes to join me. That way they don’t ask me if I’ve had too many.

    This party sucks. I want to get high.

    I text the closest dealer to me, a guy who lives about four miles away. I ask him if he’s got any pills on him. It’s about 9:30 p.m. when I get a text back. He tells me he’s good and that this pill is on the house because it’s Christmas Eve. 

    How nice, my dealer is giving me a free pill for Christmas. What a guy! The only problem is, he’s not delivering. It’s Christmas Eve and he’s spending it with his family. What a devoted baby daddy.

    Now I gotta figure out a way to get to him. My car was repossessed when I was in jail back in November and I’m sure as hell not asking a family member to go on a drug run with me.

    It’s 9:45 and 50 degrees out, that’s not too bad. What a beautiful night to take a stroll. I mean, the temperature is dropping quickly but fuck it, let’s just walk out of this party with everybody you know and go for a quick little four-mile stroll. Who’s gonna notice?

    Scoring Dope on Christmas Eve

    I grab my hoodie and hit the block.

    I scroll to a playlist filled with the most gangster, hood, female-degrading, drug-referencing music I can find. It’s funny how music can move an individual. It’s interesting to track the music we listen to when we get sober and how it changes when we morally begin to transform. Music is powerful. I’m a firm believer of the saying “garbage in, garbage out” and sometimes when someone shares their music with me in recovery, it reminds me of using or brings me to a mindset of just wanting to do hoodrat shit. It’s not healthy.

    And what the fuck is up with everyone in early sobriety listening to Kevin Gates and these other mumble rappers?! But I digress.

    I find the playlist I want to walk to and get to steppin’. I make it about two miles down the road before I start trying to flag down cars. The clock is ticking and I’m afraid my dealer is going to be asleep by the time I get there.

    Have you ever tried to wake up a drug dealer in the middle of the night to score? It’s not a pleasant experience.

    It’s getting really cold out. I should’ve worn pants. Dumbass.

    Hey! I see a car slowing down. A half hour of waving my thumb out is finally paying off. I’m going to get a ride to my dealer’s house!

    As the car gets closer, I realize it’s my brother. Fuck. He pulls up next to me and very wearily and with a tone of disappointment asks: “What are you doing, man?” I tell him I needed some fresh air and I was just going for a quick stroll. I know he doesn’t buy my response but he tells me to get in. We drive back home.

    Damn. Two more miles, that was it. Just two more miles and I would’ve had my drugs.

    I am pissed.

    We get back to the house and the party has died down. Most of the family has left, the food has been put away, and the music has been turned down. I call my dealer to see if he’s still up. He tells me he’s about to go to bed but that he’ll leave the pill underneath the only green coffee cup in his cupboard. He tells me to call his baby momma when I get there and she’ll let me in. I tell him that I’ll probably be on foot so it’ll be an hour or two. It’s not a problem.

    Okay, so all I have to do is wait for my brother to leave, which shouldn’t be long. My mom is already in the shower, that means she’ll be in bed in fifteen minutes. Alright, I got this.

    Tomorrow we have to be up early to drive to my aunt’s house for breakfast and exchanging gifts with the rest of the family. It’s tradition. No worries. As long as I have my dope, I’m good.

    A half hour goes by and it’s time to hit the block again. My mom is sleeping and my brother is gone.

    I’m walking again and it’s cold. My dumbass didn’t think to throw pants on because I was too concerned about leaving as soon as I could.

    The whole time I’m walking to his house, I’m thinking about how utterly powerless I am. It’s Christmas fucking Eve and I’m walking a total of now six miles to acquire one fucking Dilaudid. One. I am a hopeless piece of shit that cannot go a few hours without a fix.

    It’s two in the morning when I get to his house and she’s not answering. I call her ten more times, still no answer. I start to blow his phone up, nothing.

    I’ll be damned. I am not leaving this house until I get my drugs. It’s Christmas, damn it.

    I start knocking on the front door which is a big no-no with this guy but I really need this pill. No answer. I walk to the end of his driveway and light a cigarette. I’ll smoke the whole thing, and try calling again. If no one picks up, I’ll try knocking one more time and if that doesn’t work, I’ll just call my mom and make up some sob story for her to come pick me up. No big deal, right?

    I take two long drags from the cigarette, throw it out, turn around, and begin banging on the door.

    A Gun to the Head

    His half-asleep girlfriend opens the door and points a gun to my head. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

    Without flinching I tell her my name, tell her about the arrangement with her man and walk right past her and the pistol and straight into the kitchen. I open up the cupboard and look for the green coffee cup. Found it! I lift it up and can’t believe my eyes.

    Either my dealer is super generous or he royally fucked up. There’s a bag with nine pills in it. I grab the bag and walk out the door. I turn around and tell his girlfriend that I’ll be by in the morning with the money.

    I’m sure he’s gonna freak the hell out when she wakes him up and tells him I was in his house at two in the morning and took the whole bag. He knows where I live and he has a bad temper. I used to ride around with him to help “collect” his debts and needless to say, you don’t want to be in debt to this guy.

    I begin to run as fast as I can. If I can at least get off his street, I know I’m good. It’s too late for him to do anything this early in the morning.

    Six miles, 40 degree weather, two in the morning on Christmas Day, and now I have to walk four more miles to get back to the house and get right.

    You know what sucks about being an addict? A ten mile walk in the freezing cold to get pills on Christmas morning because you have no other options.

    When I finally got home, I couldn’t feel my face and my legs literally felt like Jello. My mom was awake and freaking out because she didn’t know where I was. I told her I was just walking around the neighborhood smoking and that it wasn’t a big deal.

    I couldn’t even enjoy shooting up the pill because my body was so sore. I just fell asleep.

    But at least I had more dope when I woke up to take part in all the Christmas festivities the next day. I felt like such a loser being with my family that Christmas. I spent the whole day in and out of the bathroom, getting right every 45 minutes.

    A New Tradition

    I love being able to look back on that Christmas and know that I don’t have to live like that anymore. The best gift I can give my family today is to show up this year to their party completely present and sober. It’s what I did last year, it’s what I plan on doing this year. No one is hiding their purse or wondering where I am going when I step out to smoke. I’m just a son and a brother enjoying his family. I look forward to Christmas parties now. Dread and anxiety has turned into excitement and joy and gratitude.

    If nobody told you today that they love you, fuck it, there’s always tomorrow.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • King of the Bums

    King of the Bums

    If you’re an addict like I am, then maybe you have these issues with self-esteem, fear, an enormous desire to be liked, an ego the size of Texas and hatred of anyone or anything you feel inferior to.

    I didn’t stroll into recovery willingly. The first time I ever got sober was definitely not by choice. It was a requirement lovingly handed down to me by the wonderful Florida Department of Corrections. They told me to get sober, piss clean once a week, and attend meetings or go to prison. I never wanted to stop using the first time. I just didn’t want to end up in jail. Sure, I had managed to destroy my life and ruin any meaningful relationship I ever had, but that wasn’t enough motivation to stop me from getting high. The fear of going up-the-road terrified me. The fear of walking into a state penitentiary and walking out a gang member with a face tattoo scared the living hell out of me.

    Growing up, everyone always told me that I was a chameleon. I have the ability to effortlessly blend into any situation no matter the surroundings; it’s in the way I walk, the way I talk, reading someone’s body language and matching it with my own little nuances to make them feel comfortable, picking up on choice words in an individual’s vocabulary and using it myself. Whatever the scene is, I have the script. Needless to say, improvising comes easy for me. It’s no wonder that I became a musician and started performing regularly. The stage and the spotlight are my warm blanket.

    The ability to improvise on the fly and blend in with any situation comes very handy when someone is trying to get high. When it comes to interacting with shady people on the streets and within your local dope-hole, the art of blending in and belonging is vital, not to mention the gift of gab. You got to get in, get it for the right price, and get out.

    The problem is that this particular skill set can become a huge detriment when getting sober. The ability to acclimate to any surrounding can kill you if you’re in a setting that demands complete transparency. If you’re living in a halfway house with about a dozen different personalities, being able to get along is a big deal. Convincing the house manager that you’re making the right choices and not getting high is important. You need to be trusted, you need to blend in, and most important, you need to stay off everyone’s radar. You don’t need a random piss test to ruin the party now do you?

    So here’s where the even bigger problem lies. If you’re an addict/alcoholic like I am, then maybe you have these deep core issues with self-esteem, personal acceptance, a huge amount of fear, thoughts of loneliness, an enormous desire to be liked, an ego the size of Texas and hatred towards anyone or anything you feel inferior to. I’ve heard it put this way and I’m sure you have too: We’re ego-maniacs with an inferiority complex.

    Sounds like we have a little boy/girl deep within us that needs to grow up, doesn’t it? And when we stop putting mood- or mind-altering substances into our body, we’re put on a collision course with that inner child. This child is trapped inside of a full-grown adult trying to figure out how to stay sober because, let’s face it, arrested development is a real thing. The moment we started self-medicating was the moment we stopped growing up.

    When I got to my first residential inpatient treatment center, I was placed smack-dab in the middle of this enormous community of junkies. Some trying to get sober, others trying to avoid jail-time, and others there simply because they had no place to call home. The little boy inside me was terrified. Will I fit in? Is anyone going to like me? Will I be able to stay and graduate in six months?

    Immediately I did what I’ve been doing my whole life: I blended in. I got with the “winners” because that’s what was recommended and I started acting like them. I got into recovery because they were all about recovery. I was familiar with the recovery-lingo already so that wasn’t an issue. I attended groups, I went to meetings, and wouldn’t you know it, I started walking like them and talking just like them. I kept my secrets to myself, I did everything in my power to impress the powers-that-be and I made sure that everyone knew how talented I was. Luckily for me, they had a band there. And guess what? They needed a piano player. This is going to work out just fine. I’ll just join the band, avoid getting into trouble and skate my way to graduation.

    I’ve heard people say in recovery that sometimes you’ve got to fake it until you make it. They say that with the hopes that somewhere along the way, all that faking slowly turns in a real desire to be different. But if you’re used to lying all the time and wearing masks just to be accepted, if you’re used to being that chameleon and reading from a script, all that faking never really turns into anything legit and fruitful for your recovery. You kind of just set yourself up for failure. And that’s exactly what I did.

    I graduated the program, but I enjoyed my time there so much that I decided to stay for another six months. I did that until the treatment center hired me. Can you believe that? They hired me! What a joke.

    I wasn’t ready. I didn’t do the work required to stay sober. I was just “that guy.” “Star Boy” is what my friends called me there. I remember my roommate calling me “The Chosen One.” This is bad. But I got exactly what I wanted, so why the heck am I so miserable? Maybe because I never worked on growing up. I never confronted my inner child and dealt with the real core issues of my addiction. Getting sober is easy. Sobriety in general is simple. It’s the emotional sobriety and uncovering the layers of who I am and learning to love myself that’s paramount. I robbed myself of that journey. I took myself out of the game by choosing to be the coolest guy in rehab.

    Here’s the thing about this treatment center. This isn’t the one you find nestled on the beach with your peer-led-groups, full-body massages, custom fruit smoothies, etc. This is the rehab you go to when you’ve exhausted all other resources. The one you end up in when you can no longer afford the nice treatment centers you see advertised on this site. This is the last house on the left; the one that doesn’t cost a dime. The homeless rehab in the same neighborhood you’ve been getting high in.

    Congratulations, you’re the coolest kid in homeless rehab. Everyone bow down to the king of the bums. You made it.

    It’s no surprise that the day I moved out of the place is the day I got high. I didn’t see it coming… but I saw it coming. You know what I mean.

    It wasn’t long before I found myself knocking on the doors of the same facility to let me back in. I had nowhere else to go and heroin yet again had beaten me to a pulp. I remember getting out of detox and walking up the sidewalk. This guy that works there stopped me while I was walking in and asked me what I was going to do different. It was a rhetorical question because he didn’t wait for my answer. What came next was the single most important piece of advice I ever received. He didn’t say anything I hadn’t heard before but it was the first time I truly heard it and received it. I had beaten myself emotionally with this last relapse so badly that I truly believe my ears finally opened up. I was ready to listen and do something different.

    He told me to forget about who I was. Forget about everything I think I know because I know nothing. All I know how to do is get high. He told me that I don’t know how to get sober. He told me to shut the hell up and listen. He said I had to do this for me and nobody else. He told me that I’m not here to impress anyone or make friends. He reminded me that I suffer from a disease that wants me dead. He told me that I didn’t come to an indigent rehab to play music; I came there to get sober.

    I love him for that. I aspire to be like him one day. I admire him. His tongue is sharp and his recovery is sharper. His words haunt me every day. They keep me in check while I learn how to deal with the little boy deep within my soul.

    Slowly but surely, the masks are coming off. This uncomfortable yet beautiful journey of self-discovery is full of rewards. Today I choose to stay sober and enjoy them as they come my way; never throwing in the towel on the days I don’t hit the mark.

    If nobody told you today that they love you, fuck it, there’s always tomorrow.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • God Hates Pikachu and He Also Killed My Daddy

    God Hates Pikachu and He Also Killed My Daddy

    My higher power doesn’t want me sticking a needle in my arm. For me today, it’s as simple as that.

    I didn’t want to unpack this story so soon. My aim was to share my experience with getting and staying sober in a dry and witty way, do that for a while with you, maybe unpack the heavy stuff after we got to know each other a little more, and then go for the gusto. I didn’t want to bring up a subject that might rub you the wrong way but I recently finished a writing exercise that really got me thinking about my dad. He’s dead.

    My father died when I was two years old. He was a heroin user who shared needles. Nobody was talking about harm reduction in the late 80’s nor were they concerned about the consequences of IV drug use. After he got sober, he found out that he had contracted HIV. It wasn’t long after that diagnosis that he lost his battle to AIDS.

    I believe growing up without a father had an effect on the man I am today; but this isn’t a story about my dad. This isn’t a story about harm reduction or AIDS awareness. This is a story about God.

    Wait! Stay with me, please. Don’t go.

    I promise you this isn’t that kind of story. I’ve done right by you with the last two articles. I plan on doing the same with this one. I know the God word bothers some people. It bothers me sometimes. It’s okay, just keep scrolling. We’ll do this one together. Besides, you have to at least get to the part about Pikachu. I’m sure you’re wondering what the heck he’s got to do with all this. Stick around, I’ll tell you.

    I grew up in an extremely charismatic religious household; the crazy dogmatic type. Let me tell you how crazy: Did you know that if you listen to any music that isn’t religious, demons will literally fly out of your headphones like a vapor of smoke and possess you? It’s true. My aunt told me that when I was only eight years old. Also, if you watch any movie that isn’t rated G or about the crucifixion of Christ, you run the chance of committing your soul into the fiery pits of hell. Here’s a good one: My younger brother and I were not allowed to watch Pokemon because our grandmother told us that those cute little Japanese cartoons were actually demons and it was Satan’s master plan to trick unassuming kids into falling in love with his minions.

    Here’s a few more examples:

    1. Don’t drink beer. You’re ingesting the semen of the devil.
    2. True love waits. So if you have sex before marriage, you’re going to burn in hell.
    3. Never smoke cigarettes, you’ll accidentally inhale a demon.
    4. Don’t use profanity unless you want God to give your tongue cancer.
    5. Hey boys, do you like your hands? Well, don’t play with your penis, that’s how you lose them.

    Here’s my absolute favorite. When I was kid, my mom brought my younger brother and me to this old-time-holy-ghost Pentecostal church in the hood. The younger children had to go to Sunday school with some 16-year-old babysitter while the adults went to “big church” in the main auditorium. While we were waiting for our mom to pick us up, our babysitter kindly told me that God killed my dad because he was a junkie.

    Yup, that’s right. This ignorant girl basically told me that God “gave” my dad AIDS because he was in love with heroin. And it was God’s perfect judgment to execute my powerless addict of a father. Cool, right? I’m going to grow up to be a perfectly normal man, unscathed by any of this tomfoolery.

    When you grow up in an overbearing legalistic household and finally start doing some of the things that they told you not to and nothing bad happens, you end up slamming your foot on the gas, speeding straight into the freedom to do everything you’re not supposed to. The things you didn’t do growing up because you believed they would kill you turn into myths created to control you.

    This isn’t going to end well for an addict like me. Once I started thinking for myself and realized that my dick wouldn’t fall off if I watch porn, I started watching all the porn. When I realized that I wasn’t possessed after smoking a cigarette, I started smoking all the cigarettes. Add sex to the mix, sprinkle a little drugs on top, and my newfound freedom as a junkie sinner is complete.

    Let’s fast-forward a few years because I don’t want to get into other stories that deserve their own headline. Let’s land where I’m walking down the steps of the courthouse with a piece of paper that mandates that I start attending 12-step meetings. Meetings that I must go to or I’m going back to jail and possibly prison.

    Imagine my delight, sitting in my first meeting while they’re doing the readings. I hear the 3rd step read aloud for the first time and everything within my gut cringes. I die on the inside. I’m powerless over drugs and alcohol. I can’t stop. I need to stop. And now I’m being told that the only way to do this is with God. I’m in big trouble. 

    I have a confession to make. Remember when I told you that this story was about God? It isn’t. I mean it is and it can be for you, too, but it really isn’t. It’s about a higher power; something greater than you. It’s crucial that you hear what I’m about to say.

    If you’re a 12-stepper who’s all gung-ho about the 3rd step, that’s cool. If you’re not a 12-stepper who’s grasped the God concept, that’s cool too.

    What I want to be explicitly clear about is just one thing. It’s my experience, being an addict in recovery— whether it’s the 12-step route or not—that at some point I have to accept the fact that I need saving. And it’s not going to be me that’s going to do the saving. It’s got to be something greater than me. What I’m good at is getting high. Getting sober is easy. Staying sober isn’t. That’s where the saving comes in for me.

    In the beginning. G-O-D meant a lot of things.

    • Group of Druggies
    • Group of Drunks
    • Grow or Die
    • Guaranteed Overnight Delivery (kidding)
    • Good Orderly Direction

    A wise man once told me, “I don’t know what God’s will is for my life… but I know what it isn’t.” I know that my higher power doesn’t want me stealing in sobriety. I know I shouldn’t be smoking crack. I know that now that I’m attempting to live a new way, maybe I should concern myself with my physical health since I neglected it for so long. My higher power doesn’t want me sticking a needle in my arm. For me today, it’s as simple as that.

    For people who don’t subscribe to an acronym but actually believe in a God, it can be slippery if it’s not kept simple. It’s common for people to get sober and say, “Okay, what do I do know? What is my life’s purpose and what is God’s will for me?” If they do that, they end up stressing themselves out and thinking themselves out of the game, thinking that they have to understand the meaning of life at 12 months sober; or that they should have a roadmap for their life drawn out, down to every little specific detail.

    It’s not that serious. Instead of concerning yourself with some huge existential question mark, keep it simple. Get off the bench, get back on the field and play. Before you know it, you’ll find yourself sober years later with a beautiful life filled with purpose and meaning. I can promise you that only because I’ve seen it happen for many of my junkie friends around me.

    My higher power doesn’t hate Pikachu. That’s just silly. If you believe in God, that’s cool. If you don’t, that’s cool too. Just find something greater than you when the days get dark in your life. Hey! Maybe it’s this story. Who knows.

    If nobody told you that they love you today: I do. I love you.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • A Dopeman's Grocery List

    A Dopeman's Grocery List

    The reality and gravity of the entire situation was this: if I don’t steal this shit, I’m not getting high. If I’m not getting high, I’m dying. That’s how bad I was strung out on opioids; that’s how much of a slave I was to the drugs.

    The following story is based on actual events. In an effort to protect anonymity as well as keep people out of potential legal trouble; names, places and identifying characteristics have been modified. I hope you enjoy these stories. Whatever you do. DO NOT try this at home.

    What happens when you run out of money and need a fix bad?

    What happens when you just don’t have it in you to stick someone up on that particular day?

    What happens when you run out of shit to pawn?

    What happens when there’s nothing left to post on OfferUp, LetGo and Craigslist?

    You can always go grocery shopping for your drug dealer like I did. I mean, I didn’t have any money at the time and I already traded my food stamps for dope that month but I knew there were a few items that “D” needed me to pick up from one of those big-box-retail-stores. If I could get the items he needed, he would trade me 50% of whatever it cost in cash or trade me 75% of what it cost in dope. This was a no brainer. Get the grocery list, steal the items, get the dope and get high.

    I’ve always been a fan of “heist” movies. Mission Impossible, Ocean’s Eleven and Catch Me If You Can come to mind when I think about the excitement I felt when the “bad guys” got away with whatever it was that they were taking. Sometimes rooting for the bad guy feels good. Every time I received one of these lists via text message from D, I felt like Ethan Hunt accepting some kind of grand mission that was of the utmost importance. The reality and gravity of the entire situation was this: if I don’t steal this shit, I’m not getting high. If I’m not getting high, I’m dying. That’s how bad I was strung out on opioids; that’s how much of a slave I was to the drugs. When opioids told me to jump, my response was always: how high?

    It’s been four and a half hours since I last shot up. My stomach is beginning to turn like that sensation you get when a roller coaster takes its first plunge, except it felt like it was my life that was diving into utter oblivion. My palms have begun to get clammy. I got the cold-sweats and it’s pissing me off. It’s 73 degrees in my room but I’m soaking wet like “Dollar Debbie” taking a stroll down MLK in the middle of August. Life sucks and I need to get “one” in me… like yesterday.

    BEEP! BEEP! A text comes in. God I hope it’s D. I unlock my phone and see the good news I’ve been waiting for:

    1 bottle of Pine-Sol
    2 boxes of Huggies
    Peanut Butter and Jelly – not that shit with the peanuts in it
    1 Mop
    1 Case of Ramen Noodles
    5-10 assorted girl’s tees
    1 pair of white sneakers, size 6 – I don’t care what the brand is

    Oh, I also need a new Bluetooth speaker, some crackhead stole mine last night. See if you can get one of those dope ass Dyson vacuums too.

    And hurry the fuck up, I’m trying to go to the casino. You got one hour!

    Finally! I got the grocery list! Now I have to find a ride. That means I have to cut somebody in on the payoff, which means fewer drugs for me. Fuck it, I’m hurting bad. At this point, I’m not going to argue over whose half of a dilaudid is bigger. It doesn’t matter anymore.

    I scroll through my contacts and find the guy I’m looking for. I just hope he’s awake. It’s three in the afternoon, a little early for Tony. He usually gets up around four or five because he’s been up all morning trying to come down from the “shards” he shot up the night before. I know an offer to score some dope to come down off the shit will lure him into my latest scheme.

    “But what color vacuum does he want?” Tony asked, dazed.

    “Does it fucking matter?!” I yelled back. Tony had a way of asking questions that didn’t matter. He was slow, he was sloppy, and he smelled like a piece of toasted Chore Boy. It’s mind boggling to me that this guy was ever successful at pickpocketing when he lived in New York. He had been down here in Florida for only six years and had already visited the local jail well over 12 times. Thing is, he always stayed high, had a car, and was just as sick as I was.

    “I’ll be there in five minutes.” he murmured. “Meet me two streets over by the bando,” he instructed before hanging up.

    Twenty-five minutes later, Tony pulls up in a hurry, looking annoyed like I’m the asshole who’s twenty minutes late. I’m livid. He always does that; he’s worse than a drug dealer and I hate waiting. I need a fix bad. My nose is beginning to run and I’m getting these random sensations in my stomach. Feels like someone is taking a blade and stabbing me erratically. My body is telling me that I’m supposed to eat but the appetite isn’t there. The worst symptom I get when withdrawing is when I smoke a cigarette: I gag every time I hit it and they don’t taste the way they normally do. It doesn’t help that the cigarettes I’m smoking are the ones I’ve collected from all the public ashtrays around town. They already taste bad. This life sucks. I need a pill, now.

    “Here’s the plan,” I say to Tony as I get in the passenger seat. “We have a half hour to grab the shit and meet D at his place before he leaves for the casino.” Tony is already driving to the store. Like me, he knows which one to go to at any particular time of day. We know when loss prevention does their shift change, we know which side of the store the greeters are on, we know which store we hit last time and that dictates which store we hit next.

    “Five minutes or less!” I say assertively. “If it takes longer than that, we’re going to the other store.” I know that if I have to come up with a story to buy more time with D, it shouldn’t be a problem.

    “Flip a coin to see who’s building the cart this time?” Tony asks.

    “Run it,” I reply.

    “Heads!” He yells as I flip the coin. “Yes!” He screams. He gets to build the cart. I’m getting excited. As we near the store, the symptoms of my withdrawal seem to lessen. I’m getting turned on over the idea of committing a crime. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Not only am I addicted to drugs, I’m in love with the crazy and dangerous lifestyle that comes along with it.

    Let me break down the lick for you.

    This is a two man job. Park near the front and keep the car running. Pop the trunk but leave it down so it looks shut. Leave all the doors unlocked. First man goes inside alone to “build the cart.” Building the cart is the easy part, that’s why we flipped a coin for it. You basically go in the store, acquire the items on the list, and place them inside a shopping cart. This must be done in five minutes or less. The other man, the one in the car, is on the phone with you, the cart builder, talking in your ear while he looks through the store window, informing you on what the employees are doing. Are they watching you? Is there an undercover loss prevention guy following you? These are things that must be known.

    General rule of thumb when building a cart: look like you belong there. Just go shopping. Smile; say hi to an employee; maybe ask them where you can find a particular item. You’re the customer, act like one.

    Tony gets everything on the list in less than five minutes. His slow ass must really need a pill as bad as I do. If he’s hurting, he’s not showing it. I think he’s as excited as I am.

    Once the cart is built, head to an aisle that runs along the cash register that’s nearest to the exit. Ditch the cart. Leave it in the aisle and get the fuck out. Once you get back in the car, look your partner in the eye, wish him luck, light a cigarette, sit back and relax. Your work is almost done.

    Here’s the dicey part. It’s the driver’s turn to enter the store. I exit the whip and walk to the entrance. Tony keeps his earpiece in and puts the car in drive while he keeps his foot on the brake. I almost forgot to mention, never pull into a parking space. Back in, so when it’s time to make the getaway, you just let off the brake and get the hell out. No one is trying to get into a little fender-bender while trying to elude potential law enforcement. I mean seriously, if my ass goes to jail over a fucking bottle of Pine-Sol, I’m killing somebody.

    I’m in the store. My heart is racing! Do I look like I belong? Do I look like a junkie? I know I showered. My shirt is wrinkled but my shoe game is on point. I don’t look homeless but I feel like shit. Do the employees notice? Keep walking. Eyes forward. Listen for Tony on the phone. It’s going to be okay.

    I find the cart. My palms are sweaty as I grab it and head towards the exit. I dig into my pocket and pull out an old receipt from the gas station. This is what I’m going to use as I walk out the door with my head down. I’m going to make it look like I’m going over the items I “just purchased” as I walk out; never mind the fact that nothing is bagged up.

    “How’s my back, T?” I ask nervously.

    “I don’t see anyone behind you, bro. Just keep coming. The trunk is already open.”

    We chose the correct side. As I near the exit, I notice there aren’t any greeters, AKA receipt checkers. This is expected but I still don’t get it. There are two entrances, spaced out on either end of this store, but they keep a greeter on only one side. Idiots. I’m about to walk out; just a few more steps.

    “Excuse me, Sir!” I hear behind me. I ignore it and keep on walking.

    “Sir! Excuse me, hey sir!” I hear again. She sounds cute. I stop and begin to turn around. I got to be honest, my heart is racing and I’m extremely turned on at this point. Why does crime excite me so much?! I can hear Tony screaming and yelling expletives in my ear.

    “What’s up?” I casually ask while making eye contact with this cute employee. She can’t be older than 22 and she looks perfect, like those black pants and blue vest were custom made to wrap around her beautiful figure. I wish I wasn’t a junkie. She seems like a good girl. If I wasn’t so concerned with getting high, maybe I’d ask a woman like her out. I don’t have time for women. They get in the way of my using. Just give me a crack-whore that wants to fuck before or after we get loaded. That’s all I have time for.

    Shit. I forgot what’s happening here. My ADHD gets the best of me sometimes. I’m supposed to be walking out of a store with a shopping cart full of stolen goods.

    “Sir, are you forgetting something?” She asks. I stare blankly back at her. I don’t have a response and I kind of just want to stare at her before she calls the authorities and I have to turn around and make a break for it. The only thing I can muster up to answer her question is “I don’t know, am I forgetting something?”

    She raises a fist and begins open to up her cute little hand. I quickly picture her cute fingers with the chipped nail polish dancing all over my body. Focus!

    “Get the fuck out of there!” I hear Tony screaming in my ear.

    She opens her fist. “You dropped your lighter, Sir,” she says as she hands it back to me. Tony can hear her on his end and I hear him let out a sigh of relief.

    “Okay we’re good” I hear him say as I thank her and head out the door.

    I throw the items in the trunk and we head over to meet up with D. We’re in a hurry to get high; he’s in a hurry to get to the casino. Both parties are bitching at each other. We engage in the usual small talk that really is just a load of bullshit. D doesn’t care about me or my well-being, and I could give a shit about him and his family. I just want my dope and I want to go home. He just wants his shit and wants me to leave. We do the same shit every day. Act like we’re family. Like there’s some “street code” of honor or something. The truth is, nobody cares. Everyone is out to get theirs and theirs only.

    Tony and I head home and split the shit we scored. As soon as I get mine in me, all in the world is right again. For those brief ten seconds of numbness and euphoria, as the opioids flow into my bloodstream, I forget that I am a slave. I forget that just ten seconds ago, my body was writhing in pain. I forget that I was almost stopped inside of a store for shoplifting while on probation. I forget that if I violate, I’m going up-the-road for at least five years. I forget about that girl that broke my heart. I forget that I’m a lying piece of shit that steals from my mother every time she goes to sleep. For ten seconds, I’m free…

    And in four hours, I’m doing it all over again.

    If no one told you today that they love you, fuck it, there’s always tomorrow. 😉

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • All My Friends Are Junkies

    All My Friends Are Junkies

    Once we switched our attention away from getting high and learned how to stay sober, we quickly realized that if we put at least one percent of the same effort it took to get trashed into other areas of our lives, the results were astronomical.

    All of my friends—each and every last one of them—are junkies. I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill junkie. You know the one: steals your purse and helps you look for it. No not that kind. Not even the one that bangs four bags of boy then tells you five minutes later that they’re dopesick so you help them out by splitting your shit. Not that type of junkie. I mean yeah, they meet that criteria, but I’m talking about the other type, the been-there-done-that kind of junkie.

    All of my friends have been to hell and back. They’re the type of junkie that society labels as hopeless. But for whatever reason, they’ve found a way out of their living hell and have begun living and pursuing a life worthwhile, a life greater than anything imaginable. Any goal they set, anything they dream of, it comes to fruition and then some! It’s unbelievable, very encouraging, and, from my experience, it’s very contagious. Words like: seductive, attractive, inviting, enticing, alluring and captivating come to mind.

    They’ve entered into a lifestyle that appears to be nothing but hope to any outsider looking in. So much so, even “normies” wonder what the fuck my friends are on. It’s next-level type shit.

    I bet you’re wondering why I still refer to my friends as junkies if they no longer get fucked up. It’s a valid question. Why would someone call their friend a junkie when they have years sober? Why would someone use a word that carries such a bad connotation when describing another individual that they themselves currently see as the opposite of that word? Why the hell does Walmart only keep two check-out aisles open on a Saturday afternoon?!

    To answer that first question, let’s break down the word “junkie.”

    According to Webster:

    Junkie

    noun |  junk·ie | \ ˈjəŋ-kē \

    1. a narcotics peddler or addict
    2. a person who gets an unusual amount of pleasure from or has an unusual amount of interest in something

    Okay, that first definition sounds about right. My friends sure as hell qualify as addicts/alcoholics. They also know how to acquire and distribute their drug-of-choice quite successfully until that dreaded day comes where they break the cardinal rule, “don’t get high on your own supply.” If you’re a junkie like me, then you know we have another term for that rule: “mission impossible.”

    Now, let’s take a look at what good ol’ Webby had to say in that second definition: A person who gets an unusual amount of pleasure from or has an unusual amount of interest in something. Sexy, right? Did you hear it? Did you relate when the word “unusual” appeared twice in that definition? Did something deep inside you begin to stir when the words “pleasure” and “interest” hit your shot-out way of thinking?

    I hope so. If you’re fucked up the way I am, then you felt something. I also know from a personal collective experience that once my friends and I got sober, the world became our oyster. What I mean by that is, once we switched our attention away from getting high and learned how to stay sober, we quickly realized that if we put at least one percent of the same effort it took to get trashed into other areas of our lives, the results were astronomical. It’s like a one thousand percent return on our investment. Crazy, right? Sure. Sounds like bullshit? Fuck yeah it does. It took me a while to grasp it, understand it, appreciate it and then cultivate it.

    When I see the word “unusual” appear in that definition I can’t help but laugh. I know that my friends and I—or any junkie I know, for that matter—are far from normal. When I think about “pleasure” and “interest,” I think about all the dreams that I had shit on in the past as a result of the bridges I burned. Now, those dreams have come back, I have goals that appear to be attainable, relationships that bring my life an overwhelming amount of joy, and opportunities to take part in unimaginable endeavors. Sound good? Sign me up!

    I geek out over music. Since my money ain’t going to the dope man anymore, I’ve been able to create some really dope recovery-based music. I’m a music junkie. And I got friends that have turned their attention to their physical health and wellness, and they’re seeing amazing results. They’re fitness junkies. I got this one friend who’s got the “lick” on all the best spots to eat around town. I mean you can pick an ethnicity, voice your preference and he’s got a spot for you. My little, hipster, foodie junkie. He’s adorable.

    Do you get it now? My friends and I are still junkies. We find ridiculous amounts of pleasure doing the things we love and pursuing the things that interest us. We enjoy it so much that you might call it unusual. Crazy ass ex-dopefiends turned into super-cool people. 

    I know we all have a million stories of where we’ve been and what we’ve done to get high and stay high. I know what it’s like to be in rehab and exchange “war stories” with the guy next to me. After a while it gets old. If you’re a repeat offender like me, then you know it gets old really fast when you check back in and hear the same shit again. It’s the same story with a different face. I get it.

    Having said all that, I want to let you in on a little secret: I’ve solved my existential crisis that I’ve always run into when trying to stay sober. I never found my purpose before, that “something” that brings me an unusual amount of pleasure… until now.

    It’s in these stories. It’s in the telling you, the reader, what my junkie friends and I have done, where we’ve been, what we’ve seen, what we’ve felt, how we’ve died, how we’ve lived, how we’ve found relief, how we’ve recovered, how we’ve relapsed, how we’ve come back and how we’ve survived one day at a time. If The Fix allows it, I’d love to share with you some of these “ghost stories,” as I lovingly refer to them these days. It would bring me an unusual amount of pleasure to get some of this shit off my chest and outta my head.

    I want to let you into my world, tell you why “All My Friends Are Junkies” (and I’m pretty sure all your friends are, too). I want to take you through drug court, through my first time in “the rooms,” through my first love in recovery, through that heartbreak, through that first relapse after believing I’d be a one-chip-wonder. I want to take you through that probation violation, that geographical change I thought would help, and holy shit, I want to bring you to that six-month inpatient rehab I went to that turned into a 13 month stay, the place I “loved so much” that I went back for another six months. I want to tell you about the relationships I made in these places, the fun we had, the crazy cool road trips we took. I want to tell you about all the musical gigs and the junkies I met there. I feel like recovery has brought me around the world while my lifestyle of addiction brought me to the deepest darkest areas of Satan’s ass crack. I want to tell you about that too.

    So for now, I’ll leave you with this: If no one told you today that they love you, fuck it, there’s always tomorrow.

    Check back next week for the first Ghost Story, “A Dopeman’s Grocery List.”

    View the original article at thefix.com