Tag: addiction

Unwanted in Life


Let me share a story I know about this guy and you can be the one to judge whether his story is sad or not.

I met him in Cape Cod. He’s around my size, enjoys the same music, loves the same sport teams, works construction. Part of why we connected. He also loves heroin. I mean he loves it. Fortunately though, he hasn’t stuck a needle in his arm or ingested any opiates in 5 1/2 yrs; an amazing feat by any account.

Those are some good things about him and his life. He tries his hardest to help another addict or human being who’s having it rough in life or struggling with any form of addiction and mental health problems. But that’s what he shows, acts upon, and uses as a cover up- a disguise masking who he really is.

Like myself, his mother passed away and he hasn’t spoken to his family since, not because he chooses not too talk but because they’ve refused his many attempts of reaching out and building something that was never really there in the first place: a relationship.

He understands the strength and importance of both of the words, love and hate, and those two words only circumvent the same two people in his life. He hates himself because he was never available during his mother’s last days on earth and he hates himself because he lost an ex girlfriend and isn’t good enough to ever get her back. Sometimes he can’t look at himself in the mirror or pursue interested flames because he is drowning in worthlessness and self doubt. My heart hurts when writing about this pain and regret because I know it’s real.

What he can’t shake is that those two people were also the only people who’ve ever loved him unconditionally, and when it was too late, he realized that he- too- can now love them unconditionally as well. But, it’s too late for that. His mother is never coming back and his ex may as well never come back also.

He sabotages every single thing that’s good for him in his life. He doesn’t believe he deserves better. He claims, if there’s a heaven or an afterlife, that he’s not welcome. He doesn’t try nor think about ways to end his misery but you can almost see- upon his straight grin and melancholy eyes- that he prays that he doesn’t wake up the next morning and instead put an infinite end to his existence.

His heart is bigger then I’ve ever seen. His decision making is who he is, always suffering from the backfire from helping another human, a suffering that’s wound him in hospitals, jails, and even the shelter in which he now calls home, located here in Hyannis. He’s not wanted by old or new friends. His family stopped acknowledging his presence years ago and wouldn’t give him a chance regardless of what he’s done to improve himself or others. He feels and sees hatred daily within himself which in return reflects his place on this planet.

And, too, I understand.

The Aftermath of My Drug Addiction


I was swimming that night; my bed was like a pool of water- an ocean even, and my sheets were the waves. My pillow barely acted as a life preserver, moving back and forth from below my head and then thrown to the floor and picked back up again; repeating this action over and over throughout the night. My hands sliding back and forth- tossing the pillow around to gripping the sheets. My legs moving about, trying it’s hardest to keep my body afloat, never stopping and never tiring. I can’t sleep. I feel like I’m dying; painful and slow and when I’m not thinking about how much I want this to be over with, I’m praying that something- anything- will kill me.

My days are torturous and my nights are even worse. I don’t stop yawning; tears filling my eyes and running down my face. I have sneezing attacks, maybe 10 or 12 sneezes in a row, and when I do it feels like my ribs are breaking and the air pockets are being torn from my lungs. My head explodes in pain. Not like a bad headache but more like someone is hammer drilling from the inside of my skull- directly behind my facial features- outwards, with the force of a hundred Clydesdale horses charging across a wide open pasture. I removed my hoodie because of how damp the cotton is around the neck and lower back from the sweat flowing out of my skins pores, like the pores themselves are being forced open by what’s left of my soul, which is only trying to break free from the mess of a human I became. But as wet as my sheets and clothes get, I’m attempting to warm myself by wrapping my arms around my torso. I swear that I’m now freezing to death although if I could think about anything else, other then detoxing cold turkey, I’d know my mother has set the houses temperature at a comfortable 68 degrees.

I know she is sleeping. Her pocketbook hidden underneath her side of the bed, away from my addiction and my hands. While I flop myself on my back and light a cigarette I can’t even enjoy, I begin convincing myself that I can easily sneak into my parents bedroom, crawl across the carpet at yhe foot of the bed and around its corner, quietly revealing what my mother thought was hidden and protected. A purse without cash was no longer a problem; I knew all my mother’s pin numbers to her debit cards and I could forge her signature with one of her checks. I actually practiced writing like her for hours one day while I was high so I’ve got her penmanship down to a T.

I can’t help but focus back to the physical pain and discomfort my hips and knees are in. Every angle- Every position, they stay restless, and I pictured how peaceful my night would be without my legs. I mean literally legless. Aw, how perfect that would be. Although I’d still have one problem remaining: I’m so weak and tired that my muscles don’t even work correctly. I’d be better off without them. I decide that my muscles are only weighing my body down and I just can’t remove myself from the puddle of sweat I’m squirming around in.

After turning onto my side; my legs moving like they’re riding a bike which isn’t there, I get a little jolt of anxiety and i snub my cigarette out that I just let burn down to the filter. I move my tongue around the roof of my dry mouth and taste blood, or maybe iron or mettle of some sort, and I remember my dad has to remove his hearing aides while he sleeps so he won’t hear a peep if I entered the bedroom. It’s only me against my sleeping mother and the silent of the night. I’m aware but not worried that both of my hands can not stop shaking. They may be my only nemesis in attempting this robbery. My fingers would be better off twitching upon the keys of a piano then inside of a bag, feeling their way towards my mom’s purse.

I get up and walk to the bathroom- this being my 10th time today peeing. I have no idea how my bladder holds this much urine, especially since I barely stomached the cranberry juice from this morning, but it does. I’m still constipated- I haven’t shit in about three weeks- and i dred the next couple days where I’ll basically be living in the bathroom- my ass not leaving the toilet seat.

I’ve made up my mind. I’m gonna take whatever is in my mother’s purse. If I dont get caught tonight, I’ll definitely be in hot water tomorrow, but at least I know she will never tell my dad what I have done.

In 24hrs I’ll feel ashamed and upset of what I did and although no one will ever believe me, my feelings are sincere. I hate myself so much because I can’t control this disease I have, that I’ve contemplated not only killing myself so my family no longer has to suffer but I’ve already slit my wrists and cried hysterically while gagging on the barrel of a pistol one of my drug dealers left behind after an intense night of smoking crack and shooting heroin. The fact that I hated myself so much because I couldn’t stop being this evil waste of a human, I wished and prayed and tried- by overdosing- to die every single day and it’s one of the most honest feelings I’ve ever had in my life. I was just too stupid or too much of a pussy, to actually carry through with this selfish act.

☆ This situation occurred so many times, I lost count. I stole, lied, munipulated, and hurt my family. My mother was held hostage for almost a decade because of my addiction; because of me. These actions and decisions I made- like this one- brought my entire family to hate upon me and to this day they refuse to forgive me or find a neutral ground on which I can prove myself to them.

My father and I haven’t spoke in almost 3 years, though I’ve reached out and attempted to make an amends with him like I was ablento- and succeeded- with my mother before she passed away. My brothers haven’t accepted me as family and we haven’t talked in about 4 years. And it’s also been about that long since any relatives on my mothers side of the family, last spoke to me, except my Aunt who told me i could not attend any of my mother’s ceremonies and remembrance activities when she died. That was almost 3 years ago when I was told I can not go to the wake, the spreading of her ashes, or the viewing of her body before cremation. I still remember- to this day- the things my mom asked me to remind everyone about when we celebrated her life.

My mother forgave me. For everything. But my family refuses to try. So, I could not see my mother off to heaven because the family turned on me. I was blamed for partial reason of her dying; I causing the cancer to come back so strong. I was accused of that. This is the thing though:

She died on my 17th month of sobriety. I was almost 1 1/2 years away from drugs. And my addiction was still punishing me.

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No One’s Son


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I still haven’t figured out why I was such an angry, miserable boy; hurting everyone and everything that presented itself in my life. I’m told quite often to simply leave the past where it belongs- in the past- but trying effortlessly to learn why i was the person I was while growing up and how this boy who came from such a loving, supportive family, evolved into the raging drug addict throughout the majority of his adult life.  And who am I fooling? I’m still miserable most of the time. I’ve just about mastered disguising my feelings of lonliness and the on going depression I battle with, mostly igniting from resentments I hold against myself. I feel so horrible because I was a horrible child, teenager, young adult, and whatever you’d call me at the age of 32. I was evil- inflicting pain upon others because I didn’t want to suffer alone with the pain I felt inside.

This I know: my addiction is only a symptom of the way I think. I need to change my way of thinking- which will encourage healthier actions- and in return will lead to a happier life. But how? Therapy? The Twelve Steps? Smart Recovery? Meditation? Religion?

All of these?

I’m no one’s son today. When I was a child, I had my mother and father. I rarely got in trouble and though I felt comfortable to lie to my mom, I never once lied to my dad until one summer day at the age of 27. I rebelled as a preteen and by the time I was in high school, my parents stopped caring what I did as long as I continued playing baseball. At this time I was already years into experimenting with drugs but I didn’t have a full blown addiction. But at home I was a terror; depressed and angry and blaming my mother for everything. She became numb to my existence. There would be days prior to one of my explosions where I’d return home from school and the hole I punched in the wall was  fixed- the mud still drying- by my mother. She’d act as if nothing happened and would talk to me like I was an alter boy, innocent and sweet.

Then one day I stopped my outbursts. They never happened again. But the depression weighed me down and anxiety took over my senses and brain waves. I started seeing a therapist but I would look at it as a game; one which I could master my munipulating ways and it worked. Not the therapy but the munipulating. By not using the opportunity that was set in front of me, I can only say those sessions did nothing for me and they failed because I wouldn’t allow myself to cooperate. Again, I was hopeless and helpless and my thoughts of dying only seemed to make the most sense, though I never went through with any forms of suicide. (It would be years later, towards the end of my heroin use, that I tried killing myself by overdosing almost on a daily basis).

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I always loved people; my friends, my girlfriends, complete strangers, my family, and more then anyone and anything, I loved my mother. But I hated myself. I hated how I looked. I hated how I talked. I hated how my sense of humor imitated my fathers. I hated everything about me and i prayed and i wished at 11:11 that I would just die. I don’t know if I couldn’t kill myself because I was too much of a pussy to do it or if I was too smart, but for whatever reason I just couldn’t do it. I remember telling my mother one day that I wanted to die. She sat on the floor against the cabinet under the sink and she cried. That moment, I felt worse then I ever had before, only adding another reason I shouldn’t live, to the equation.

Until my mother’s last breathe I had parents and I was there son. Once she pasted away, my father made a collage in his head of all the suffering I have put my family through over these years of my addiction and my belief I was worthless, and shunned me from his life all together. So did everyone else on my mother’s side of the family. I’ve been accused of causing my mother to die, from cancer, through the mouths of my Uncle and one of my brothers. I’m no one’s son. Holidays and birthdays spent alone without a greeting or a well wish. There’s maybe 7 billion people on this planet and still, I’m alone. But what gets me the most- what hits home the hardest- is the second my mom passes away I become no one’s son. That easily. It’s one of the most difficult things in my life in which I can’t seem to get over.

Though accepting this moral ideology is sometimes painful and hard, caused by the past I’ve created, I have learned to stop feeling or thinking about my regrets and resentments using my mind, instead igniting that fire within and practice using my heart; by allowing it to lead the way with my feelings and thoughts. By doing this more and more, I have also come to understand what the fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous teaches through the 12 Steps and the individual work that must fully be done in order to change for the better. 

That hole I had- where emptiness could be found and the pity of being no one’s son- I’ve been able to fill with the presence of my Higher Power and in return gives me the ability to be Somebody’s Son. 

It is my nonreligious- purely spiritual- relationship with my HP where I find the answers to my questions, confidence to challenge my fears, and ability to improve myself daily, all awhile proving too and happily impressing a power greater than myself- which is exactly the pedastool I held some of my family high upon for all these years…

As alone as I can feel at times and when emptiness tries invading my space, I consciously depend on my Higher Power and my life feels better each time I do. 

I Know it’s Real…


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I never expected to fall in love. I mean, do we at all expect love to fall into our lap? And because I never expected it, I was ignorant about it- clueless even, and as simple as turning a light on, one day that feeling hit me and i knew I was in love with her.

How could you not see what I saw? Maybe the average person looked into her eyes and thought they looked as brown as the beer bottle she held loosely in her hand. To me, they resembled something like copper against honey. They were warm and sweet like milk chocolate; the soft warmness of them wrapping around me like a blanket that made me instantly feel at home. They shined- a glossy kind of shine- and i knew that when they water,. they glow the same shade as nature after it rains. Her black eyebrows arched low on her clear, tan forehead- thin like the bridge of her nose- which guided me to her lips. Pierced together as if she just finished fighting off a smile, they were the color of roses and i wondered to myself whether kissing them would feel as comfortable as resting my head upon a soft pillow after a long day at work.  Her hair- simple and straight, was dark mahogany- and as she turned her head beneath the dropped ceiling light fixtures, I swear I could see speckles of gold in its strands that stopped short of her shoulder. 

She approached me, I didn’t approach her. I was working my security job at a popular night club and i was scanning the crowd looking for trouble. I remember her and the group of people she was with when they entered the club, but I watch all kinds of pretty women every night at work, so her appearance wasn’t unusual for this kind of atmosphere.

She spoke first and I noticed her confidence relay through her voice. “Give me your phone.” she said. I smiled and lightly laughed, not quite sure what she was getting at. “Why would I just give you my phone?” I asked, giving her my full attention away from my job. “Because I’m gonna put my number it in”, she assuredly said, never taking her eyes off of mine. I was taken back. I’ve had women flirt with me, ask me to grab breakfast afterwards with them, and even have them ask me back to their place before, but this was a new advance I’d never expected, and one that interested me. Still, I wanted to make sure it was honest and sincere. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to just hook up with someone since getting out of a serious relationship I was just in. So, I told her I’d think about it, now knowing her attentions and being able to watch how she acted for the rest of the night. She smiled and turned away her character, simply saying “ok” as she walked back to her group of friends who were dancing in the middle of the dance floor and was oblivious to what she just did.

I let her put my number in my phone. I literally unlocked it, set up my contacts, and allowed her to type her name and number into it, then watched her press the save button. It took me 3 days to call but I did and a week later she drove to my apartment where we watched a movie and got to know each other. She worked at a hospital and went to college for nursing. She knew where I worked and i told her I was hoping to get into the Union. But something I can’t- and won’t- ever forget was how accepting and understanding she was when I made the decision and informed her of my past; my addiction, my arrests, my mother, my life, and she never judged me once. Not once. And later, when we’d argue over ridiculous stuff, she never ever held anything against me. 

The love wasn’t there in the beginning. Sure, I was attracted like hell to her but I was battling emotions within myself that I wasn’t capable of making any logical decisions over. I was stuck. But No matter how distant I acted at times, she hung around, and it wasn’t in a creepy- won’t leave me alone type of way- but because when I did open up and relax with her, she saw who I really was and that’s who she was getting feelings for.

A trip she took to Miami was the breaking point. Two days into it I sent her a text that I meant more than ever. “I miss you” is what I said and almost as fast as I typed those words, she responded with “I miss you too”. When she returned from her vacation we made plans for her to spend the night at my place. That very second I saw her I just knew she was the woman I wanted to be with. Though it wasn’t until months later that I proclaimed my feelings of love towards her, it still didn’t mean I wasn’t beginning to feel it sporadically. That night, at my place, she was more beautiful then I’ve ever seen. Maybe her south Florida tan assisted with me thinking that but it was more and that more was unexplainable. All I remember is laying beside her in my bed and that beauty of hers- staring me right in my eyes- overwhelmed me. It made me stop breathing. Again, I knew I wanted to be with this woman.

I wound up asking her out- while eating dinner at the Cheesecake Factory- and she glowed like a star in the midnight sky. It was wonderful to witness and be a part of. But I never told her I loved her because those feelings I was still sorting out through my heart. I just knew I needed to be with her.

I learned through this relationship that love is screwed up. It’s confusing. It’s questionable at times and it can be hard. But I also learned it’s priceless. It’s large- so large it can consume every second of your life. It turns a frown into a smile and it chases your chaos away and fills that void with comfort and meaning. I have rarely loved before and I’ve never loved like this, but one thing is for certain; this love I have, for this woman, I do not regret, and I carry with me every second of everyday. Nothing can be as beautiful as real love.

Not An Addict by K’s Choice


https://www.doubletwist.com/music/K%27s%20Choice/Not%20An%20Addict

These lyrics are dead on. So grateful to be clean today. Great song…

Breathe it in and breathe it out
And pass it on, it’s almost out
We’re so creative, so much more
We’re high above but on the floor

It’s not a habit, it’s cool, I feel alive
If you don’t have it you’re on the other side

The deeper you stick it in your vein
The deeper the thoughts, there’s no more pain
I’m in heaven, I’m a god
I’m everywhere, I feel so hot

It’s not a habit, it’s cool, I feel alive
If you don’t have it you’re on the other side
I’m not an addict (maybe that’s a lie)

It’s over now, I’m cold, alone
I’m just a person on my own
Nothing means a thing to me
(Nothing means a thing to me)

It’s not a habit, it’s cool, I feel alive
If you don’t have it you’re on the other side
I’m not an addict (maybe that’s a lie)

Free me, leave me
Watch me as I’m going down
Free me, see me
Look at me, I’m falling and I’m falling.

It is not a habit, it is cool I feel alive I feel…
It is not a habit, it is cool I feel alive

It’s not a habit, it’s cool, I feel alive
If you don’t have it you’re on the other side
I’m not an addict (maybe that’s a lie)
I’m not an addict..

Your Not Alone


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Have you ever wanted to die because you were stuck in the depths of addiction? You wake up in the morning, getting high is the first and only thing on your mind, and you just wished you never woke up- that you died in your sleep. Your a prisoner of this disease and your living a life of hell. All you want to do is die. More then anything. You pray everytime you use that it’ll kill you; so you no longer have to suffer and your family can finally be at ease.

Speaking of family, has your family ever had enough of your lying, stealing, and manipulating? They no longer want you around. They shun you. Tell you to get better- as if it was that easy.

Now your cheating everybody you come in contact with. You tell them your fine but really your looking to see if there’s anything you can steal? Your mind is still controlled by your addiction.

Have you ever wrote checks in your own name and cashed them but it wasn’t your check to begin with? You are fully aware of the consequences but you’re not in control so you do it anyways. Have you ever tried selling your jewelry, your tv, your game box, your cd’s? Your bank account is empty because you used that money years ago. Have you ever sold your car so you could get high? Have you ever sold your body so you could just get off Empty?

Have you ever walked 5 miles- in a blizzard, with somebody else’s money- only for a fix? You don’t answer your phone and days later you make up a story that you were robbed by the dealer.

Have you ever robbed a drug dealer yourself? Even if it was a close friend. You pull out a knife you stole from a restaurant and put it to his balls. Fill a small dunkin donuts cup with gasoline and throw it on the floor of his car. You pull your Zippo out and threaten to burn his car til it’s unrecognizable. Or you fill a needle with blood and threaten to stick him with your AIDS infected blood.

Have you ever held your family hostage with your disease? Harassing your mother at home, at her work, at your Aunts house, at the oncologists office while she was receiving chemotherapy.  You tell her you won’t leave until you have money. That your sick. That you’ll rob a bank or a store. That the little old lady who left her pocketbook unattended in the shopping cart is going to be taken. You beg and cry for the money and manipulate until you get your way.

Have you ever felt so lonely that you want to die? You realize you have no friends left or family. They refuse contact. You look in the mirror and hate what you see; yourself. You scroll through your phone and find that none of those people will answer. You become overwhelmed and depressed as you log onto Facebook and see everyone’s pictures of success; owning houses, having careers, getting married, raising children,  and you know that you haven’t done a single thing in the last fourteen years except avoid society and be irresponsible. Nothing would please you more then dying but first you need to get high.

Have you ever surrendered,  hitting your bottom and not knowing what to do? Your desperate, sad, depressed, angry, confused, and lost.

There are hundreds of thousands- if not millions- of people that can help you, if you only ask. There is a way out of the hell that’s been your life and we can help. Reach out to any one of us. We’re your teachers, your firefighters, your doctor’s and your nurses. We’re you construction workers, and your cooks. We’re even your priests. We’re everywhere, living a life second to none and you can too. You can be saved. You can love yourself; it’s possible. You just have to WANT it and put in the hard work.

Do you WANT it?

A Calm Before the Storm


As I walk to a meeting tonight, I can’t help but think that this is what my life has become. Not one single thing defines me, but more like a cluster of things, and to which most I’m not proud of.

I wake up and go to work (if there is a job scheduled), and in the evening I work my other job (if I’m scheduled), or I sit in a chair that invisibly has my name written on it and listen to either how great or not so great a fellow addict is doing. The rest of the time I usually do nothing because I can’t afford to do anything. I’ve stopped going to the gym because I can’t afford it or I lack what most people have: a bank account, in which the gym can access and pull my money. I refrain from traveling the city of Boston looking for work because most weeks I can’t afford a transportation pass needed to ride the trains or buses. Because of these minor issues, which mend together as somewhat of a cluster, people’s conception of me turns sour and like a shotguns recoil, I agree.

Little things added together make something of a larger scale. Like the many baseball teams become the MLB or a handful of songs become an album, or because of my nearly homeless income becomes a false portrait of me today, addicts doing well can relapse due to this same scale.

Many people I know have died this month along with many more people I’ve never met but learned about, and the majority of their demise have something in common; they died from the first use in their relapse. Upon hearing their stories from others at meetings, people I live with, from social media, or from the funerals and wakes I have attended, it seems that by following each individuals problems or issues, events or lack-there-of, a cluster had been formed of mediocre catastrophes shaping into one giant one; resulting in their relapse which in return resulted in their death.

I strongly believe that through communication, networking, and humility, these people may as well be alive today. I only hope that we as addicts and the people who love us can start seeing the slow and sometimes fairly visible downward spiral that usually arises before the end. Like tremors to an earthquake, we become more aware and sometimes prepared for the apex of this disease.

My heart and prayers go out to everyone we have just lost from addiction and their families.

The Epidemic of Drug Ignorance


Like always, the media controls the popularity of what topics we should talk about today. Blasted across headlines on newspapers or breaking news upon your television, the media buries itself inside your head and pulls you towards what they want you to know about. The media only takes what will bring an audience to their door and exploits it for everyone to see. So when a famous person dies of a drug or alcohol related incident, we instantly gravitate towards this realm of someone else’s opinion on the subject of addiction. And sadly, it’s sole purpose is ratings.

We can learn a lot, as addicts, from these headlined actors and musicians- famous people who struggled from this disease and sadly passed on. Whether it’s Whitney Houston, of who we all suspected of battling a drug problem, or the recent departures of Robin Williams and Philip Seymour Hoffman, who most of us only knew because of the dozens of movies we loved them acting in, they all shared a common ground, one that I share along with them. Addiction and the endless battle within.

I remember reading an article not too long ago, written by Michael Martinez, Ana Cabrera, and Sara Weisfeldt, all of whom are journalists for CNN, about a mother from Denver who has been battling the drug epidemic of pills and heroin. The article itself was informative and my heart goes out to the mother because I understand what she is going through. I can relate. But headlining in big bold letters the word epidemic attracts readers to the article so they will believe some sort of disease is spreading across the nation and that they must inform themselves about how not to get it.  Well, addiction doesn’t spread like the Ebola virus or some other deadly disease. These reporters were capitalizing on such headlines of recent that include these famous people of dying from such an awful habit but with all ignorance had not done their homework, which is as simple as this: the drug epidemic has been going on since the drugs themselves have been put to use.

The whole epidemic about pills, opiates in general like OxyContin or Percocet was happening over fifteen years ago, in the late 90’s. Heroin has been an epidemic long before headlines read that David Crosby (musician) or Keith Richards (musician) were struggling with its use back in the 1970’s. Only when a famous person dies does the topic of a certain drug addiction emerge, solely focusing on the fact that addiction can even happen to a famous, well liked, rich person, in which suddenly the term epidemic comes forth.

We have always had an epidemic of drugs. Good people die each day because of this disease, and it does not care if your famous or not or what color or gender you are. Addiction couldn’t  give two shits if your gay or straight or American or Asian. It has no rules other then to be used and to destroy innocent peoples lives. It’s sad and disturbing that it takes well known people for the topic to become something of an interest in society but still nothing will be done about it.

Most people have not changed their minds about how they still look at Robin Williams- one of the funniest comedians ever, or Philip Seymour Hoffman- an Academy Award Winning actor, after learning of their untimely deaths but Whitney Houston got the blunt end of the deal because the world witnessed the downfall of her career and talents through her reality television show and pictures in the tabloids. But the three of them- and the millions of other addicts throughout the planet- are all related and have gone through the similar things.

So remember the next time you hear about that awful robbery because an addict needed money to support his habit, or if you see a couple nodding asleep on the train ride to work, that these famous people you love so much could have easily been living the same life as the less fortunate addicts who don’t have a pot to piss in. This new epidemic isn’t so new at all. In fact, it’s been going on for some time…

 

Accomplishing a Miracle


The worst thing about being in recovery is watching your friends suffer with their addiction. It’s a tough place to be. Depending on how strong your recovery is, you can try to help them or sometimes you can’t do anything at all. I don’t recommend people in early recovery to get involved with anybody who is using, thinking they may be able to help or save the person. First of all, nobody can save someone who is battling addiction. You can be there for them, you can work endlessly to help them and direct them to professional help but I believe you, or I, can not ever save another addict. Fortunately though, I feel I’m in a place with my own recovery where I can step up to the plate and make myself available to the sick and suffering.

I have this friend. I’ve known him for years. He is younger then me, but he’s an adult, and he’s such a wonderful person. I dated his aunt for a little while and that’s when we first met but we also spent lots of time in jail together. I can relate with everything he’s going through right now. He is sick and he is detoxing at home- about a week clean from heroin and coke. I made a point to see him on Friday. This is what I saw:

Pulling up to his mothers house, I nearly recognized him while he stood in the gravel driveway, dressed in baggy pants, a Long sleeve shirt, and Jordan’s on his feet. That’s the normal him. Everything else about him was different. Hearing that his arm developed a painful and infected abcess, he wore the long sleeve shirt so he could cover the bandages on the inside of his arms. He was skinny; not that he was ever fat but when he’s clean and doing the right thing he tends to put on weight like I do. But he was so skinny hie kept having to pull his pants up. He had a look in his eyes and it showed me a million emotions all at once. He was hurting. He was sick. He was sweating but was continuously cold. But his eyes cried for help. They showed desperation and sadness. My god did he look sad! He was in the middle of tearing furniture apart for his step father so he could earn an easy $20 but he couldn’t hide how weak his muscles were. I stepped in and helped finish the job for him.

He told me he is depressed. That he was crying just before I showed up. I explained that his endorphins and serotonin levels are at an all-time low without the use of the drugs sky rocketing them infinitely. I told him it will take a while for those levels to rise back to a plateau state were he will feel normal again. I turned the conversation; focusing on what he is planning to do afterwards. He can’t stay at his mothers forever and I felt that too much time with family may push him to a limit of which he will decide using is a good idea. He doesn’t want to enter a program again, like a halfway house or sober house. He believes he just needs to kick the drugs and he will be fine. I decided not to argue this point with him although i disagreed. I did not want him thinking I was pressuring him to do anything. I wanted to keep the presence . of myself standing next to him with open arms and a listening ear. He vented to me me and I explained what I have done with my recovery.

What bothered me the most was this: the way he acted towards his mother. It is not because he was disrespectful or mean like I was towards mine, because he wasn’t at all. But I saw the sudden strength he possessed when arguing with her. I understood both points of view. He could not believe she wouldn’t allow him to leave the house with this girl he knows, who Appearently isn’t someone who’s related to any drug use. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t just go for a ride. His mother, of course, was against the idea, not wanting to take the chance of her sons mind deciding to hop out of the car at a red light and running to so he could get high. He argued his point with me, so I advised him this; he is 5 days clean at the time and he is detoxing at home. The logical thing to do here is invite the girl over to the house. I told him his family will give them privacy. He can spend time with a friend and his mother doesn’t need to drastically worry about him. And so he did take the advice. She came over and that was about the time I had to leave because I had work.

I received texts from different people in his family, all thanking me for coming up and spending time with him. But in fact I didn’t do anything except in courage him to take this slowly, no matter what, and basically not to jump ahead into the first urge or idea his brain has for him. Think things through and most importantly talk to people who want you to stay clean. He has the most incredible family, all of who take time out of their lives for him, whether it be a quick talk or an invitation to see a movie. He has a family who cares and I could tell by the way he talked to me that he is grateful for everything they have done.

Yesterday I saw his status update on Facebook telling the community that he went to a meeting and received a chip for staying sober for a certain amount of time. That put a smile on my face. I only hope it put a smile on his face too.

Part Three: Hell


Although I was a wise-ass, hard to deal with teenager and an irresponsible young adult, I wasn’t a loser. I was just hard to live with or have in your life. But as soon as OxyContin took hold of my every thought and my every move, I became a guy who was unloveable. I was the devil. An asshole, a loser, a scumbag, a villain, a monster. I was a junkie.

Day in and day out I chased that euphoric feeling Oxy’s once provided. I became a criminal overnight. If I was sick, I would think how I could scam you, rob you, and hurt you, just so I wouldn’t feel sick anymore. And looking back, I can say I knew what I was doing most of the time; I was responsible for my own actions because I was technically aware of what I was doing and my motives behind it. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about you. I didn’t care about my family. I didn’t care about my friends. I didn’t care about the store owner or the person who left there pocketbook in there unlocked car. I didn’t even care about myself. In fact, all I cared about was the drug dealer and what he had because what he had was the only thing that mattered to me. Towards the end, even the dealer I didn’t care about. I would set them up for a sale only to rob them at knife point as soon as we met up.

But I hated myself. I wanted to die. I’d sometimes wake up in the middle of the night because my body needed more OxyContin in order to feel stable again and I can not recall all those times I stared at the powder I was about to put up my nostril and ask out loud why I had to wake up for another day. I didn’t want to live. I wasn’t suicidle in the sense of attempting to kill myself but I would wish I would never wake up again. I would wish that my heart would just stop or that somebody else would put me out of my misery. I don’t know if it was lack of balls or stupidity that prevented me from ending my life but I could never do it on my own. I wanted it to just happen, suddenly, in a way I wouldn’t have seen coming. But it wasn’t just my years of depression or my actual repetitive mornings of being dope sick that caused me to feel this way. It was mainly because I could not stop hurting my mother.

As I’ve said, I’m a mamas boy. She wasn’t my best friend in the sense that we always hung out. In fact, she wanted nothing to do with me. But she was the closest person in my entire life and through everything I was doing illegal or not, evil or not, she never abandoned or disowned me. She didn’t agree with my decisions or my lifestyle but she tried her hardest to look out for me, her eldest of three boys, her first born, her baby.

Other then being a full blown addict, I was also a master manipulator. And my mother was victim number one. I went to her everyday, called her, texted her, and would first ask and later demand money from her. Sometimes I would just show up at her work (a school mind you) and other times I would be waiting for her to return to her house. I learned later that she avoided coming home for hours at a time just because she didn’t want to deal with me and my is sickenly lying ways. Almost every time I’d get money from her; resulting in either her or myself crying. The end of these ordeals were always the same though; I would get my fix and come off “E” and she would be broke. I held her prisoner of her own life. I held her hostage to where she could not be available to anyone else in the family except to me because if she didn’t continue enabling me then I’d threaten to rob a store like I already had at this point or I’d tell her I’d rob some poor stranger on the street which I had never done and thankfully never did.

i couldn’t help these thoughts or these actions. A part of me knew it was wrong but the part of me that didn’t care easily talked the other part away from doing the right thing. I hated myself so much that I no longer felt remorse for myself or others. I lived to get high and prayed I would die. That was my conscious every single day during my using. I was numb to feelings that normal people feel. At one point, I recall, I convinced myself that the greatest gift I could ever give my mother was me dying. And I did just that: died. Three times during my drug use that called for administering Narcan or/and difibulators. Flatlined. Out. But still, I’d wind up waking out of it in a hospital, angry and mean because of how sick I felt, and I’d go about blaming the whole God-damn world for my problems and never once take ownership that I am causing myself and everyone else who shared my last name this misery and suffering. To this day I believe that as horrible as I felt being the addict, my mother felt 100 times worse. She found me overdosed before. She always saw me in my worst condition, beard growth and an odor from not showering. Still, she pretended nothing was wrong and tried carrying normal conversations with me. I was mostly unresponsive; looking only for a quick handout and some groceries.

OxyContin as I knew it was pulled from the shelves in every pharmacy across the country and replaced instead with a newer time release pill which upon breaking up into a fine powder would instead turn into a gooy gel-like clump that was unsnortable. I played around with 30mg Percocet afterwards but eventually turned my will, or lack there of, to heroin. The high wasn’t as consistent as the synthetic opiate that Oxy’s were but none-the-less it did the trick. Bruises and pock marks, dead purple veins replaced my once thick and scarless arms. Others noticed but I was usually oblivious to the way I now looked. There was still a tiny light that shined in me that I must have mistakened as a life in which nothing was wrong because I hadn’t had enough of this horrific lifestyle yet and I was just becoming progressively worse.

January 13,2011 I had enough. Sadly, my end did not come because of an apifoney or realization that my life was unmanageable or out of control. It’s sick to admitt but I would have continued using and getting high, although I woke up that day in a Beverly hospital because the hotel I was getting high in found me dead and sprawled across the bathroom floor. I didn’t stop because I was tired or didn’t want to use any longer. The reason was simple: I stopped because when the hospital contacted my mother to inform her I had overdosed and was found dead, she asked them to relay a message to me after the phone call. She asked the doctor to tell me to never try contacting her again. She wanted nothing to do with me, a statement she has never said to anyone, especially me. My best friend who’s life I made into a living hell had finally cut me clear out of her life.

I informed the nurse I wanted help and she found me a detox, which I then went to a holding until a bed was available at a halfway house. Finally, this vicious run I’ve been on for over a decade was over, and now the real work must begin.

Part Two: O.C. Way of Living


Supra ventricular tachycardia or SVT for short- is a condition which in my case is hereditary, that causes the heart to beat in an abnormally fast pace, leading to all kinds of issues. I had an ablation performed on July 10, 2001 at Massachusetts General Hospital. Upon my recovery, I was prescribed 40mg OxyContin, which I knew all about and had used it in previous years but because of so many of my friends who got addicted to it and all my visits seeing them in detox, I was that fond of it. But, the doctors made incisions to my arteries through my groin and I was in a great deal of discomfort, so I assured myself that because they are prescribed, I will be just fine. So I took them twice a day during my entire stay at the hospital.

One of my visitors, a girl who often hung out with the Crew happened to be in the room while a nurse came in with water and my medication, Oxys being one of them. Seeing the pill, she convinced me that we should crush it up and snort it, explaining that I will feel its side effects quicker and more powerfully. Also she wanted a bump(a line). She showed me how and it’s result was mind-blowing! I felt the best feeling I have ever felt in my life. I couldn’t think of anything on this planet that could produce such a euphoric feeling. I had energy and was instantly in a great mood. The pain going away was the least of the amount of pleasure I was receiving from this little pill. Nothing felt this good. Nothing! It was even better than sex.

i left with a refill of the pain-killer and within one week my entire 14 day supply was finished. I called my doctor and I was given another prescription of the drug because I claimed I was still feeling a lot of pain and discomfort from the procedure. But it didn’t stop there. Weekly I was calling the cardiologist to get more and he didn’t just kneel to my demands but he decided then to raise my dosage to 80mg, twice as much. I was ecstatic! I was making trips into Boston and just picking up my prescription at the receptionists desk. I didn’t even have to see the doctor. Needless to say, my cardiac surgeon became my first OxyContin drug dealer.

Little did I know that this was the beginning of a life of hell; torment and torture, self imprisonment, and I was already reconstructing who I was and the morals be stilled inside me. I could not stop getting high. Every morning I would wake up in bed, light myself a cigarette, and crush up an oxy, or shave it down into finer powder using a hose clamp or a Ped Egg. I could not start my day without my fix of this synthetic opiate made by Purdue Pharmaceutical. This little, circular, green pill with the number 80 stamped into its surface on one side and the initials OC stamped on the other had complete control of me. I could not get dressed without snorting one. I could not go back to work. I could not step out of my room and talk to my mother until I put its contents up my nose. But I didn’t realize this at first. At first I only felt like I was on top of the world. And then I ran out.

i will never forget the first time I got sick because of the withdrawal of opiates in my body, otherwise known as being Dope Sick. My doctor was actually killed and due to his death I no longer was prescribed OxyContin. I woke up like I did any other day but as time went bye, I began feeling almost anxious, started sweating although I had goosebumps from feeling cold, and my stomach started to ache. The longer I went the day without the drug, the sicker I felt. I could not stop yawning. The cold sweats were uncontrollable and my hips and knees became restless and uncomfortable. And there was this awful taste in my mouth. God awful taste.

But I was still ignorant to the addiction and I sincerely believed I was coming down with the flu, so I did what any mamas boy would do; I went home so my mom could take care of me. And though I lacked a fever, she pampered me like I was 10 years old again because she could see just how bad I was feeling. My mom fed me chicken noodle soup but I had no appetite. She rented movies for me while I layer on the couch but I couldn’t pay any attention to them because of how terrible I felt and not being able to get comfortable. And I got depressed. Not depression like I had growing up but a severe sadness I couldn’t shake.

One of my friends that I got high on Oxys with stopped by to see me. After hearing about how sick I was and that it was getting worse and worse, he enlightened me with what I now know as the opposite of that euphoric feeling I had experienced prior to this: I was dope sick. He surprised me with a bump, maybe a quarter of what I was so used to using, and within seconds…I not only began feeling better but I was up and on my feet ready to start my day.

That night I was back at my apartment. I remember this clear as day. I had a girl over, a girl I was dating but met because we had the same thing in common; Oxy’s. We were eating ice cream and talking about the couple of days before hand. She said it so simply, like it was no big deal, and what she said I didn’t think too much into at the time. I probably even shrugged my shoulders at the remark. She told me, “Honey, you’re an addict.”

Part One: The Beginning


Throughout my story, my family plays a major role. I believe most families play major roles in addicts lives but all families contributions to the addicts stories are different. My family stood on two total different sides of the spectrum: all the way to the left( growing up) and all the way to the right(during and at the end of my using). So growing up, my family was perfect. No arguing or fighting. No drama that I recall. My father never hit me and my mother was my best friend. And neither my parents nor any other family members brought drugs or alcohol into or around the house. We never even had beer in the refrigerator or alcohol stuffed in a cabinet. Nothing.

My parents never divorced, still going on dates until my mothers last days. They worked endlessly to provide for me and my brothers and by doing so we just made status as a middle class family. I was never spoiled but my parents never allowed us to grow up without having a great childhood, whether it be big birthdays and Christmas’ or annual vacations to Cape Cod and New Hampshire.

I grew up in the town of Wakefield, Ma. To this day I still think of it as the model town. Main St being a strip of stores that cover every basic need. Good schools. A giant lake that we can walk around or relax by, watching fireworks or enjoying the 4th of July Parade. Parks and playgrounds in every neighborhood. Woods to build forts in and hills to go sledding down. I loved growing up here.

I was always a wise ass, sarcastic, and angry. I’ve searched for answers to these defects and none have arisen. I was raised with unbelievable morals from unbelievable parents so that can’t be my excuse, nor can the place I grew up in. I was never a bully but I did at times pick on people but looking back I know it wasn’t because I had unresolved issues or anything. I just did it and at times thought it was fun. I did suffer from depression though. A lot of it. I was angry, sad, quiet. I remember most of it starting after a friend of mine who I grew up with was killed on the first day of summer vacation. I won’t say anything more than that experience of death was my first and it left an untreated wound in my heart and in my conscious that I didn’t accept or get over until almost a decade later.

My first time doing a drug was marijuana and I was excited to see what would happen. Everyone my age just graduated the D.A.R.E. Program and in all honesty, I liked what I heard of the effects weed produced. It just seemed interesting. So one Friday night at the age of fourteen, I hid behind these huge electric power breakers near my high school and smoked a joint for the first time with 3 other friends of mine. And it did nothing.

But the time after that it did. I loved everything about it. My vision seemed more 3D than usual. I couldn’t stop laughing. And music sounded better… So I thought.

For the next 4 yrs of high school I smoked weed on a daily basis. If you saw me inside or outside of school, I was stoned. But that isn’t the only thing I did. I also began hanging out with kids a grade or two older than me. The had cars so I found myself attending parties every weekend. Alcohol was the structure these parties seemed to build upon but after experiencing my first hangover, I told myself I’d never drink again. And so be it, to this day I’ve probably only been drunk 20 times. But other things were at these parties:ecstasy, cocaine, acid and mushrooms. And at times I would throw pills I didn’t even know about in my stomach like Valium, Klonopin, Xanax, Vicodin, and Percocet. Next thing I knew, my weekends disappeared friends telling me what we did because I didn’t remember. The Benzos weren’t exactly my favorite but I still couldn’t tell myself not to take them if the opportunity arose. But the psychedelics were my favorite by far. I had two groups of friends: the Jocks & the non-Jocks which a lot of people labeled us as “The Crew”. The Crew became my family. The Crew became my best friends. We were punks. Young teenage punks. All we wanted to do was have fun; party, get high, get drunk, fuck girls, sell drugs, get in fights, but most of all we were loyal and we set out to conquer the world. Or at least that’s what it seemed like at that time.

From the time I was 14 years old to 19 years old, that’s what my life consisted of. I barely passed high school although I knew I was one of the smarter people. I went to college but never took it serious, only attending because I wanted to continue playing baseball. Nothing in the world mattered except for having a fun time and getting high with my friends. Any money I earned went straight to drugs and concerts. I couldn’t hold a job and I begun this downward spiral in life from having my head on straight to becoming an irresponsible oxygen waster. But what did I care… I would tell myself I have the rest of my life to get serious but right now it’s time to have fun.

Well, fun I was having and fun is part of what led my heart to go into cardiac arrest on the baseball diamond at the age of 19.

Don’t Fear the Reaper; Respect the Reaper


I am a drug addict. Although I don’t enjoy lots of drugs- benzos, cocaine, marijuana, ecstasy, uppers, and alcohol- doesn’t mean I don’t fit nice and snug in the category of an addict. There are many kinds of drug addicts. Some like to do all the drugs on the market while others have only battled addiction towards a single substance. I, myself, along with plenty of others sustain from every drug that is out there, although we know that we wouldn’t use them if we had to. This is because, a drug is a drug is a drug! If I have a binge eating disorder and I have lived a life of consuming chocolate cake all day-everyday to the point that I have developed diabetes or became extremely unhealthy, this does not mean that as long as I stay away from the cake that I will do just fine. Substituting candy bars for cake will not do a single thing for my diabetes or weight problems. It goes the same with drugs.

Before I got sober this time around, I was injecting heroin into my veins and inhaling crack into my lungs on a day to day basis. I had not smoked weed for maybe 6 or 7 years and although crack is a form of cocaine, I preferred smoking over snorting or shooting it. I had not taken ecstasy since high school or any benzos since The evening I took one too many Xanax and wound up pulling a steak knife out on 4 police officers at my parents house and threatening I’d gut them like a fish. I do, in fact, love crystal meth but my connections to the gay underground world disappeared when a good friend of mine committed suicide due to drug psychosis. But heroin and crack… Now that’s my cup of tea!

I do not fear drugs. I respect them. Although I’ve had dozens and dozens of friends die from the disease of addiction (myself included) I still don’t find them scary. And though I was never raised to respect anything so bad or negative, I’ve come to realize that if I don’t look at my disease the way I do now, then I have a better chance of slipping up and traveling down this destructive path again. One of my many character defects is I’m stubborn. Millions if not billions of people are stubborn in this world but mixing addiction and a stubborn attitude has never quite worked for me or others. A personal defensive mechanism I have is when I’m scared of something, or in this case fear something, I tend to not take it serious enough and sometimes even laugh it off as it was just a joke, which I found isn’t the smartest way to go about addiction. Meanwhile, if I respect something- like if I respected a person- then I make sure to notice what it is I respect, learn from this person or what not, and take for granted the experiences I have with it. I respect drugs and I respect alcohol. I know what it can do to me and I know all to well what it can do to others. I keep it more then an arms length away but never further then where I can see it because, as of right now in my recovery, I need to know that if I let up or become complacent for only 1 second that it could be the beginning of the end for me and for everyone who loves and cares about me.

If You Build IT, They Will Come…


“This is just the beginning”, someone told me my first time at an AA meeting. And that is exactly what I am saying here. “This is just the beginning”.

I have dreamt millions and millions of things throughout my 32 years on this planet. Anywhere from what I wanted to be when I grew up to how I want to ask this pretty girl I’ve only just met out on a date. This here, thewakeupjournals, is one of those dreams, one of the only dreams that has happen thus far. Now, at the age of- let’s say eight- I wasn’t imagining that I’d one day be both happy and nervous about setting forth an idea I have based solely upon how awful and unmanageable my life has been, but a lot can change in time, especially when you only live your life, One Day at a Time.

Since getting clean, or sober as some of us call it, I have wanted to help other people like me. Other addicts and alcoholics. But bouts of self doubt and insecurities have always stopped me from completely opening up and talking about who I REALLY AM to someone other than a man or woman sitting in a chair with a cup of coffee or an energy drink in their hand and introducing themselves as… “Hi! My name is_____ and I’m an addict.” But like my dreams and the world around us, I have changed and now feel quite comfortable talking about whatever it is I feel like sharing about my life and either who I was or who I am. Let’s call it humility. Or just being humble. Whatever name we may give it, it is an act that for generations has helped one addict or alcoholic help another. And by doing this, people have saved countless peoples lives, families, jobs, relationships, and in the process have saved themselves. So in hindsight; I’m just returning the favor someone did for me.

So, without an education, without any professional certificate or degree, I am going to completely, honestly, and most importantly…humbly, open my life and all it’s losses and it’s wins, it’s feats and it’s failures, to you, the reader, the interested, and hopefully reach out in the process and help at least one human being away from continuing on a path of self destruction and imprisonment to the confines of addiction so they can simply wake up one day smiling. This I plan on doing as follows: sharing the stories from myself and other addicts/alcoholics in recovery of our experience, strength, and hope.

I can promise this; the stories are not going to be perceived always nicely. They will be horrifying, terrible, sometimes grotesque and illegal, but they happened. Some will be sad, some may make you mad, and some may be painfully close to the heart. See, addiction is everywhere around us though it only comes out into the limelight when something horrible goes on, and deservingly so because it’s a horrible disease. But it’s a factuality in everyday life to millions of people and if your reading this now, chances are you know someone who wakes up and fights this battle day on and day off. I know people who will read will respect me for my honesty and some won’t. Actually, some people will hate it so much that I will somehow get blamed as being a “type of person” who causes this or causes that, and that’s just fine with me. A large part of humanity ignoring this disease is plain and simple: ignorance. Most people are not raised to commit crimes and hurt others so obviously we were raised that anyone who does so is a “bad” person. And, a lot of times when your already convinced someone is bad then you think it’s best that you stay away from that person. So if you decide to stay away from somebody you don’t care much for then why on earth would u ever take time out of your own day to learn about why they are bad? And I don’t blame you cause I am ignorant towards a lot of stuff in life as well. But not with this, with addiction, and to those of you who are considering reading along or stopping by this site- I applaud you and ask one question: what took you so fucking long?

This is less of a post but more like a bio about what we are trying to accomplish here on thewakeupjournals but as the days, the months, hopefully even as the years go bye, this blog can get the attention of enough people who want to help another suffering person in this world, and even if it can aid the recovery of a single individual…well, then we’ve succeeded.

Because how can you consider yourself a part of humanity if you don’t have the decency to help it in every way it needs it?