SHun

Addiction

Certain organizations have different ways to establish addiction. Different questions, different criteria, different degrees of being affected, different words to say the same thing, and ultimately every organization claims to have the cure. No matter what method, test, or organization you subscribe to, the conclusion for me has always been the same. I have failed nearly every question (and probably actually every question if I was 100% when answering them), on every test, every time. Or, I would pass I guess, depending on your perspective. I mean, in school didn't you usually succeed when you answered every question right? Wasn't that the point? Why couldn't being an addict be like being a student? Well, in a way it is I guess, depending on your perspective. The first test I took was out of an Alcoholics Anonymous brochure that my mother brought home from an Al-Anon meeting, or work, or wherever. I was probably around 14 or 15. Even at that young of an age the foundation was solidified and the progression was in the process of a downward spiral that only plummeted lower and lower and faster and faster until I was clinging to death by life's stubbornness, at a little location infamously known as rock bottom. Freakin' great! I am an addict. Because my life had been so freakin' awesome enough already. It doesn't matter what it is. What substance, what relationship, what food, what job, what goal, what desire, what state, what consequence, what lesson I should have learned a thousand times already. None of it matters. Because it doesn't matter what reference or context you put it in. Once I start I won't, I can't, I don't even think it's possible... to stop. On my own rational or even reasonable accord anyway.
​When I was programmed I did not come with a stop button. I don't have an off switch. There is no ability to consume, practice, or apply anything in moderation or with responsible consideration. Research has suggested an imbalance of brain chemicals like dopamine or epinephrine or neurotransmitters or something like that. Another theory is a malfunction in the synapses of the nervous system which fails to allow the proper passage of internal information between the brain and body or vice versa. Of course, the same has been said with depression and the production of serotonin levels. Maybe this also was a contributing factor to my obsessive compulsive tendencies, anxiety, suicidal ideations, attention deficit, hyperactivity, insomnia, anger, insecurities, and anything else I have ever suffered from, been plagued by, or has almost killed me. Maybe, if enough big words and inconclusive opinions are thrown at me I'll just accept whatever they try to sell me to shut them up and a true and honest solution will never be found. Some explanations do make sense sometimes. And I did not re-research any of the medical suppositions prior to writing above. This is all from memory of the Kool-Aid they made me drink at any one of the number of rehabilitation facilities I have vacationed at. There is a possibility that what I mentioned above was the cause and I am the result. There is also the possibility that I am a product of the environment in which I was raised. Clarification, I love my family and I put no blame on them. Ray was not family. I have an amazing family. I love my family. What I'm referring to is the early childhood divorce, the distance that divided me and my dad, my single mom that worked full time, went to school full time, and sacrificed so much just to provide for us and allow me the smallest of luxuries that we could afford, which in the beginning was not much luxurious at all, but those gestures and sacrifices meant the world to me then. I wish I remembered just how much they meant to me as I got older. I'm sure my mother sleeps so well at night knowing how all her sacrifice and hard work has paid off. I'm sorry mama. I never meant to hurt you. Anyway, my question is, if I was a product of my environment, the entire environment accounting for any and all events that may have impacted my life, could this all have been avoided? Could I have turned out any better? Did I ever have a chance? Was there ever any hope? I wish this could all go away. I wish I could just go away... forever.
​My m.o. has always been to be a sprinter, not a marathon runner. And when I say that I'm not referring to athletics. Anything I consume, put my hands on, or give my attention to is done hard and fast. A carnal impulsion propels me into a state of psychosis like a drop of blood frenzies a great white shark. How or where this all or nothing mentality originated from is a fact I cannot identify. I don't believe it is genetic because from what I have seen, the only people in my family who have had similar afflictions as I have are the ones who sustained the same abuse as me. This, although is speculation, I can substantiate by certain comments or remarks made by family members. Yeah, we all have a pretty good idea that it happened to all of us cousins, aunts, friends of the family, and neighborhood pets for all intents and purposes knowing how far back the history of abuse went with that son of a bitch.
. But that pretty good idea never was discussed, confirmed, or exposed until it was too long ago on our parts, or not soon enough to the final victims. So the obvious catalyst is Ray. The problem with that solution is although most of us had succumb to various vices to conceal the pain, and we all took our pain to different degrees of severity; although the final product may not be all that desirable for most, most were able to find some way to overcome or manage their addictions. Most, except for me. I got it the worst, hands down. The abuse, and the addiction. Is that my excuse, maybe, indirectly, yes? I never asked to be like this. Well, except for that one time when I was 5 or 6. But I didn't even know the definition of the word then, let alone think that ridiculous idealization would metamorphosis into a near death sentence.
​Alcohol is a drug. I hate to be labeled as an alcoholic. The stigma that comes with that designation repulses most people. Just hearing the word in my head as my brain dictates my thoughts and feelings into these sentences, it bothers me. A lot of the content in this book, most probably, bothers and disgusts me for some reason and to some degree. Apparently, I repulse myself. Deservedly so. Not that being labeled as an addict is any more appealing. Rationalization. It doesn't matter what you call me. Chances are, you're right. I qualify. I am an alcoholic. I am an addict. Not by chance and not by enjoyment not by desire, more by default. My world has revolved around drugs and alcohol for more than half of my existence and farther back than before it should have ever started.
​Time has escaped my life in a blur of chaos and confusion. The combination of drugs and alcohol have induced blackouts on a near daily basis for a decade consistently and sporadically for the rest. This has created gaps in my memory that span years and have provoked me into countless despicable actions and events. Stop rambling. Focus up.
​Weed. The first time I remember buying a bag of weed was when I was around 12. I was riding my Huffy Sigma around Nana and Papa's neighborhood to Cumberland Farms. I'm pretty sure my original intention was to just go get some Sour Patch Kids and Swedish Fish. As I rode up the dirt path shortcut behind the store and found two high school kids hanging out next to the dumpster. For whatever reason I decided to go over and try to make friends. To the best of my recollection, one of the kids asked if "I smoked weed?" "Yeah," I replied, as calm and confident, and with as deep a voice I could produce. After all image is everything. He asked if I wanted to "buy some?" For all I knew, they were gonna beat my ass and steal my bike. I loved that Huffy. It was a risk I took, either out of adrenaline or naiveté. Whichever one I don't remember. It was also the first, of many years to come of narcotics transactions and compromising positions. After a brief inspection of the nickel bag of weed, and I have no idea what I was even inspecting for, I nodded in acceptance and handed over my candy money. As I slipped the weed into my Starter Jacket, I can vaguely recall an adrenaline rush that was so euphoric, I completely forgot the fact that I did not have a freakin' clue what to do with the weed now that I got it. I had some basic ideas. Maybe that wasn't my first time smoking. It was my first time buying though. That I'm 100% about. Maybe I smoked with Rosie's boyfriend, Steve, once or twice before this. Man, Steve was cool. I idolized him. R.I.P. bro. More on that later. I remember trying to figure out how I was gonna light the weed because I didn't have a flame. I think I had a basic understanding of having to roll it into something though. Did I use a paper bag? I don't remember. I pedaled my bike to Nana and Papas' to find the tools I needed to get that weed smoked. Whatever I found, I took it into the woods behind their house where I spent so much of my childhood riding my bike around the homemade racetrack and jumps. I used to ride everywhere. I enjoyed that immensely. I used to enjoy a lot of things. I used to be happy. Now, I find little joy in anything anymore and, I find happiness on just as rare of occasions. Back then though, the adrenaline rush from the purchase and inherent danger provided almost as much stimulation as the joint did itself? Almost.
​Weed has always been an indulgence of mine. I don't know what was so appealing about weed. I don't know if it was the way it made me feel. I don't know if it was the company in which I kept or the thrill of the acquisition. As I got older my tolerance and consumption rapidly increased. By 7th or 8th grade I was smoking cigarettes daily and smoking weed as often as it could be bought or found. By my freshman year, I was smoking weed daily. A lot of it. All day, every day. Weed was my #1 priority at that time; and as of recently, after many years on hiatus for a couple of reasons beyond my control, it has once again returned to comfort and relieve me. The difference now, is that I have a valid medical prescription and I live in a state that it is legal, (mostly). More on the that later, but I warn you, this is a very hard topic to debate with me because I can justify my valid prescription against any skeptics, sticklers, or stupidity of those whom pass judgment with predisposition, preconceived notions, or foregone conclusions. Rationalization. Whatever, I stand behind what I do and why I do it. Focus up. I couldn't go anywhere or do anything without it. Location or engagement meant nothing. Before, during, and after school, same with football and baseball practices and games, before opening presents on Christmas morning, on the way to the mall with my little sister in the back seat, while my dad was visiting from California. I had no restrictions or reservations about it. Plus, my circle of friends was pretty tight now. Danny, Ski, Nuche, Matty, Shawn, John (still pissed about that whole Navy thing bro), Muntzy, Rob G., Marky Mark, Joe P., Lil Mikey, Sty, Brian R.I.P. bro. Others have come and gone, girls have come and gone, other cliques served less significant roles, but that was the core though, and we were pretty cool. A couple of us had the elite high school status of being both jock and stoner so we were mostly accepted anywhere. Best of both worlds right? They were all like me (except not as toxic), and we partied. Hard.
​One Friday night during my sophomore year me, Nuche, Matty, and Muntzy were at the CT. Post Mall. We saw someone from the neighborhood and wanted to buy a bag of weed. Matter of fact that may have been the only reason we went to the mall. Anyway, I was always the fearless, or stupid one that did the things that others were to nervous (or smart) to do. I walked into the bathroom to make the deal. Apparently, mall security had an undercover tailing him. Surprisingly though, Mike knew the undercover was following him. How? I have no idea. He was a mall cop after all, but seriously, if Mike could pull your covers you must have royally sucked at your job, which they did and it saved that night. After the undercover followed us in the bathroom and walked straight into a stall, Mike put his index finger over his lips and mouthed "COP" silently. As the cop attempted to discern what was happening over our muted sounds, we quickly made the transaction and split going separate ways. Not three minutes after I walked out of the restroom, the four of us were cornered buy three uniformed mall cops and the undercover. On display in the middle of the mall for everyone's satisfaction. Everyone but ours. They searched Nuche, Matty, and Muntzy first, fairly nonchalantly and seemingly quick as I assumed that the cops just wanted to get to me and Mike as we were obviously the ringleaders of some mastermind cartel. Everything happened so fast I had no time to drop the bag of weed that was in the front pouch of my Starter Notre Dame pullover. Shit, this is bad. As they searched the other three , Nuche got popped with a pack of rolling papers in his wallet which led to a second and more thorough search of him only, as Matty and Muntzy sat there watching all the drama unfold and content that they were in no trouble after passing their searches. The second search of Nuche, which actually should have been found in the first search if it was done thoroughly and properly, had uncovered a small dime bag of weed stuffed in the 5th pocket of his jeans. The shitty thing was that Nuche brought that from home and had nothing to do with the transaction Mike and I made except guilt by association. On the plus side, I was hoping that after they found the weed on Nuche they would connect that with the bathroom and let me just walk away. After all, they were mall cops and Mike pointed out their probably most senior officer as the undercover. Plus, we were 15. It was a $10 bag of dirt weed. I expected them to just shake him down a bit while they waited for his parents to arrive. As two of the cops walked Nuche back to the security office, the cop that escorted Matty and Muntzy out was returning and the other cop told me to stand up and spread my legs. FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! Maybe these cops aren't as useless as I thought. Inside the front pouch of my jacket was a pipe tucked all the way in the bottom left corner of the pocket. Pushed all the way to the right corner in the same pocket was the dime bag I just bought. SHIT! Hands began rubbing and patting up and down my legs. Around my socks and inside of my jean pockets, not forgetting the 5th pocket in my jeans hoping it would yield the same result as the search they just did on Nuche. They checked my boots and wallet. Nothing. His hands came up my sides and under my armpits. He patted the outside of my jacket all around, starting in the back and working his way forward. He patted his hands down the middle of my torso and stomach and as his hands moved out to the side I closed my eyes, put my head back, and sighed. FUCK! He reached inside the side pockets of my hoodie, and I my heart sank and I held my breath in anticipation of what I was sure he had already felt. As he removed his hands from my pouch he went straight to my hood and removed my hat as he searched for something he knew I had. His fingers were millimeters from the pipe and I thought I felt him actually make contact with the weed. Unexplainably, he did not feel himself make contact with it though. "He's clean." ARE YOU FUCKIN KIDDIN ME?! Is this guy new? WHAT A FREAKIN' RUSH! AMATEURS! Nuche was escorted to the mall security office where his parents were called to pick him up and Matty, Muntzy, and me were escorted to the nearest exit and told that we were banned from returning to the mall permanently. I was 86'd from a mall! I have been banned and booted out of a lot of places, but it all started with the CT. Post Mall around 1995. I can understand being kicked out of a mall for stealing something. But, I have never heard of anybody else being kicked out of a mall for BUYING something! Only me. I couldn't make that up if I tried. As the three of us got outside and the cops had turned their backs to return inside, I buried the weed in the dirt by a bush and threw the pipe in the trash. We went back inside the mall and tried to figure out what to do and how we would get home. Nuche WAS our ride originally. Instead of trying to explain to one of our parents why we were man down, we just decided to walk home. It was winter so it was cold. Snow was on the ground and the streets were slushy, but it wasn't snowing out. As we walked out to the exit Matt and Muntzy walked towards the street and I searched for surveillance following us again. Man were we paranoid. When I felt the coast was clear I ran back to the bushes to dig up the buried treasure, ran back across the parking lot, ducking and weaving in between parked cars until I caught up with them in the street. The walk home was like 5 miles, but it felt like a marathon. Some snow was on the ground and it was pretty freaking cold. All we could think about was smoking. Then it hit us, we had nothing to smoke out of. No bowl, no papers, and for some reason not even $0.50 to buy a Philly. That left us one option. For some unknown reason we kept an old two foot water bong stashes in the woods behind Pagles elementary school. The wind was blowing so hard the flame on the lighter kept blowing out. Our hands were frozen stiff and our legs were aching from the trek across town lines. The few hits from the bong we managed to scrounge up were ineffective. There was nothing more we could do tonight, so we all headed home. Sober, frozen, frustrated. What a night. In the following months, my regression became more than my mother could handle. I was out of control. When my sophomore year ended I was on a plane heading towards California where my father was to straighten me out. Where he was to help get me back on track.
Which he did. For the first time since I started using regularly, I was clean and sober. All I did was go to work and school. My grades came back up to a respectable level. I got my driver's license and bought my first car. I met a girl at work and was in a steady relationship. From the outside, all was well. From the inside I was bored, depressed, and alone. Against the wishes of both my parents, after the consulship of my junior year, I was driving back to Connecticut with my firebird loaded up with everything I owned. Back to my home. Back to my friends. And unintentionally, back to my old life and style.
When I got home, it felt like I never left. Like the 9 months I was gone was nothing more than a two week vacation to visit my father. My addiction to drugs and alcohol returned instantly. Automatically. After 9 months of being clean, I was high and drunk my first night back. Compound this with the fact that I was a little older, had a little more money saved up, had a bright red firebird, and it was my last year in high school, I had life all figured out, and I had arrived! So the bar was set higher, or lower, I guess, depending on how you look at it.
Progression.