- Drugs
- Faith
I could use without getting caught.
The story starts 34 years ago. At age 13, camping with some friends on a cool summer’s night, I was presented with the opportunity in my mind to either join the group or continue to be the weird kid. I joined in. The first experience left me unsure but willing to try again.
I don’t recall the feeling I so often hear described as the “I have arrived” feeling. To use was a chore at first. It was hard to find times I could use without getting caught. This was my journey for the next 21 years. I always used but was convinced it was not an issue since I was a success in my career, was married, had two wonderful children, a dog, a cat, a boat and two vehicles, and I lived on the golf course. This was the illusion I presented to everyone. I was miserable at family and social events. I was always focused on when I could use and not get caught. The days at work were OK. I used with some semblance of control there so I wouldn’t get caught.
It was January 1, 2002. My wife at the time came home at around 3:00am and informed me we would be divorcing. I was confused. We hadn’t had any real fights. We had the same desire to provide as parents. I had always been supportive of her, allowing her to move about job to job, even to be unemployed if she so desired. I thought I was being the best husband I could be. We loved each other. The recovered addicts reading this can see right through my delusion. I was absent physically, emotionally or spiritually throughout our whole marriage. I believed if I allowed my wife her space and supported whatever she did, then she had to support me if my use was ever exposed. Remember, the most important thing was that I not get caught.
The feelings came over me like a freight train at this time. My expectations of life were not as they should be. I was a wreck. I missed my children. I missed my wife. I missed my life. It became harder to use with out being caught. For the first time in my life, I used drugs to escape. This may have been the reason all along—this was the first time I used with the desire not to feel what I was feeling. I used whatever was available all day, every day. I lost my job; my dog and cat went to live with my neighbor. When I was unable to pay my bills, my home was repossessed. I had no place to live but on a friend’s couch. Luckily he was a friend of my ex-wife as well, and she allowed my children to come stay with me at first.
I messed this up soon enough. I am the type that, when I use, I don’t stop. Something has to happen. Twice I showed up so high that the children could not stay. I tried to stop two days before my visit but was unable to unless the dope ran out. One of these runs ended with an arrest, as many did. I sat in the jail after sleeping off the effects, crying. No tears would form. My heart was broken; my soul was dead. My family made an offer I couldn’t refuse: I could remain in jail or they would help me get into a residential treatment program. The choice was easy. I still had to await the bond hearing so I had time to sit quietly in reflection.
It was July 4th, 2004. The jailmates offered me the chance to either join the group by getting high to celebrate the 4th, or to continue to be the weird kid. For the first time in 21 years, I said no. As they got high that day in my cell, I wanted to join in out of discomfort, but I was able to make it through. This is when I realized I had gotten caught every time I ever used. I was caught in a vicious cycle of lies and deceit. The greatest of these were the lies and deceit directed at myself. I had lived in delusion so long that I couldn’t recognize or often even know the truth.
I of course accepted my family’s offer for treatment. Not knowing what to expect, it had to be better than jail. I stayed in treatment for 90 days in an intensive residential treatment program. I worked daily with treatment staff on issues, learning more about the disease and sharpening my life skills. At the end of the 90-day requirement, I followed the treatment staff’s recommendation to enter the extended recovery residences. I lived there for a year. During this time, I was involved in a 12-Step program. I was blessed to get involved with a great man who sponsored me through the twelve steps and taught me about the traditions. He helped me more than anyone to establish myself in a personal recovery routine and directed me along with the treatment staff on how to build a balanced life involving my children and all other responsibilities in recovery.
The last eight years have been great. I have daily contact with God; I am involved in my 12-Step program and have developed relationships with people in my community. I remarried three years ago. My children live with me. The first evidence of my recovery was a sense of peace that came from the experience in jail. The rest has been one after another. Blessings flow. I still feel UN-worthy, like the weird kid at times. These times pass. I had accepted many years ago that drug use was my curse and that I would spend my life trying not to get caught.
Today I know recovery is my blessing, and I want to let everyone who will listen know that this thing works. One out of four of the people in my world are successes in recovery. The reason this isn’t higher is because of the stigma addiction carries. As practicing addicts, we do some pretty bad things. Those affected by this disease as family members or just associates get burned. The trust is hard to regain. I don’t ask that you trust me, no more than I can trust you. Just don’t hold our willingness to confront our disease against us. Our failures don’t define us, no more than our successes do. It is not what I have done or what I am capable of. It is who and what am I now. Recovery is real, it is possible, and it is achievable. It is all around us. Our pastors, teachers, politicians, garbage men, doctors, homeowners, taxpayers—the list goes on to infinity. People in recovery are all around us.
Please support recovery… Recovery supports you. - Brian, 07/04/2004.