- Drugs
- Mental Health
Well, I can’t describe myself in any way as a “hero.” I broke MANY rules and did things my way for many years, until I was 34. That meant starting out with pot and alcohol and ending up massively addicted to street heroin, methadone maintenance (I stayed on methadone for 12 years, with doses up to 300 mg), an entire litany of painkillers and whatever else was available to a spiritually drowning man in the grip of addiction.
One of the stories that I need to tell on a regular basis takes place in the Hell’s Kitchen section of New York City. It was 1982, and the winter was freezing cold! I lived in an abandoned building with other addicts near 9th Avenue and 47th Street. Back then, this area was full of abandoned, wrecked buildings. There was no plumbing and no heat, nothing but walls and a roof.
I woke up from a shallow sleep and felt a tickling sensation in my right arm. This was coming from the huge abscess that I had created and maintained by continually shooting up all kinds of adulterated drugs and never even giving it a chance to heal. I had covered this wound and many others on my arms and legs with old rags torn from dirty clothes that I had either found or purchased for a quarter at the Salvation Army shop.
I kept nodding off, but the tickling got more and more irritating. Finally, out of a sense of curiosity and pain, I unwrapped the rag to find maggots swimming around all over the abscess. It smelled and looked disgusting. And it was ME!!! Not a movie, not a story, but ME! This is what my life had turned into: slimy maggots eating away at my corroding flesh. And it stank!!!
I was so horrified and disgusted that, in desperation, I grabbed a can of kerosene that we had been using to create a little heat in the apartment. I soaked my arm with the kerosene, hoping to kill those disgusting maggots. Once my arm was soaked, I suddenly got a BETTER idea. Why not light myself on fire and end this suffering once and for all?!
So I grabbed a lighter and, cursing myself and the world, held it under my arm, waiting to burst into flames. But, as providence would have it, the lighter refused to ignite. I cursed even more, knowing that the chance to end this horror was taken from me. I realized at that moment that I would have to just wait for death to free me.
It was two more years, grueling and inhuman years, before I had enough. It was after Christmas of 1983. The Christmas season was especially hard for me as I saw smiles, kindness and love all around but felt nothing inside other than emptiness and horror.
I decided to commit suicide using my handgun that I kept in my backpack for defense. I was (and still am) somewhat theatrical so I made a plan to go into one of the most beautiful churches in New York City and do the dirty deed there. I hoped I could do this in front of lots of people, so they could know of my failure, anger and pain.
I arrived at St. Patrick’s Church with gun in hand. The doors were open, and I walked in. I was committed to ending the pain that night. I could tolerate it no longer. I could NOT wake up again knowing clearly that I would do exactly what I had done the day before, the week before and the year before. I could NOT go through one more day of intense sickness, self-disdain, anger, hatred and failure.
I walked into the church with a commitment. I would NOT walk out again. The church, to my great shock and disappointment, was totally empty, just as my life had been. I walked up to the altar and just stood there, not knowing what to do or where to go. I cried, even through the heroin, the methadone and the pain pills. The tears came.
A woman, probably a worker in the church, came over to me. She asked politely and innocently, “What’s wrong?” What a question! There was nothing right. Everything was wrong! She asked me to follow her into an office, which I did. She sat me down and asked me questions, which I answered quite honestly. You see, nothing mattered now. I was done.
She wrote something on a piece of paper, folded it and sealed it in an envelope. On the envelope she wrote, “Roosevelt Hospital Emergency Department.” She handed it to me and asked if I would be so kind as to deliver the letter to the hospital personally. She had been so kind to me, so I said, “Sure.”
I found myself at the window of the emergency department at Roosevelt Hospital. I dutifully handed the sealed envelope to the guard there. He was confused but was patient with me. He read the letter and finally asked me if I still had my weapon. I said, “Yes.” He requested that I slip it under the glass, which I did. Once he had it, he then said something that I didn’t expect. He said, “Do you want to come in?” I said, “Sure.”
So I was promptly admitted to the Roosevelt Hospital Psychiatric Ward! It was a wonderful place to be when you’re crazy, like I was, and have no other place in the world to be. They examined me and realized how massively addicted I was. They gave me medications to keep me stable. The abscesses had gotten even worse and required surgery. I had infections all over my body. They transferred me to surgery and started operating. There was a lot to do. They had planned to amputate my right arm because it was already showing signs of gangrene. Apparently, a new doctor thought it was worth his time to try to save the arm so he dedicated himself to doing so and was successful.
The night after the last operation, I laid alone in a dark room with both arms tied up to metal posts. It was quiet but I liked that. I was totally alone. I had grown accustomed to that. I suddenly saw myself as I was: beaten, empty, hopeless and without any reason to live. I was despicable, the lowest of the low. Pain was everywhere. There was no relief. There was no solution. This was in January of 1985. I totally gave up. I surrendered.
From that moment of surrender, I have chosen NOT to use drugs. And I have been drug and alcohol free ever since. I was sent to a formal detox program for monitoring and support. I had to be put in a straightjacket at one point because of hallucinations. Then I went to a residential rehab facility in PA. I felt hopeless and frustrated there because I saw other people begin to feel good, while I was just STUCK with pain and emptiness. I attempted suicide there after having been drug free for over two months. It was hopeless, I thought.
But, fortunately, there was love, support and no escape. This is a journey that I HAD to go through, even without enthusiasm or faith. I never had religion or believed in God. So what was being offered by others was just causing more frustration for me. I just didn’t have the belief and faith that they did. And there was no reason to pretend I did!
By default, I stayed in treatment and then went to a halfway house. I was directed to self-help meetings where I watched and listened. But I didn’t feel much that I belonged there. But, again, there was nowhere else to go!
I got a sponsor. His name was Ron and he was a good guy. I chose him to be my sponsor because one Saturday I saw him stand up in the middle of a gratitude meeting and sob real tears with no apologies. He was five years sober, and now I had a hero. I hoped one day to be able to feel what he felt and have the courage and confidence to let people know me just as I was.
I celebrated 29 years clean and sober a few months ago in Thailand. I was working there as a counselor and spiritual director. Imagine me, an atheist or at least an agnostic, being a spiritual director! And I did well.
So now, at the tender age of 64, I have taken a new wife, a wonderful sweet Buddhist woman from Thailand. And we have a spirited eight month old daughter. She is the fourth child I’ve had in recovery. Four daughters! I have had many adventures in sobriety. I’ve traveled the world, become a licensed pilot, had a book published and made (and lost) millions of dollars. And I have learned to be REAL and care and love people around me.
I continue to go to meetings, not because I’ve got it but more because I don’t. My faith, when it is there at all, is weak. But I pray before every meal, whether I believe or not. Ron taught me that! When I’m happy, I smile. And when I’m sad, I cry. Ron showed me that.
Life is good. Recovery rocks. Soon I’ll be in Saugerties, NY, helping to run a recovery house. My entire family is coming with me. And there are many friends in this world that I haven’t met yet but I will soon. Yes, I’m still a defiant, independent, rebellious brat. But I’m a clean and sober one. And that makes it all good.
-David O.