

### MINUTES OF HEAVEN

### MILES OF HELL

By

Mitch Webb

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Mitch Webb on Smashwords

Minutes of Heaven Miles of Hell

Copyright 2012 by Mitch Webb
Part I

The Ladder of Drug Etiquette

Chapter 1: Genesis

The Basics

Getting high? I've always been getting high.

Sunday afternoons at my house were as lazy as turtles chewing jerky. I remember stretching out on our high mileage couch, blanketed with Mamaw's homemade multi-colored quilt. It was an old and scratchy sort of throw not long enough to cover a cough, much less my tall skinny frame. While watching a western named The Good the Bad and the Ugly, starring Clint Eastwood, I stirred a big bowl of chocolate ice cream into a thick milkshake. What more could a twelve-year-old boy ask for? Television was my drug of choice long before I could even spell drug.

Bell-bottoms, shag rugs, and Farrah Fawcett posters decorated the disco era in the late 70's when a television sitcom began to air called All in the Family. The two main characters of the show, Archie and Edith Bunker, mirrored my parent's persona. My dad was a prejudice die hard republican that ran our house with an iron fist, and mom was a faithful church attending woman with strong convictions for doing the right thing by everyone. Also in the family was my music-loving brother, four years my junior, who later went into Christian counseling. For the time era, I figure we lived an average American lifestyle. We were a blue collar family and although poor in finance, my family was rich in unity.

Growing up in a small redneck town in western North Carolina, I recall toys and entertainment were limited, and neighborhood children to play with were few and far in between. I don't know, maybe there were more children to play with than I care to admit, but often I preferred to play alone. Keep in mind; this is in the days before all the electronic gadgets were available. Looking back, I think we were actually made to stay outside and play. Whether it was playing hide and seek, riding bikes, playing cowboys and Indians, or playing by myself, staying outside until dark was the norm. Afterwards, my brother and I would normally get from thirty minutes to an hour of television on the weeknights. On the weekends my folks were a lot more liberal (perhaps because they were so tired from the work week).

Growing into my teens I found a new high replacing television--weight lifting. There probably isn't a boy alive who hasn't looked at some man who was chiseled with muscle and desired that for himself. I decided to join the school's wrestling team to assist in my physical training, although wrestling wasn't my specialty. Well, "wasn't my specialty" doesn't exactly describe my athletic contributions. Let's simply say I was pinned more than Mamaw's hair on Sunday morning.

Speaking of Sunday mornings, I faithfully attended a small Baptist church in the country. Not by choice, mind you, but because Mother strongly encouraged me to go. Church and the rules of church just wasn't my thing. From my young, simple-minded point of view, I couldn't understand why the receptive congregation would fervently welcome a new tongue lashing each week only to thank the pastor afterwards. Church terrified me with constant shouting reminders of doom and gloom; however, I did relish the church summer trips to our North Carolina theme park Carowinds. Another childhood reminder of church was the great emphasis and dialogue put into food. Who is doing the cooking, who needed thanks for the cooking, and who is going to eat the cooking, and so on. Through the years, I must say this fascination with dining inside the church has not diminished any.

Being fourteen years old in my home was like being fourteen in dog years--predictable. My parents woke me up, fed me, and seen me off to school faithfully. We ate dinner at 4:40 sharp, Monday through Friday and bedtime was at 9:00. Saturday mornings overflowed with Lucky Charms and Looney Tunes, spilling into afternoon tree climbing. Occasionally, when finances would allow, I received allowance for doing chores expected of me. I would blow my money on Spiderman comic books, Star Wars trading cards, or whatever the notion took--as much as fifty cents to a dollar could take me.

OK, let's skip a couple of years to the judicious age of sixteen. My first quality ride was a moldy-cheese green 1970 Dodge Dart that would do zero to sixty in about--well, eventually. I worked full time at McDonald's and part time at a full service gas station earning good money ($3.35 an hour); although it appeared all my money was going into my car, eating out, or various teen-age desires. I felt the need for a new high.

Marijuana

During that red-letter time in my life, marijuana made its grand appearance riding shotgun with my soon-to-be best friend Matt. I believe he was high the day I met him in tenth grade shop class. His audaciously stupid-funny humor attracted me from the onset. I don't know how we hooked up. He was the classic clown of stoners, much in contrast to me--the pen-yielding soldier in a squad of geeks.

Matt smoked more than that old Dodge Dart of mine; but marijuana wasn't for me--yet. I didn't even attempt to smoke marijuana for maybe seven or eight months. During that time, I would be lying if I said my interest was non-existent. My curiosity in pot (marijuana) stirred each time I witnessed my best friend having hee-haw hysteria. How bad could that drug be if it made one feel so happy? I felt subdued, like sitting on the bank watching Matt swing off a rope mischievously into the deep creek waters. What about me? I wanted to dip my toe in the tempting waters!

After carefully weighing my wants, I decided to learn how to smoke pot.

The decision to sample marijuana was not due to any form of pressure; envy and curiosity were enough motivating factors for me. Since I was a non-smoker, I didn't know how to inhale. All right, I knew how to breathe, but that was a bit more natural than actually wanting to put smoke in my lungs. Because Matt was the only person I had ever been around that smoked pot, I asked him to teach me the fine art and decorum of smoking weed.

Matt coached me like a relentless drill instructor only to get frustrated at my defeat. I managed to suck the smoke past my lips, but no farther; my unpolluted lungs vetoed what smoke slithered toward it. With each diminishing attempt, I ended up hacking with a look reflecting my asphyxiation. The failed smoking attempts and the hyperventilating proved more than I was willing to sacrifice; the drug was too much work. Keep it.

My next tug of war with smoking pot came nearly a month later when I decided to fly solo. I didn't want to burden Matt anymore, but more accurately, I was too embarrassed to fail again in front of him. The curiosity I had in the harvest of smoking marijuana equaled my impatience. Therefore, one day while Matt's attention was elsewhere, I borrowed some of his weed. He would've gladly given me some, but I didn't want him anticipating my intentions.

Anyway, I took one of those pre-rolled tapered cigarettes with me to the local grocery store and parked some distance away. I put the joint (marijuana cigarette) up to my lips and lit it with the lighter--also borrowed from Matt. So there I sat puffing--grimacing as if kissing a cobra. Staring down my nose, I saw the cherry of the joint get brighter. At first I couldn't take in the smoke, just as before; but after enough determination (and enough of Matt's weed), I was able to.

I finally coerced an unsympathetic ball of smoke into my virgin lungs, sending me immediately into a whooping outburst. The pot tasted much like it smelled, although I had never actually tasted a minty skunk before. I choked, hacked, and gagged resentfully for about a minute--long enough to lose most of my oxygen. Once the coughing abated, and the floating black spots from lack of oxygen cleared out, I understood why people liked weed.

Marijuana provided a blissful feeling heightening my senses.

First, food tasted better. Not just some food, but all food! The 'munchies', as it is known in the marijuana realm, is difficult to explain. Simply put, it was taste bud paradise! Strangely enough, hunger wasn't needed to possess that bizarre sensation. Imagine the stomach no longer a part of the digestive equation--but the sense of taste expanding. If it tasted good, as most of it did, then I ate it! However, since the stomach was a part of the digestive equation, belly sickness occurred many times from trying to fill a delusional empty tank.

In addition, from observations I have made, proper dining etiquette is not required. For instance, most folks will agree that bacon and eggs go well together. Although the stoned person would agree with the last statement, they would have no problem with combining eggs with say, M&M's or a taco. All potheads have strange cravings or eccentric eating habits to some degree, although combinations and protocol varies from stoner to stoner.

By the way, the slang term stoner or stoned is simply one of countless labels for the marijuana smoker or his state of mind while under the influence of the drug. Of course, marijuana itself has scores of titles. There are many slang terms used for marijuana; some of those include grass, green, weed, dro, doobies, pot and bud.

Second, music had new life. Once again, as with the food observation, the listening experience is tricky to put in plain words. I found music to be one of the better perks of smoking marijuana. Once I got high, the music was never far behind. Intensity level of instrument distinction was one reason I enjoyed it so. To put it in English, I heard instruments played in songs I had never noticed before. How could a drug do such a thing? Originally, I thought the experience to be an audible hallucination, but changed my mind once I listened to the same songs with a clear head. Sure enough, those instruments were there if I closed my eyes, and listened for them. Songs that I had enjoyed for years were all of the sudden fresh to me again.

The final spin-off of this drug was strange indeed. Whenever I smoked weed everything was funny. Not chuckle--chuckle funny--but heart attack funny. It was the kind of funny that hurt my chest from prolonged laughter. Once Matt and I started laughing, there was no end until tears ran down our cheeks and our lungs could take no more. My teeth would turn dry while my cheeks begged for mercy. It took little to set us off; most of the things we found humorous were not comical at all. Often we would forget why we were laughing in the first place, which in turn sent us back into a sidesplitting hilarity.

When we could escape the prison cells of laughter, we would entertain ourselves listening to music while cruising the strip. We had to have righteous sound, regardless of the car we drove. In the days before Jenson and JVC (and in our case, money), there was a seedy man up the road who sold various audio equipment to Matt and I (you probably know the guy). At any rate, that's what we did in the early eighties. We would drive in a large loop on Patton Avenue (local hangout) Friday and Saturday nights with music screaming, hoping to score with the ladies. "Scoring with the ladies" merely meant getting them to pull over for hollow chitchat.

Pot did have one other side effect in that it reddened the eyes. The stoned person would normally experience a droopy look in their eyes as if they were squinting or extremely sleepy. On one occasion, I recall driving home stoned late one night after leaving Matt's house. We had been to the mall and walked around stoned all day making fun of elderly people--just being annoying teens. Well, we got to his place and smoked some more grass, which only compounded the bloodshot droopy-eyed look.

On the way home, I pulled over into a medical clinic parking lot near my house. It was after hours, maybe midnight or later, when I pulled into the dark secluded location on a hill. I knew I had to clear my eyes up, because Mother was always there--no matter what time--to make sure I made it in OK. To avoid unwanted attention from the law or anyone else, I killed the lights in the Cutlass I owned at the time. I fumbled around in the console compartment blindly while looking around at the surroundings, feeling for my bottle of Visine. I found the odd triangular shaped plastic bottle, unscrewed the top, and dotted my eyes liberally. I squirted several drops in each eye, although much of it missed altogether.

Instantly my eyes felt like an old Jerry Lee Lewis song--"Great Balls of Fire". Normally there was always a little sting when applying those drops, but I recall thinking I must be seriously stoned because I didn't remember Visine blazing like that. The salty tears spilled steadily down my face. Because the pain was so awfully excruciating, I couldn't help but rub and rip at my helpless peepers. Once the constant flow of tears finally slowed to a drip and enough for me to crack my eyes open, I cut on the interior light to dig out the Visine. Once I fondled my way through the console to the odd shaped bottle, it was then I realized I had mistakenly put concentrated breath drops in my eyes! Needless to say, this act caused my sunburned eyes to blister. However, I did have the freshest eyes in town.

The Bummers of Marijuana

Since I told of the bracing rides in the marijuana amusement park, it seems only fair I communicate the downers as well. The name marijuana came from a Mexican slang term for cannabis or hemp. In 1619, the American colonies actually required farmers to grow the hemp plant for making clothing, sails, and rope. The first two written drafts of the United States Declaration of Independence were on paper made from hemp.

Depending on who you talk to, or which web site you visit, there are convincing arguments both ways concerning the addictive personality of marijuana. Although thirteen states, as of 2007, allow regulated medical marijuana use, more teens are in treatment with a primary diagnosis of marijuana dependence than for all other illicit drugs combined.

Health apparently was not on my top ten lists of things to maintain when I smoked marijuana. Pot is much harder on the lungs than cigarettes, but then again, I don't know of any smoke that is easy on your lungs. It has been said that three marijuana joints is the equivalent to smoking a full pack of filtered cigarettes, as far as the tar deposits go. I developed a hack in my once fresh airway and deep breathing wasn't quite as effortless as it once was. Regretfully, that fact came to me well after I went from tenor to bass. Marijuana has been studied for long term effects on the heart, brain and reproductive system. Once again, the expert's opinions vary extensively.

Outside of the aftermath I detailed earlier, weed made me lazier than a thirty-year-old cat. Never did I participate in any physical activity when stoned. In fact, I can't recall a time even standing when high--not if I could sit. Another slang term for marijuana is dope. That must've been how I looked stoned--like a dope--sitting slumped back, droopy eyed, and tuned to turbulent music with orange crumbs of Cheese Puff's scattered on my smiley face t-shirt.

Well, I managed to graduate high school with honors (for the most part anyway) about a little over a year later. Towards the latter half of my senior year, my grades and attendance suffered drastically. A person would never find a pothead at home studying or doing homework, and I was no exception. At least I completed the first three years with perfect attendance and with A's and B's. In that fourth year, I was a racehorse with a plow attached--the plow being marijuana and I worked its fields.

Inhalants

Matt and I experimented with inhalants a handful of times when the weed ran dry. Inhalants are breathable chemical vapors that are intentionally inhaled for the chemical's mind-altering effects. Although most of those substances were often common household products containing volatile solvents, aerosols, or gases, Matt and I used something different. An adult book and video store in our area (later chased out by the government) sold a tiny bottle of liquid incense called Rush. (I suppose labeling the inhalant as liquid incense kept it legal.)

Our limited involvement with Rush left few memories. There is one time in particular that does stand out though. One time Matt and I went to the mall with our small bottle of liquid incense. (We had a strange fascination with the mall.) We rode around back to our usual entrance spot--behind Sears on the upper level. Sitting in Matt's boat, an old Ford Galaxy 500, he unscrewed the top to the bottle, put it up under his nostrils, and took a big snort before handing the bottle to me. I did the same. We held those brain-burning fumes in our lungs as long as we could before exhaling.

We exited the Ford and walked as straight and as quickly as we were able into the Sears parts department, red-faced and laughing all the way. Entering the elevator, which was only fifteen yards or so from the entrance, Matt would hug the wall closest to the buttons. I, on the other hand, would go to the back, stick my nose in the corner, and start giggling--whether people were on the elevator or not. By the time the elevator descended one floor, most of the high was gone and replaced with a pounding in our heads. Matt and I only snorted when desperate for a buzz, and sometimes not even then because of the negative side effect of the pulsing headaches.

Inhalants have been around for as long as we have had written records. In 1831 chloroform was discovered and its abuse was reported the same year. Dentist Horace Wills, the first person in the United States to use nitrous oxide in surgery, died from complications resulting from his own chronic chloroform abuse.

In 1962 the first case of glue sniffing in Great Britain was reported. A twenty-year-old man regularly increased his dose from one-third of a tube per week to two tubes per night. This high dosage produced hallucinations. When he tried to stop using the drug he experienced the DTs, or delirium tremens, a violent form of drug withdrawal often experienced by alcoholics and characterized by confusion, restlessness, sweating, tremors, and hallucinations. After sniffing two tubes, the man became semi comatose and was admitted to a clinic, where he recovered, but soon resumed the habit.

Inhalants, such as our "liquid incense", displace oxygen in the lungs and therefore suffocating the brain. Of course, those facts aren't taken into consideration when desiring to get high. While marijuana increases sensation, inhalants decrease sensation. The eyes see floating spots (as if blacking out), the ears hear reverberation (like being slapped against the eardrum), sense of equilibrium is lost (much like alcohol intoxication), and concentration is at an all time low. The high lasts only minutes-long enough for oxygen to replenish the brain. Yeah, those were the good ole days.

Rebellion

At the peak of my puberty, I had absolutely no idea what to do with the rest of my life--but was content with the minimum wage jobs I worked. Unbelievably, I still had the same two jobs described earlier. Eighteen years old and still living as a couch potato at home, I was basically fruitless. Now don't get me wrong, I was a fairly clean cut kid outside of the whole smoking pot setback. I would do what was asked of me, but I would be hard pressed to go above and beyond. I was a little on the lazy and selfish side. OK, a lot on the lazy and selfish side. Hey, I had a car, two jobs, and no bills. I figured I could be as lazy and selfish as I wanted. Although I didn't know it at the time, life at home was a steak-house buffet with all the trimmings. How little did I know I was about to trade it all for a Happy Meal without the burger.

My dad, disabled with emphysema, was home-bound. I am sure he grew very tired of being tied to an oxygen machine. Still, I somehow felt guilty for simply carrying on a conversation with Dad. His lungs were in bad shape, so he didn't like to repeat himself. Needless to say, it behooved me to hear him the first time. If ever he had to repeat himself it generally was uncivil, and he would always add "I don't have the breath to repeat myself." I always thought that to be odd; I mean he had the breath to tell me he didn't have the breath. Don't misunderstand me, I loved my father, but he was a strict man with strict rules and I grew tired of them quickly.

It wasn't long, maybe a couple of months, when I started growing weary of the "back when I was your age" sermons. Of course, I kept my views to myself, unless I wanted a backhand to my face. Yeah, he knew everything--blah, blah, blah. I don't believe I was ever right! It didn't matter since I knew all his beliefs were based on old school black and white tradition. Dad could have his views; I learned to be tolerant. After all, I was eighteen, how could I be wrong?

Summer was almost over, and I anxiously anticipated life to deal me what I deserved. With the end of high school, I guess I was expecting some high paying career to simply drop out of the sky and into my lap. So in order to make room, I decided to quit the McDonald's job, but Matt and I continued to work at the gas station. We actually enjoyed working there, and it put the gas in our tanks. So I waited patiently. Days turned into weeks which turned into months.

That rocket scientist position I had been expecting never did come.

I continued to live at home with Dad riding my back like kudzu. I hid behind my mom whenever there was friction between me and Dad. Mother always stood up for her little boy, and I knew I could count on that. I did feel sorry for Mother--the official referee in our house. Her unfailing love for me and my brother was incomprehensible and surpassed by no other. Although many would claim to have the best mom in the world, I really did!

The gas station job was getting a bit old, so right before quitting, I had found a hot new girlfriend. She came into the station with her brother Tony in a boat looking green Ford LTD. Her name was Angie, and she was trouble from the beginning. She was a high school drop out that partied down and smoked cigarettes. Those were not my usual endearing qualities I liked in a woman but she made the grade in the most important quality--beauty! Angie's very dark eyes complimented with naturally long eyelashes matched her plumb, equally dark shoulder length hair. Her smooth skin, the color of coffee with extra creamer, was flawless. She wasn't tall, but she had appealing horizontal qualities. When she spoke with that dentist's dream of a mouth, it mesmerized me.

Even though I was shy and not much of a Casanova with the women, I talked the party language, at least when it came to pot. So it didn't take long for Matt and me to hook up with our new friends. Then, the attraction between me and Angie simply took off with no effort on my behalf. Yee-haw!

Yes, she smoked cigarettes and had a foul mouth and was a dropout. Did that make a difference with me? Of course not! She was a beauty, which over-rides all other negative attributes.

I wasn't surprised Dad didn't think much of her. Come to think of it, even Mother--who liked everyone--had her reservations. The last time I had invited Angie over to the home front to slum around, Dad decided to be condescending towards me in front of her. I don't know if it was intentional, or if Dad was just being who he was, but I intended to stop it. Dad and I got into a heated discussion...OK, it was a fight. Not physically; I wasn't that stupid. That quarrel was reason enough for me to leave home, without a car or a job. I walked with Angie to her house (about two miles) with the clothes on my back, and a bad attitude to boot. Surprisingly, Angie's family took me in--no questions asked.

Stealing

I was penniless long enough for the water to get hot before yearning that miserable life at home, but pride kept me at Angie's. How could I make some money? After short and narrow consideration, the thought of stealing came into play. At first, I stole copper cable wherever I could find it, and sold it to scrap yards. Eventually, I graduated to stealing from a store much like Wal-Mart, except smaller. Back in the day, the validity and importance of receipts were trivial. Also, anti-theft devices and door alarms were non-existent. With that in mind, I would steal small, but expensive merchandise. Later, I would go back into the store and fetch my money back--telling them I lost my receipt. Ultimately, I quit stealing from that particular store since their troops rallied every time I walked in.

A few weeks later, I was busted lifting a Lionel Richie cassette for Angie at Sears. That mistake steered me in a new direction.

Hitler showed more mercy than the female undercover cop who arrested me. Life's opportunities were limited at that point. Maybe "limited" is a slight understatement: No car. No money. No job. No prospects. My back was against the flames and I was a Pinto (now I really am telling my age). I had to call my best friend--Mother. Sure enough, she was there for me. She hired and paid for an attorney to represent my stupidity.

During that era, I had toyed with the idea of joining the military. That grass was beginning to look greener and greener. In fact, my attorney said the court may have more sympathy on me if I mentioned my intentions of enlisting.

It worked. My lawyer made it all go away. Now all I had to do was join the military. Easy, right?

Chapter Two: The Military

Basic Training

Joining the Army seemed like a peach of a plan at the time. Once the novelty of that choice wore off, and it was time to make good on my word, I knew it was clearly a horrible decision. Big time! From the day of my court appearance to time for Uncle Sam, I lived in a state of panic. Three months to the day of seeing the judge, I arrived at Fort Dix, New Jersey. It was the dead of winter. What in the world had I done? Maybe I was a wimp; perhaps a little spoiled; but this country boy was more out of place than an Amish man in Radio Shack! There was only one teeny-tiny problem--I couldn't quit! Unlike McDonalds where I could just toss my spatula, I was property of the U.S. government for the next three years, whether I liked it or not.

OK, first of all, all those stories you hear about basic training, and all those things you see in the movies, well, they are for real if not worse. I recall being exceedingly repentant on one particular bitter morning around 3:30. My military career was creeping at the three week stage when one night bright lights and the sound of thunderous drill instructors barking out commands awoke the platoon. Sergeant Barmore's voice boomed such that he could wake my granny--and she's been deceased for some time. We had bunked down only three hours beforehand, after an extremely demanding seventeen hour day. The drill instructors roared at us as we hastily lined up in formation about fifty yards from the barracks.

It was bitterly cold outside that morning. We stood like vibrating bowling pins in the sloppy sleet. Our only protection against the elements was thin government-issue plastic ponchos. Used Saran Wrap would've done a better job. The gusts of wind compounded the freezing temperatures. As I attempted to stand still at attention, my body shook uncontrollably from the stinging blasts of ice being blown in my face. The air currents whistling under the flimsy poncho only added to my increasing rage. I wanted to rip apart the hulking drill instructor. Hot tears welled in my eyes from anger and frustration, but froze before they fell off of my chin. What had I done? What HAD I done?

The remaining time in basic training mimicked itself day in and day out. We started our jam packed days around four in the morning and ended around nine at night. We were pushed hard, both mentally and physically. So many things were drilled into us in such a short time. Our days were so loaded with PT, class, marching, rifle and weapons training, and everything else that by the time you laid your head down at night, you were already asleep. So many times I wished I could quit, but knew it was not an option. Several men who started out in my platoon did in fact drop out, several were put out, and even more went AWOL (absent without leave).

Those eight weeks left impressions on me which I never forgot, nor regretted.

One week before finishing basic training, I received a "Dear John letter" from Angie. A Dear John letter is basically a break-up letter. She didn't hold any punches either. Of course she had to rub it in about how her life improved so much with the man she hooked up with while I was serving my country. Actually, I don't remember experiencing heartache, but abandonment--a feeling that I would get to know all too well, unfortunately.

Immediately after completing basic training, I received one week's leave of absence (time off) to visit back home. I looked forward to seeing my family--especially Dad. I had always craved Dad's approval, and felt somehow I never earned it; but the military career choice made him proud of me. Even though I had only been gone from home two months, it seemed like forever.

Reuniting with Dad was like a sad story with a happy ending. There were no hugs, or tears, but a manly handshake and as I looked him in the eye, I knew I won his approval.

Oddly, it appeared as though home had changed. Not the house or my family, but the town and the people I knew. Looking back, I realize all I remembered hadn't changed--I did. I had unintentionally said goodbye to my youth and greeted my adulthood.

Korea

Three months later, I managed to make it through advanced individual training (school) in Aberdeen, Maryland. AIT was nothing like basic training. Sure, we had PT and much of the military format was the same, but we did manage to have some time off to ourselves after our school day. As I said, my particular field only took three months of training, so the Army was ready to ship me off for service to my country.

I took one more leave of absence for thirty days before my first tour of duty in Korea for a year. Being home again made me want to stay this time, probably because I knew I was going away for a year. I was just getting used to being home when my time was about up. The day I left was a sad one. I put on my travel apparel (dress greens is the Army terminology) and I secretly cried. I dreaded leaving as a convicted man dreads prison. Dad and I traveled alone to the local airport, which was a good forty-five minute drive. I was to take a tiny plane to the big one out of Charlotte. No words were spoken. I simply stared out the window and did my best to keep the tears inside. Dad and I sat in an almost empty terminal awaiting my flight. Right before I boarded, I stood up and reached out my hand to shake Dad's; he accepted. He then pulled me into him and hugged me. I looked up at him and he was speechless, but had tears in his eyes as well. We didn't speak. We didn't have to. FINALLY Dad was proud of me! That was the last time I got to hug Dad face to face.

The sixteen-hour flight was a bit too much time for a nineteen year old mama's boy to ponder things. However, I soberly assessed the reason I was on that plane, and what decisions I had made which led to it. My conclusion was I did the crime; hence, I would do the time. Although I was certainly fearful of the unknown, it wasn't nearly as intense as two and a half months ago. I told myself that I'd make it--I'd have to.

The obese plane held enough soldiers to start a small country. No civilians, just military personnel. GI's were drinking and smoking all around me as if it were Mardigras. I entertained myself watching and observing people making fools of their selves for the first couple hours. Then everyone settled down somewhat, and the flight crew showed a movie. Many of the soldiers were passed out or heading in that direction. After the movie, I suppose people had time to recuperate and start partying again. This ritual continued to repeat itself throughout the flight, with minor variations. I wasn't cool enough to party or smoke, so I just closed my eyes. I slept unusually sound in the upright position of that uncomfortable plane, so I continued to take advantage of sleeping so well. Perhaps ten minutes ticked away before I drifted off. I fell into a deep sleep and dreamt of my childhood. I was coloring comic book heroes with neighborhood children, trading markers and cards, and pretending to be a professional wrestler--wrestling with pillows.

I awoke to a short choppy "ding". At that very second, I was caught between reality and fantasy. Part of me thought I had won my dream wrestling match; while the waking part of me was beginning to comprehend the plane was landing. Where were we?

Upon stepping onto foreign soil, I was knocked back by the stench of bad cabbage (I didn't even like the smell of good cabbage). Walking off the plane ramp, I remember the expressionless cool and drab Saturday in October when I arrived at Camp Stanley to receive all the overseas military items. Uncle Sam required a few more autographs from me before transferring these belongings to my new home. I didn't like Korea from day one. More truthfully, I hated it.

I entered the almost desolate barracks of the lengthy one story structure. The quarters housed about sixty soldiers--three or four of us to each room. My new roommates were doing their own thing when I met them. I learned their names; Ron, Cecil, and Beck, while putting away my personal belongings. Some of the occupants of the barracks were not American but were Korean (as with Beck); these soldiers were called Katusas. The US Army strived to ensure there were at least one American and one Korean in each room. I suppose that made sense given we were in their country. But for the most part, the Katusas hung out with other Koreans, and we GI's followed suit hanging out with fellow Americans.

Ron and Cecil had been in country long enough to ride without training wheels; consequently, they were my Chamber of Commerce. Not only did they show a prying interest in me, they were all too eager to share in their explored entertainment knowledge. While hanging up my uniforms, I casually nodded, listening to random tales of this country. I had known my new comrades only two hours before they felt the need to take me out that night and break me in. I tried to respectfully decline, but they were persistent.

We headed out to the vil (village). The vil was a back-to-back welcoming center loaded with Korean vendors. The business' location boundaries started as soon as you passed through the MP (military police) station that separated the post from the vil. The shack (large enough to accommodate three soldiers) reminded me of a toll booth, both in size and in operation. Setting foot into Vegas, I noticed a bulky box containing thousands of condoms at the gate. Stores, bars, and restaurants were connected side by side as far as the eye could see--a shopper's paradise. I found out later, from personal experience, those vendors were overly starved for a slice of the American dollar.

My escorts and I galloped inside a full throttle nightclub first thing, merely spitting distance from the MP gate. The music--totally American--roared like a ear-splitting concert, feeding on high octane emotions. American soldiers filled the packed out bar, and were partying down. Disco lights were flashing throughout the smoky air, and the atmosphere alone was enough to make me think I was high. There were beautiful Korean women (and some ugly ones too) everywhere dressed seductively. Some of these women were sitting on American laps, lustfully enticing them. That particular bar, The Cotton Club, must've been the place Mother warned me about--the Devil's playground.

I savored every morsel the atmosphere provided in that illusion of paradise. When I ordered a soda instead of liquid courage, the bartender looked at me as if I had ordered a Big Mac. Several of the ladies attempted to engage conversation with me unsuccessfully. They aborted their mission eventually, leaving me alone to park and idle.

Booze

Within a month I felt comfortable going to the vil by myself, and did so regularly. Since the clubs were appealing to me for their atmosphere--I spent most of my time there. At first it pacified me to hang out with my fellow Americans while they got bombed drinking. I should've known that if I kept going to the playgrounds, I would want to play. Maybe the good times and laughter made me envious, I don't know, but one day I decided to have a drink myself. I liked it immediately. It tasted like cherry Kool-Aid; the GI's called it Jungle Juice. I decided to have another. And another.

I remained at that particular watering hole testing the limits of my bladder until some perching prostitute swept me off. Ten dollars seemed like a good deal at the time. I don't really remember much of it, with the exception that I woke up on concrete. Cold concrete. I slept and awoke in my own puke and fully dressed. I was in some cube of a room which apparently was attached in the back of the nightclub. Daylight was around the corner, I could feel it in my bones. I remember being so sick I felt poisoned. I couldn't move so I passed back out. Daylight broke through when I finally could move. I picked myself up and realized all my money was gone. Everything was spinning and I had no inclination of what time it was or where I was. I puked, but nothing came up. Just loud death sounds and a few tears. Given the fact that I felt deathly nauseous, I really thought I had poisoned myself. I managed to scoop up what was left of me and drag myself back to post for an anticipated reprimand from the company commander.

One month later, I became a frequent flyer in a club where I had a crush on one of the bartenders, Kim. (Yes, her last name was Kim.) I liked Kim the first time I met her. She was a very quiet and pretty woman. What English she did speak was very broken, and of course, I didn't speak her language at all. We didn't need a lot of communication though; our eyes spoke a familiar language. Since Kim and I were both bashful, it took some time before the logs caught fire. I found Kim to be an exceptionally beautiful Oriental. As I said, her English was basically useless; therefore, it was up to me to build the bridge.

Since Korean soldiers worked and lived with us in our barracks, I took advantage. A Katusa on base taught me the Korean language up to the second grade level--enough to get by on. I still remember the Korean women in that bar, giggling at hearing a GI speak like a Korean child. I believe that is what won Kim over. I liked Kim until I loved her. I believe she loved me too.

Kim, along with my GI friends, smoked cigarettes--they looked so cool (yeah, I'm shaking my head too). As with the case of the bar scene, I wanted to fit in; so guess what? Yep, I became a smoker. I don't know, I guess smelling like smoke, killing my health, and coughing up brown chunks of lung in the morning was worth the addiction and social acceptance I wanted so badly.

OK, back to the alcohol. I remember disliking the taste of beer. Not that I have ever drank stale carbonated toilet water, but I believe it would be comparable. Don't get me wrong, I did like the taste of beer once I consumed three or four of them. I also liked the way beer made me feel--when not puking. Since everyone (even the piano player at church) knows about drinking and its effects, I won't go into all those rowdy details. I will, however, shoot a few statistics out there.

Alcohol was the very first drug man tried. Many believe that wine was first used around the time of Abraham, in the bible some four to six thousand years ago. Alcohol contributes to 100,000 deaths annually in the United States, making it the third leading cause of preventable death. Of those deaths, one third of them are linked to suicides or accidents, such as drowning, head injuries from falling, or car crashes. One half of all traffic fatalities are related to the abuse of alcohol.

While in the year 2000 it was reported that one in every thirteen adults abuse alcohol, there are over three million teens between the ages of fourteen and seventeen in the United States who are problem drinkers. The gap between alcohol use by boys and girls has closed. Among ninth graders, girls consume alcohol and binge drink at rates almost equal to boys.

In 1998, the Institute of Medicine of the National Academy of Sciences estimated that alcoholism and alcohol abuse in this country cost society over $58 billion annually, due to the lost production, health and medical care, motor vehicle accidents, violent crime, and social programs that respond to alcohol problems.

OK, back to 1988 in Korea.

Drinking became regular--beginning right after work in the vil. I loved the good times, and the way I was able to cut loose being the life of the party at times. At other times, I'm sure I was the butt of jokes and made fun of. I didn't care. I enjoyed getting drunk and looked forward to it. I learned how to pace my drinking so I could drink right up until bed time. Since it was the early stages of my drinking, I felt no guilt whatsoever about treating myself to daily cocktails. Nor did it bother me as to how many I had. It was my business, and I wasn't hurting anyone.

I suppose it doesn't take long to "become" an alcoholic. I mean, no one sets out the day and says to his self, "Gee, I think I will drink until it becomes a problem today." After a short while, just a matter of months, getting drunk regular showed in my face, and in my work. The next morning after drinking wasn't kind to me. Hangovers weren't just headaches, but included nasty toilet visits and a lack of appetite. Include severe dehydration and a taste in your mouth like something had died there, and well, you understand the charisma. Not just that, but true perceptibility always set in. Generally speaking, reality had always set in painfully, and the timing was never 'good'. Whatever problem issues I had the night before went away with every drink I consumed, but came back to give me a morning wake up call.

I got tore up one night in particular, and didn't make it back to post on time. See, the problem was I couldn't get the same feeling off of the same amount of alcohol. So, to fix that dilemma, I drank more and stayed up later to do so. Well, eventually it caught up with me and that occurrence cost me dearly with lost liberties, extra duty, and confinement to barracks. Was I mad? You bet! Did I feel abandoned? Absolutely! I spent my punishment time mopping miles of already clean floors, meditating morbidly. Since my only problem was too much time on my hands, and no one to share it with, I spent it in a bottle or in a can.

Love

Finally when my dues were paid, the military let me back out to engage in recreation. As a result, I played in the neighbor's yard--the vil. My hangout was the tiny bar where Kim worked, and as time ticked by, I fell hard for Kim. To be honest, I believe it was the first time I ever fell in love. My heart melted every time I thought of her, which was often. Never before had I been treated so well, but then again, I didn't have a whole lot to compare it to.

I wanted to spend the nights with her; consequently, we managed to get a hooch. A hooch by definition was nothing more than a 10' by 10' room with a dangerous charcoal burning stove in the middle. And when I say "it was a room", that is exactly what I mean. The cube with electricity had enough room for a dresser and a mattress, but no bathroom or running water. It proved to be most beneficial for me because of its location, walking distance from post. The ridiculously low rent was right up my alley too. The perk of sleeping with my girl every night, and simply being with her outside of the bar scene was well worth any asking price. Kim soon quit her job once I moved in and provided financial help.

I spent the remainder of my tour dedicated to her and living with her--about nine months. We learned much from one another, and had many celebrated times together. I poured my heart and soul into this woman and felt comfortable in the return. In fact, we had plans to marry. Even now, those nine months of my youth are among the strongest remembered.

On the day of my departure, we held each other and cried for what seemed like hours. As I let go of her, and dipped into the taxi, she bawled brokenheartedly. That upset me a great deal (and still does when I think back). I looked out the back window of the taxi and watched as she squatted in the middle of the road, and wept. I wiped the tears running down my face with one hand as I held the other hand against the back windshield. Goodbye.

Home and Back

Once landing back in the states, after a reclusive flight, and wallowing in the mud puddle of love, I decided to take the one month leave of absence I had earned. Naturally, I wanted to spend it in my hometown. Seeing my family was always an elated joy; but old friends were fading away like a beach tan in fall and old hangouts were becoming nostalgic. Still, it was nice to be home once again. After enjoying my leave, I eagerly anticipated my next tour of duty. I actually accepted and adopted the military way of living, and to this day recognize and appreciate what the military did for me.

My next tour of duty was located in Yuma, AZ. The military base, known as Yuma Proving Grounds, housed only one company on the entire post. That was unusual because most Army or military bases held many companies with thousands of soldiers. I suppose our company had roughly four hundred. We worked mainly with civilians performing maintenance on newer tanks and weapons. Occasionally, we got to test out the weapons; it was a gravy job. The things normally associated with the military lifestyle in Yuma were so relaxed compared to what I was used to. Honestly, with the exception of wearing military clothing, we were almost civilians.

Three months into my tour in Arizona, my love for Kim grew as I missed her incredibly. The long distance love affair began to eat at me. I did some research and discovered that active military personnel could travel on what was known as a military hop. What hopping meant exactly was the GI spent ten dollars for the entire trip--from where he/she departed to his/her destination. That would entail switching planes frequently--thus the name hop. It was a good deal and all, but travel solely depended on vacancy of cargo planes; which meant you could be waiting for days on your next plane. I decided to take my chances and booked a military hop anyway. I had a week's leave to use, and if I could just see her for one hour it would have been worth it to me.

Most of my money went into feeding the taxi meter from Yuma, Arizona to San Diego, California (not too bright leaving the continent without money). Once I arrived at the airport, I was on a cargo plane down to Hawaii almost immediately. Since there weren't any flights leaving out of the islands after I arrived that night, I spent the night at the USO (United Service Organization). The USO was no more than a crowded room with a small television and free coffee--a place to close your eyes if needed. It reminded me of a waiting room at the hospital--the animal hospital! I did manage to walk the beach, alone, with the soft cool sands squishing between my toes on that beautiful 72 degree night.

After a horrible night of sleeping upright in an unyielding Paul Bunyon chair, I tended to my hygiene the best I could in the dingy airport bathroom. I walked to the airport, and found a plane to hop; but departure was still a few hours away. I settled in the empty terminal and watched a movie, starring Richard Prior, called The Toy. As before, the airport terminal was all but abandoned. About the time the movie ended, it was time to board the tiny cargo plane. The ride in the belly of that sparrow was awful. Sitting next to tons of cargo, I became quickly aware of how cold, cramped, and stinky it was. The ride itself hummed annoyingly and constantly trembled--like riding on the inside of a neck massager.

The cargo and I landed in the Philippines, none too soon. I forget the name of the Air Force base and the city we landed at; I didn't have a window seat or an attractive flight attendant to inform me. It didn't matter; I didn't need a welcoming center to discover this part of the country had a vil much like the one at Camp Stanley, Korea. Since I was told I would be there for at least the night, I set out on foot exploring.

As expected, there were bars and nightclubs lined up right as you walked out the gate. I strolled into this one dive which was lifeless; or at best, in critical condition. The lighting was extremely poor, the music was non-existent, and the floor was dirt. Not dirty, but dirt. And the rest of the place? Well, the remainder of the wild-west saloon looked much the same. Actually, the whole town appeared grimy, at least on the surface. This country (at least where I was) gave the impression of being deprived--of everything.

As I made my way to the saw horse bar, I was immediately approached by an attractive young lady who spoke perfect English, and she said her name was Rhoda. I paid for my beer, and she led me to a lopsided odd shaped table with rickety chairs. We sat down and greeted one another. Then after we exchanged pleasantries, we both kicked back our beer. Just as casually as I lit a smoke, this woman lit up a joint. I looked around expecting someone to say something, but nobody was affected by it. Perhaps weed was legal in this country. Who knows? Who cares? She smoked the joint with me and a couple more before the night was over.

She and I had a blast carousing all alone in that undersized barn. Strange enough, she never hit me up or even hinted towards compensation for her company. The party wound down around three or four in the morning, and I was invited to stay with her for the remainder of the evening. Once again, money was never mentioned. Yeah, I stayed with her; yada, yada, yada. When I left, I promised that I would write her--legendary last words, and she knew it.

Back into another cargo plane I went.

At long last, I arrived in Korea.

I felt like Goliath as I exited from the tiny selfish plane. I flagged a civilian taxi just outside the airport, and requested a ride to Camp Stanley, using the broken Korean I had learned. Upon arrival, I wasted no time making tracks to the vil. I marched with focused tunnel vision to our hooch. Kim wasn't there, and the door was locked. Given I had a key to our home, I proceeded indoors to our tiny dwelling.

Things looked pretty much like I remembered them. But really, how much could a person change a walk-in closet? I spent a few minutes tinkering around with items that we acquired together. Memories would pop in my head as I looked at different nik naks we acquired together. I noticed a few items which I didn't recognize, but thought nothing of it. Kim didn't know I was coming, thus there was no telling where she was or how long she would be. While waiting her out, I thought I would unwind looking through our photo album. I smiled as flipped open the over-sized cardboard cover. I visualized the events in the photos and could remember even the smells associated with each activity.

I was relaxing and thoroughly enjoying myself--until I ran across some pictures that didn't have me in them. Instead, they were of another American soldier! There were several pictures of her being held--arm in arm--by another American! My heart sank like a lead balloon as I stared at the photos in disbelief. I couldn't believe what my eyes were seeing. I could feel my ears searing; the teapot was starting to whistle.

Granted, I did have sex with a prostitute a couple of days ago, but what's good for the goose was not good for the gander! How could she betray me? How could she mislead me so? How could I be so stupid? I don't recall what item was within arm's reach, but whatever it was went through the glass cabinet in front of me. My hurt turned to rage as I continued to trash the place. I smashed, crushed, shattered, and ripped up everything within reach. Once my fury settled somewhat, I sat there immobile--staring at shattered pieces of my broken heart mixed among debris which used to symbolize love.

Kim ultimately came home, and the scene was not pretty. Her facial expression showed total shock and horror as I held nothing back, screaming and yelling at her. Kim's tears showed absolutely no remorse. Oh, she was sorry alright--sorry she was busted! Once my voice ran out of steam, and I was finished; we were finished.

I frantically left the hooch an emotional basket case. Alone. Again. Not knowing what to do, and definitely not desiring her company, I marched towards the vil. It was beer thirty and I was late. The answer to my situation lie at the bottom of one of those beer bottles somewhere, so I went searching. Day and night I drank my troubles away--and what money I had left. I'm not sure how long my binge lasted, but I had blown every dime without regard to the consequences.

The Beer Diet

Having burned up my week's leave plus a day, I was considered AWOL (absent without leave). I turned myself in to the MP's, and told them I was robbed; although the MP's didn't buy that story, the military paid for my ticket back to the states. Once back in Arizona, I faced the music. Punishment (restriction to base, extra duty, etc.) was given after judgment passed. Also, the military automatically garnished all of my wages until that first class ride back home was paid in full. I didn't care. I didn't care about anything. Who cares about anything once their heart is ripped out and stomped on?

My already skinny frame really couldn't afford the additional fifteen pounds I had lost from lack of appetite. I stayed a depressed and a total poor-pitiful-me drunk every night (this is beginning to sound like a broken record). Fortunately for me, I was able to bounce back from binge drinking the night before. My age combined with the military's physical routine at 5:00 in the morning kept me in pretty good shape, physically.

The weeks that followed were like wolves in a pack--they ran together. I went through the motions physically, but mentally I was a vegetable. My heart just wasn't into anything--except maybe another bottle. The Army's expectations and requirements of me were being met--grudgingly. I gave the absolutely bare minimum, nothing more, to squeak through the day, finishing up with a D minus grade. Afterwards, I drank myself numb. I drank alone, and didn't participate in any other activities.

Since alcohol provided the majority my calories, I made it to the chow hall only once a day. I drank, smoked, and did what the Army required. That's all my life consisted of for a couple of months. The nights were sleepless, and the days in the desert lasted without end. I could only look forward to getting smashed after work, so I could pass out, and start all over at 4:30 a.m. the next morning. Repeat.

Chapter Three: Death and More in a Bottle

My best friend, Jones

A new young soldier, Jones, had entered our squad during my reckless battle with alcohol. As fate would have it, Jones and I would be taking a detour together on a road with grave consequences.

Jones and I became partners in crime almost immediately. We were in the same squad, side by side, and we worked at the same shop, side by side. Even our rooms were adjoining. It's no wonder, then, we were joined at the hip in play times as well. It was the kind of friendship that would make Siamese twins jealous. To compound matters further, we were close to the same age, and had many common interests--booze being the primary one.

As with most drunks, I loved to talk when intoxicated. Perhaps ramble is a better word. I spilled my guts over my broken heart. I'm sure Jones grew tired of my monotonous woes concerning my ex in Korea. If it bored him, it didn't show. He actually seemed to care; and I needed that.

Jones and I developed a festivity routine after work within weeks of meeting one another. First, go walk to the on post deli and buy our beer from the cute cashier. Second, flirt with the cute cashier. Third, sit down and consume all beer. Finally, buy beer from cute cashier and go. We would retire to our barracks rooms (about one hundred yards away) and tank up until bedtime or until a mischievous idea popped up...whichever came first. It's a wonder either of us ever made it to PT.

Kelly

During our times of drunken conversation, and when I could shut up long enough for Jones to jump in, he shared his thoughts concerning the love in his life. Her name was Kelly and Jones had it bad for her. Politely returning the courtesy of listening to stories about her, I couldn't wait for him to zip it already (how hypocritical). Jones was good therapy for me though; in a way, he saved me from myself.

Within weeks, and on a whim, Jones invited his girl to come visit in Arizona. Jones stayed broke most of the time, and I knew he was going to need a loan. Putting the cart before the horse probably wasn't the best of ideas, but I understood. While Kelly loved the idea, Jones' cash supply was running on fumes. I figured for all Jones meant to me, I could help a brother out. He was thankful and agreed to pay me back within two weeks, so it was a done deal.

Kelly showed up within days. As soon as her eyes met mine, there was a definite physical attraction between us. I would've been a fool to mention this to Jones of course; it didn't feel right. I hated feeling that way, but I couldn't change the sensation. I mean, how does a person change what he or she thinks is attractive? The vibes were mutual and obvious to everyone except Jones. She was Jones' girl, but everything from her eyes to her body language alleged something totally different. Why the magnetism towards me? I don't know. There was nothing special about me; I was just an average guy. But still, I couldn't ignore the fact this female was into me. Bear in mind we were on an Army post with almost all men (a lot of them too) occupying it, so her interest in me did make me feel special.

My memory fizzles at this point; all I remember is one night Kelly had trouble finding Jones, and asked if I knew where he was. I wondered where Jones was, but kept the thought to myself. Because his whereabouts were unknown to me, I asked Kelly if she wanted to look for him together. She agreed before I could even get the words out. So we walked, and we talked. We continued to walk and talk, and although I felt guilty being with her, I ate it up. I couldn't decide if it was the sensation of devouring my prey, or if it was the emotion of puppy love. Either way, the lust of the hunt overpowered me.

Well, it doesn't take a conductor to figure out where that train was going. Our search for Jones then became a mission to hide from Jones. After a few charming moves, and a few smooth lines, Kelly was looking at me with stars in her eyes. By this point I sensed she shared in the butterfly feeling as well.

We managed to get some time alone in a barracks room that wasn't being used, and well,--we had alone time. Yes, I betrayed my best friends trust, and slept with his woman. I remember wanting the sex, but no more (what a pig I was). She obviously thought more of the act than I did. She claimed to be in love with me, or so she thought.

Kelly left a day or two later, and things between Jones and I fell apart (wow, didn't see that coming). We went out of our way to avoid one another. Kelly called me regularly, and somehow Jones got wind of this as well. One day Jones approached me and straight out asked me to cut it off with Kelly. Surprisingly, I agreed. All I wanted was the sex anyway, and besides, Jones was my best friend. I called Kelly up and callously broke it off. Once I finished driving a machete through her heart, I sat in remorseful silence for about five or six seconds. I sincerely felt badly for those few moments--before I teamed back up with Jones. Party time.

July 8, 1986, we decided to have some liquor--vodka. We polished off the fifth, and smoked at least one joint in my barracks room. After getting sloppily hammered, we surmised a trip to town (forty miles away) was essential (leave it to a drunk to figure a reason to get out on the roads). There was only one problem; we didn't have a vehicle. Jones took care of that crisis by borrowing a Honda CRX from our Sergeant. For those not familiar with that particular car, it is a form of sewing machine, with a seating capacity of two. To be honest, I don't even remember getting into that car.

Chapter Four: One Drink Too Much

Hospital life

The next thing I remember is waking up in bed. Not my bed, but a hospital bed! Where am I? What's going on? Who am I?

I couldn't move or feel anything, except fear. Paralyzed both mentally and physically, I smelled 'hospital'. Everybody knows that smell. Looking from behind one foggy eye, I could make out the room--the ICU (intensive care unit). My mother and my brother were both there, but I am not sure how long it took me to recognize them. Apparently, I had been in a coma for a few days. My brother later told me I was unrecognizable; in his words, my head looked like a bandaged watermelon.

Once I awoke, the nurses rushed to my side, and eventually the doctor entered my cubicle. The doctors told me I had been in an automobile accident, and was found about three hundred yards away from where the car touched down in the desert. Between the MP's on base and the civilian police and the doctor's examinations, a hypothesis developed:

1. Jones had been witnessed driving off base with me in the passenger seat.

2. The accident happened about eight miles east of California in a hairpin curve.

3. Vehicle left roadway heading forward at curve.

4. Vehicle struck telephone pole twelve foot from ground and was spun.

5. Vehicle rolled at least twice throwing out passenger.

6. Driver killed on impact with internal injuries sustained from steering wheel.

I don't know how much time had lapsed before I started comprehending my surroundings. I wasn't in pain, but in a nightmare. My numerous injuries were described to me, and although I heard the words, I couldn't grasp their meanings. Extremely doped up, I fell back into deep sleep mode. Every time I would awaken, I would be in the same delirious state of mind until the medication knocked me back out again.

I sustained massive head injuries with splinters of wood and glass lodged in my skull. I suffered a smashed ankle and a broken right leg to match my shattered hip. My upper right arm had been crushed so badly, the long bone splintered through the underside of the arm, cutting my main artery and nerves; consequently, I lost over two inches of that particular bone. My abdomen was ripped down the middle and down the right side too. With the exception of some liver and spleen damage, my other internal injuries were not life threatening. I also accumulated multiple lacerations and splinters of wood throughout my body, and at my right eye. Additionally, there were many smaller broken bones and severe bruising.

In all, there were a total of 212 stitches and staples in me. Once my first surgery was complete, my whole right side had been reconstructed with plates, pins, and rods (does anyone remember the bionic man).

Once coherent enough to appreciate the magnitude of the car accident, I was informed my best friend Jones didn't make it. BAM! Jolts of shock and disbelief wrestled with the undeniable truth, as my head went into a form of shock. Given the fact I had never experienced anyone I knew dying before, much less someone as close as Jones, the inconsolable sentiment crippled me. Coming to grips with the fact I would never see Jones again did irreversible sanity damage. Tears flowed from my undamaged eye as I felt the bandages on the other side of my head moistening. My best friend was dead! All of my injuries and the life of another were traded for a few drinks having a good time. I cried and cried thinking the nightmare would end; but escape would not come so easily.

The next few days were a total blur to me. The regular morphine doses numbed everything, and as a result, I slept the majority of the time. Two weeks later, I transferred from the ICU to an individual room.

The morphine was discontinued, cold turkey, and replaced with glorified sugar pills. Alright, maybe they weren't sugar pills, but like my uncle Joe, they didn't work. Right away I felt the cruel torment of the injuries my body suffered. The pain scale went from one to a thousand in a blink. No way could I isolate any single pain, the injuries were just too numerous.

The excruciating pain I felt was, well,...excruciating! How else can I describe something that is too awful for words? The relentless throbbing and knife piercing misery never let up. Seconds seemed like hours, torturing me throughout the day; but the nights were even worse. Each time sleep would eventually overcome me, the slightest movement caused me to scream in anguish. I wept an eternity of frustration, pain, and depression. Days and nights ticked by, but it was one continual day for me.

Withdraws and Suicidal Thoughts

To make matters even more agonizing, I had to endure the after-effects from mega-doses of morphine given to me. Hot one minute and cold the next, I shook and trembled erratically--non-stop. The morphine withdraws were as unbearable as my injuries. I cried for the doctor to help me. I begged! He said the painkiller given to me was all he could prescribe, and my reaction was normal. Normal? My condition was anything but normal! To be lifted out of bed, and set on the commode while a stranger watches and wipes my butt was anything but normal! I was so miserable.

I asked my mother to help me kill myself.

She cried as she denied my request.

My stay at the Yuma Medical Center lasted three additional weeks. The military put my mom and brother up on base, and provided transport. I remember seeing both of them regularly; but I am oblivious of the conversations. Both the civilian and military police tried to interview me on a couple of occasions, but I was just too incoherent. Mother told me later, I underwent a few more surgeries before being shipped off east, to a more equipped hospital capable of treating me. I ended up at Dwight D. Eisenhower, located in Fort Gordon, Georgia. The orthopedic ward, on the 11th floor, became my new home.

My first memory in Georgia were headaches. Evil, unmerciful headaches. BOOMmmm...BOOMmmm...BOOMmmm forcefully coated the back side of my eyes, penetrating deep in my head! I complained and wailed until some pain medication was issued. No help. Two hours and forever later, I complained once more with the same results. That process continued until finally a doctor yielded to ordering a CAT (computerized axial topography) scan done on my head. Sure enough, the pictures showed splinters of a telephone pole lodged behind my right eye. Because the operation to remove these foreign objects was successful, 'grateful' and 'appreciation' are words I gave a fresh coat of paint to.

I coped with countless more operations over the next couple of months at Dwight D. Eisenhower hospital. Some of those surgeries included reconstructive plastic surgery on my face. My right eye had an additional surgery as well. Some earlier emergency medical orthopedics was removed from my body, and some were inserted (the fact the hardware inserted in me is still doing its job still amazes doctors today).

Nightmares of my friend Jones replaced the nightmares of my Korean girlfriend. The inescapable dreams occurred every time I fell asleep. The physical pain was torture enough to wake up from, but add to it the unavoidable mental breakdowns during sleep I became terrified of the night. Waking up with cold sweats every night got old quick!

During the course of the next twelve months in rehabilitation, the Army proceeded with punishing me for negligence in the matter of Jones' death. The possession of marijuana charge was pinned on me as well (the investigating officer found pot seeds in my barracks room). My mind stayed scrambled throughout the process. I don't recollect how much money I was fined, nor to what extent the rest of the punishment given; but I do remember being stripped of my rank, down to PFC (private first class). I didn't care-- Jones was still dead!

Tough Times

Toward the last weeks of my hospital stay, I met my first wife Pam on the same ward as myself. By then my head had healed, and I could see perfectly out of both my eyes. My leg, hip, and ankle healed up nicely. Although my right arm was still basically useless, I could walk and I could see. I felt an enormous sense of gratitude for just that.

I had known Pam for a short time before she surrendered me the green flag. Since I had been celibate for over five seasons, I leaped at the opportunity. Although I had recently suffered physical damages, my male desires were still intact. We dated the remainder of our time in the military, about three months, although still patients in a hospital. (Talk about a cheap date.)

The military honorably discharged us within a month of each other. Thinking it must be love, we decided to move in together and to start our civilian life in Atlanta, Georgia. Why Atlanta? I don't know; I believe we just threw a dart at a map. Pam and I moved into the first place we looked at; a clean, upscale townhouse just outside the downtown area. She landed a receptionist position in a well-to-do furniture store, and I settled for a low-paying delivery driver position. (By this time my right arm had healed to about fifty percent.)

Five months later we realized our minimum wages jobs weren't cutting it in a maximum priced city. Our new financial battle plan meant splitting up for a while and going back to our parent's homes to squirrel some money away individually. Once the decision was final, I packed up and shipped out to my parent's home. Pam did the same and journeyed south to her home state of Florida.

She found an ancient tiny mobile home to live in, with her mother's help, and instantly landed a job in a convenience store. I, on the other hand, succeeded in loafing, and living off of some new pot smoking acquaintances.

I began to miss her, and after little thought (very little thought), decided to move to Florida. Well, I don't think I planned on staying there, but I did want to see her. So with very little planning, I left with just enough funds to get me there.

In a short time, we obtained jobs together at a middle school as part time janitors. Both those jobs together didn't total up to one decent job, but we jumped at the chance to work together. Both Pam and I loved to party (how quickly I had forgotten the devastating consequences of alcohol) and we both smoked cigarettes, which caused a catch-22; there wasn't enough money for bills AND our lifestyle of bad habits. Well, we sure weren't about to give up our way of life, thus creating the cost of living a bit harder to balance. For a second time, in less than a year, we found ourselves drowning financially.

We smoked and partied on our bill money until we were served an eviction notice. On the bright side, the school was nicer than that ratty sardine can of a trailer. We didn't even have electricity in that oversized camper shell. Living out of the school proved difficult, but not impossible. We took our showers there, and ate there. I told myself if I ever got out of that situation, I would never fall victim to being poor again. Pam's mother was unwilling to help Pam while I lived with her. I must've left a bitter taste in her mother's mouth when we met. In fact, her whole family felt a severe hatred towards me, and now looking back, I suppose they had their reasons. Pushing people's buttons was always my specialty.

As in Korea, I was alone in a foreign land with enemies of a different kind. I needed to get home before someone went to jail, or worse, to the graveyard. All I needed was enough gas money to get back to North Carolina where my parents would be there for me. Since the only items I owned were my Cutlass and a small pistol, I pawned the gun for gas money and hit the road.

I sent for Pam shortly after getting back home. I established a good job and a decent place to live, but our relationship was the house built on sand. We could've been the guests you might see on Jerry Springer. Pam and I continued to ride that roller coaster for about two more years. Up, down, and around the menacing curves in high gear till one day--BOOM! The ride came to a screeching halt only one month after we married.

The last time I saw Pam, she was riding with a cop. The policeman rode my bumper for a minute or so before blue-lighting me. He pulled me over, and Pam got out of the cruiser with him. The cop demanded me to return something I supposedly had of hers. I didn't have it, whatever it was. After the law was satisfied I had nothing of hers, I asked Pam in front of him, to surrender the rings I had purchased her. She callously looked me in the eye and pulled off the rings, smiling all the while. Staring at me, she then tossed them in the nearby school field without even looking where she chucked them. As I stood there in disbelief, she grinned like the Grinch and spit in my face (it was a very good thing for her the cop was there). Pam and the cop turned around, walked back to the police car, and drove off.

Believe it or not, we got divorced.

Divorce vs. Marriage

Still living in my hometown of Black Mountain, NC, I had moved back in with my parents at the age of twenty-four. I still had my job, and managed to keep it for the next nine years. My parent's home was conveniently located only a stone's throw away from work. Mother prepared a hot and ready lunch for me every day, and it would be calling my name when I took my thirty minute lunch break (yeah, I know...spoiled to the core). My parents never rejected me; I honestly don't know what I would've done without them.

I worked starting out as a machine operator, gradually climbing the ladder until becoming a skilled machinist. I enjoyed the challenge and promotions for me were regular--a motivating factor to learn. About my second year at this plant, I met my second wife, Trish.

Bob Segar sang an old tune called "Night Moves", and a lyric from that song fit Trish. In one lyric he wrote, "She was a dark haired beauty with big dark eyes." I recall my Dad quoting her eyes "big as golf balls". Trish, a sweet woman with no enemies, had a heart as big as coffee at Starbucks. Four years separated our age (actually, she attended school with my younger brother).

We dated for a while, and jumped into marriage on April Fools day, 1993.

More Hard Lessons

Beer. The picture of alcoholism didn't include beer. Alcoholics drank strained rubbing alcohol, right? My painted vision of the alcoholic was a rag wearing, toothless bum about sixty years old, weather beaten, drinking out of a paper bag. And his home? 'Home' would be on some downtown abandoned sidewalk where all the trash gathered. No friends, no family, and no clue.

Thank God I wasn't an alcoholic; I didn't meet that criteria.

Drinking every night was my reward for a good day's work. Drinking every night was my reward for a bad day's work. Drinking every night was my reward regardless of how my day went.

Living in a sweet home, Trish and I were comfortable financially. Trish once said our living room was bigger than Taco Bell. Money flowed without lumps, largely in part due to my status at work. Trish, unhappy at the place I loved so, then quit her job, and went to work in an upscale restaurant as a waitress. She was a good people person; a country girl at heart who loved Elvis and loved her momma. She truly loved me as well.

Trish and I started attending a small Christian church in the country. The charm of that church in particular was its ambience of sincerity. Messages there were of hope and of heaven, unlike messages of my youth--turn or burn. I managed to quit my partying ways for a short stretch while attending church. My addicting personality dropped my partying and traded up for this new experience. I was even baptized in this church. Life for those few short months were peaceful, but short lived. Although I believe my attitude was on the right path to begin with, my new found interest had lost its zeal.

To put it in simpler terms, back when I began school I remember finding it all new and exciting. But that feeling wore off pretty quickly. I couldn't understand nor appreciate the value of twelve years education at my first grade mentality. I would have 'dropped out' in the first grade, if the choice were mine.

Church was much the same way--I was in the 'first grade'. The difference being, I was an adult with the mindset of a Christian baby, and I DID have the choice to 'drop out'. That was exactly what I did. I started to drink again; drinking never lost its zeal. I figured I could drink with more control this go round. After all, I had just proved I could quit whenever I wanted.

Death of my Father

Dad died shortly after I picked the bottle back up. He had been disabled for a number of years due to emphysema and wore oxygen 100% of the time. As with most people that require oxygen, he was often winded and out of breath. Hospice had been making house calls for a couple of months; his time here on earth was running short. Of course, I thought Dad was the exception to that rule. MY dad was going to be here for many more years!

I was there when he simply faded from sleeping to not breathing. Dad was always worried over checking out of this world with no air (which would indeed be horrendous). I often think back to how ironic Dad left this world in what was probably the most peaceful transition. I remember looking at his face and he didn't look hard, worried, or scared anymore. His face looked ten years younger. I didn't cry, although I knew Dad wasn't coming back. I withdrew from everybody and everyone and went into my own way of grieving. Drinking, what else?

The only quick fix for the sadness I felt was to pop the top and start chugging. I drank more and more to numb those emotions I refused to deal with. I was a man, and men don't cry. It must have been murder for Trish to live with me after the passing of my father. Days ran into weeks which ran into months. I don't recall many details, but within a year or so Trish and I were divorced. It is hard to remember; I was a pretty bad lush in those days. Who am I kidding? I have always been a lush!

Future Life Saver

My bed wasn't even cold yet when I met my third and last wife, Mary. I met her at work as well (no, I'm not kin to Elizabeth Taylor). I was on my ninth year there when I saw her for the very first time. Boing! A new mission! There was an obsessive physical attraction instantly. I put myself in cave-man mode, seeking my new conquest. That venture, however, would prove harder than I thought. The woman I picked as my next lover was married with three children.

I used my best lines on Mary, unsuccessfully; but I never gave up. Eventually, Mary cracked the door open enough for me to get my foot in. She met me in the mall at a place called Ritchfields\--a restaurant/bar. I sat in front of the empty establishment drinking a beer, and she was in the back chewing on gum--neither aware the other was there. Each of us was waiting on the other to show up, until the waitress figured it out and assisted us.

Even though I wanted what most men want and strive for, I must admit my selfish attitude relented to a certain magical bond between Mary and me. We walked the length of the mall like 5th grade boyfriend/girlfriend. I invited Mary for a short ride, and she accepted. As we entered the parking lot and approached my Oldsmobile, Mary opened the passenger door to see a teddy bear strapped in the seat. 'Teddy' was the tool I used to hammer my way into Mary's heart. After that teddy bear thing, she gradually cracked the door wider and wider.

Another Marijuana Contribution

Kunkle Valve (where I worked) was my life. I lived and breathed everything about that factory. My associates treated me with respect, and I was well liked. Management thought a lot of me; I was the highest paid hourly employee there. They even created a title and position, for just me. Work? Uh-uh! I rarely thought of my job as work. A person with such a cushy position would do anything to protect it, wouldn't they? Not me, I was Superman. Well, seeing how I was bullet proof and could do whatever I wanted, my attitude included scoffing at the drug policy. After passing six drug tests (illegally), marijuana showed up in my system, and there were no smooth words to help me this time. I resigned my position in lieu of the termination alternative.

I lost the best job I ever had because of marijuana. Is any explanation of my warm and fuzzy feelings necessary at this point?

Lost at Sea

All those feelings of hopelessness resurfaced. In the last year I had lost my dad, wife, and job. I loved all of them more than I obviously showed them; but still, how come I felt so betrayed? Mary tried to comfort me, in vain. My trust in humanity was at an all time low. My pity party persisted until my heart turned completely frozen. Who wouldn't let me down? Me--the only person who knew me best. The only people I felt I could trust were the very ones I shied away from the most--my family. Emotions (mainly depression) stayed bottled up. My Christian family wouldn't understand; they were always happy and had no clue about real life. The people that would actually understand were not ones I would open up to. Misery may love company, but this loser was a loner.

At thirty years old, unemployed, and living with my mother--who recently lost her job of twenty something years--I felt like the coyote in the Road Runner cartoon. Mary, who lost her job at the same time I did, had already left her husband and took her three children with her. She lived just up the road from me in a rundown mobile home, where I stayed on occasion. This mobile park she lived at was typical for the redneck area here I claimed as home. It had its shares of drugs, fights, and frequent visits from the law. The place was fairly quiet until sundown; then a person had best watch out. It was filled with mostly unemployed folks, of all ages and races. The few couples (man/woman) there who were shacked up appeared to have half a dozen children or so (during the daylight, there were millions of them outside playing). Amazingly, many of the low-income citizens living there would be without food, but seemed to have an endless supply of beer and cigarettes.

Eventually, Mary and I landed various jobs, nothing ever lasting. My mother secured a job she appeared happy with. Mother had become interested and involved in a variety of activities--staying busy since Dad's death. She never did let grass grow under her feet. I appreciated the fact we didn't have to live together; it was a mutual choice. She was my best friend, and I was hers, so the living arrangement worked out well.

As time went by, Mother had her thing going on and I was spending more and more time at Mary's home. When I felt comfortable mom could fly on her own, I decided to move in with Mary. I thought that combining our resources made financial sense; if Mother needed me, I was less than a mile away.

Three months later, I landed a job in the eastern part of the state about four hours away. Mary stayed back home until I had set us up a place. Nine weeks later, Mary and the children moved out east with me. There weren't too many eventful memories there. Not pleasant ones anyway. I worked hard, as did Mary; but I drank pretty hard as well. My family and I had a few good times, and worked together as a unit for the most part. But all in all, we were unsatisfied living in the swamplands.

We lived there for six months, and decided we missed the mountains. Thankfully, my mother put us up temporarily until we saved up enough money to move out on. Mary and I exchanged wedding vows during this time, on October 25, 1997.

Walking on a Ledge

While living at mothers home, I hooked a job about thirty miles east. As luck would have it, there was also a house for sale about ¼ mile from my new job site. We bought that house with 'Mother money' for a down payment. My excellent credit did the rest. Mary landed a job on that side of town as well, although she had to travel thirty minutes or so each way.

Our eighteen year old daughter, Shannon, moved to Alabama. Crystal, who was fourteen at time, and Sam who was ten, were still living with us. Crystal and Sam were respectful and obedient--even putting up with step-dad's bizarre strictness. Having only my father's example to follow, I made many mistakes. I suppose all parents feel like they lacked in parenting skills at some time or another. I lacked in showing love, or at the very least, in a way a child perceives it.

My drinking became dreadfully obsessive, despite the fact I rarely laid out of work due to hangovers. I made a couple of partying friends at work, so the party was always after work, at my house. Not just here and there, but every night. We smoked a good bit of weed whenever someone had some--which was practically always. I seldom bought weed; someone always provided it. My buddies and I rarely did anything creative while drinking. Normally, we would jam out on some tunes while getting hammered.

There is one thing I remember we used to do. When getting high, we liked to cut off the lights and pick a random movie to put in the VCR, but cut the volume down on the TV. Next, we would put a random song on the stereo and listen to the lyrics while simultaneously watching the tube. Please understand that this is one of those things that somehow made sense while we were high; it didn't seem so marvelous when I was sober.

After a case of beer, and several joints later, everybody wound down around 3:00 AM and headed home. Munching out on pizza, or anything that was a quick fix, would be the next item of business for me. Between six and twelve beers was my average on any given work night. The consumption soared higher on my days off, needless to say. Drinking was as much a part of my life as eating. For the most part, I was a happy drunk, and seldom quarreled with anyone...except my family.

Drinking, Drugs, and Depression

Somewhere in the midst of about the millionth beer, I began experiencing strange depression moods, but didn't understand why. I was hitting some serious lows, and simply wasn't a happy-go-lucky type of guy anymore. I went to a doctor thinking something medically or mentally was wrong with me. The physician prescribed me an anti-depressant drug called Zoloft. Man, even now, I believe that drug is the devil! That little pill jerked my already dangling emotions dangerously in every direction. Perhaps it is my ignorance of modern medicine, or maybe I am just simple-minded; but doesn't the prefix 'anti' mean 'the opposite of'? It would make sense, at least to me, an 'anti-depressant' would mean the opposite of depressed. Possibly it was that brand of drug, who knows; but I knew it was not for me.

My depression sunk to new heights (yeah, I meant to say it that way). I continued to drink--alternating beer with liquor--while on Zoloft. My theory was if I felt so bad on medicine that wasn't working, then I would be high while miserable. My family received fits of undeserved rage from me (go figure). Little things set me off. My family became genuinely terrified of breaking the eggshells all around my feet. Mike Tyson would've cried, living with me.

Graduating to black out spells, I said various cruel things I wouldn't remember later. Then there would be other days I would wake up and simply cry for no reason. I started dreading work as if I was being flogged. An ever-growing evil was taking root inside of me, creating a monster even I couldn't put up with. I don't know how my family or my co-workers tolerated me.

My everyday life continued to be unmanageable for another year and a half. My once animated and smooth-operating mentality was becoming more untrustworthy as the days wore on. Maybe I did have a chemical imbalance or whatever, but a collision course was inevitable. Poor concentration and anger made things worse for those unfortunate people in my path. Even my friends from work quit coming over. My social skills definitely were sliding downhill. Ultimately, my problems (alcohol induced) escalated until I was no longer a 'functioning' alcoholic.

One day, out of the blue, and after four years, I quit my job the classic way--I simply stopped going to work.

Almost immediately, I abandoned my family and the undersized town of Old Fort to live with my mother (what a momma's boy). Relationship issues between my family and me were boiling, due greatly to my irrational thinking. I knew my drinking was out of control, and creating disaster at home. For their safety, and for my own sanity, leaving felt like the only option for me. I could say a lot more about this chapter of my life, but as my wife has reminded me , she doesn't like to have her laundry airing out on front street. So out of respect for her and my family I will leave it at that.

New Direction

Thirty-six years old and back at home--again. What a loser! Where would I have been if I had no place to go? Would I be the one on the downtown sidewalk bumming change? I've often wondered about the cards I was dealt from the deck of life. It appeared I had been dealt a few winning hands, but chose to bet on the losing ones. Counting on always given a new hand to play, I never thought it might be my last--who does?

.My alcohol problem proved obvious to my mother. She, along with everyone else, could take one look in my bloodshot, tired eyes and see the alcohol leftovers didn't ripen overnight. My mother's eyes, on the other hand, showed sadness. I knew she wondered why. Why would I willingly pledge suicide on the installment plan? Confusion and compassion flooded her expressions.

Of all the band-aid cures Mother offered me, only one sparked my interest. She suggested I go back to school, and even loaned the necessary money (to this day it amazes me how her $5.50 an hour job could do so much more than my $18.30). Needing something to fill up my time, and possibly put me back in the game, I went back to school; I suffered through the quarter, and did well. My mind needed that side road to divert my tunnel vision, plus school kept my mind busy. I braked on drinking considerably, although I still drank daily.

New Line of Work

During the winter school break, I received a call from a mortgage company.

At the ripe age of thirty-seven, I decided to chase a dream of mine. An old dream to work in finance somewhere was about to come true. It was at that mortgage company things started to click for me--in one way.

The mortgage company called me in the dead of winter--the new beginning I was looking for. Sixteen years machining, and the military, was all my résumé consisted of. I knew absolutely nothing about the mortgage business, but was entirely animated with having a chance to work in an office environment. My interview went well, and thus, I received the position. I studied hard and passed the North Carolina Loan Officer exam. Inside of six months I was awarded with a 'Top Dawg' award, twice. Basically, my sales were above everyone in the company.

I enjoyed this career much more than I thought I would. I got to dress sharp every day, and make green in every way! I even met a lot of my customers in bars. My favorite hangout was a place called Chili's. Chili's was my roadhouse, and I signed many a deal on a bar table. I don't know what to credit the luck I had there, but I wasn't complaining. Think about it, me, an alcoholic, that gets to get dressed up and drink at the bar while making money! I became a smooth operator. My employers would actually let me go home early, knowing where I was going. On occasion they would actually encourage me to go to the bars; they didn't care how I brought the money in. I guess I was their favorite, as long as the deals were being signed.

At my peak, I was raking in thousands of dollars each month. I thought my true love was Mary, but I was only fooling myself. My one and true love was MONEY! Money brought power, which was my second love. Money had always been number one and always would be...or so I thought.

I was having a blast living out the American dream while getting drunk at Chili's. I was there almost every night, getting drunk and working at the same time. I looked great, I felt great, and I had a great amount of cash in my pockets at all times. How could life get any better? I had not a care in the world except work, which to me wasn't work at all.

A problem developed though. Somewhere in the middle of making tons of money, I started developing a conscious. What I mean exactly is this: In the mortgage business, it is customary to charge as much as possible to make a loan go through. The company I worked for demanded we charge the maximum the state would allow. I had no problem with that at first, because I needed the money. But as time wore on compassion settled into my heart. For instance, I would see older folks coming in down on their luck. I could actually help those folks, but it meant digging into my profits. I always thought what went around, came around, so I did the loan anyway. To put it mildly, after a few loans like that one, my employers were not pleased with me. I resigned my position on a month I was awarded Top Dawg.

Recap

It had been three years since I worked for the mortgage company so I wanted to touch base on what has transpired in the last quarter of a century, although some of these experiences were not mentioned earlier.

I've been through three marriages. I participated in three drug and alcoholic programs, one of which the military forced me into. I tried Alcoholics Anonymous a few times for a couple of meetings a piece. I was in car accidents too numerous to mention and as a result faced death on many of those occasions. One of those accidents left me in a hospital for a year and my best friend dead. I personally put several vehicles in the graveyard, mostly under the influence of alcohol. I averaged kicking back a 12-pack of beer and two packs of smokes a night for twenty years. I didn't eat breakfast anymore and seldom ate until I had a few beers in me.

I lost every job I cared about and even ones I didn't care about. I have had physical violence with all three of my wives. I avoided people, places, and things that wouldn't allow me to get high or drunk. I can't recall ever participating in or wanting to participate in anything that required self sacrifice.

Of all the many mistakes I have made in life so far, I wished I had spent more time with my mother and my brother. Something always kept me from it. I always had an excuse and most of the time primarily because I was hung-over or working on a new one. I wouldn't walk into church drunk or stoned nor was I going to visit my family in that condition. I was just too embarrassed to be around my family. I lived drunk or stoned.

The constant drinking made solid bowel movements and a peaceful night's sleep extremely rare. With all the side effects of drinking and smoking, I continued to indulge myself anyway. I was convinced it was all right to escape from reality and depression in my own way.

My body was getting tired and older. I couldn't bounce back in the mornings like I once could. In the military, I woke up and spent about sixty seconds to shake the cobwebs loose. After waking up, I was dressed in an instant and ready for PT (physical training). PT consisted of several exercises to include pushups, sit-ups, and a two-mile run. This happened after getting into bed at 1:00 a.m. after a drunk and then on the field at 4:30 a.m.

There I was at age thirty-seven and didn't participate in any exercise program. In addition, I refused to diet. I ate what I wanted, when I wanted, and as much as I wanted. . Did being self-centered really create the last twenty-five years of hell?

It was during that low point that my wife showed compassion on me. She always did whether I deserved it or not. Mary wasn't playing around when she said she would take me "for better or for worse." Anyway, she moved back in with me. I was very grateful, as I stayed miserable without her. During our time of separation I realized just how much we loved one another.

Chapter 5: Money, Money, Money

Business

May 2000. One of my best friends from high school, Ben, had recently been released from prison. He was accused of a horrendous crime, but the conviction was overturned seventeen months later. Even with the overturned conviction, it didn't help his credit or the business he had previously owned. In fact, he lost everything. He had owned a successful guttering company before he went to prison. He and his father had both been in the guttering business for most of their lives.

Ben and I hooked up on occasion after his release just to reminisce of days gone by. Growing up together, neither of us drank or smoked. We were shy with the girls as well, but we always seemed to have fun during our teenage years without negative influences. Ben was a good friend to people he met and seldom partied. He would drink an occasional beer with me, but that was about it. Anyway, on one of my down days we got together. Both of us were crying into a beer can about how life just didn't seem fair, especially to good men such as ourselves. In the midst of our pity party, Ben had an idea. He thought that since I had credit, and he had guttering knowledge, that perhaps we could combine our resources and become partners in our own business. I was all for that idea. I thought to myself, what did I have to lose?

Well, it took a little over two months to get things rolling. I had spent a considerable amount of money, both cash and credit, but we had a good setup. The company was coming together well. At Ben's request, we put the company in my name making it a sole proprietorship. Ben, being the businessman he was, had business coming in almost immediately. Of course profits were very slow and what profits we did make had to be thrown back into the business for running capital. Ben did all the groundwork, and I was the paperboy. It took several months to start seeing any kind of income beyond expenses.

With my limited knowledge on running a business, I had my own ideas. Those ideas didn't coincide with Ben's ideas. Our friendship suffered, and gradually we drifted apart, outside of performing our duties.

So, about seven months later or so, Ben and I decided we should part ways. It wasn't anything personal between us and we both knew that. I didn't know anything about running the guttering business so naturally I was scared. With Ben's help we managed to get the business moved to the house I was living in at the time and had lived there since I was about nine years old, off and on. It was my parent's home for twenty something years, and my mother allowed me to live there. She had re-married and moved to Illinois, putting her trust in me to run things.

I had a problem with having enough work for my crew at first. A few months later I started to get the swing of how any business works. No matter what business it is, the one thing that is common in any successful business is customer satisfaction. Customers made the business, not the owners. I had experience in communicating with the public, thanks to the mortgage position I once held. I thoroughly enjoyed getting out and doing estimates and getting to know my customer database. I provided a needed service for a fair price and guaranteed my workmanship. Soon, I was able to provide forty hours or more through the week for the crew. I loved being my own boss and was very proud of myself.

I still drank a good bit of beer every night and smoked like a freight train. I worked hard so I played hard. Of course I didn't need an excuse to party. I was available during working hours and did my part. I probably averaged a fifty-five hour work week. The small crew I had was loyal to me and did a fine job. They were like me and enjoyed partying, but I didn't care as long as it wasn't during working hours. What they did in their own time was their business.

Over the next few years the business grew. It doubled in revenue with each year. Money once again was plentiful; even more so this go-round. My habits didn't change. I didn't party any heavier, nor did I party any less.

Ok, so I partied. Big deal. I owned a business which was prosperous. I had a wonderful and faithful wife. I owned several vehicles, one of which was my fantasy car...a corvette. I even had a choice of two houses I owned to live in! I didn't even know within $1,000.00 how much I had in the bank. If I wanted something, I went out and got it. I was well liked by everyone in my partying pipeline. I was king of my own world, and I loved the control and power that I had. I walked tall and I walked proud.

Perhaps I was a little too proud.

With all the credit I had and was so proud of, I abused it. Of course it wasn't intentional, but then again when is it? The old saying that you spend more if you make more rang all so true with me. There was a lot of money being funneled through my bank account. I was still making the bills although I wasn't paying down the credit cards much. I was paying them down, just not like I used to. Actually, I had about five different cards with credit limits over $20,000 each. Most of them were maxed out, but I was riding the low interest rates. If they were not low enough for me, I would simply jump on an "introductory rate" of another card. Sure, that got a little confusing and was a little bit of a headache, but it worked for me. I had done this very same thing for many years now.

Anyway, I did as so many other folks do. I told myself that I would send extra next month. Next month never seem to come as someone always had their hands in my pockets. Some spending was unavoidable. The bills it cost to run the business were so high it made my personal bills seem small. For example, when the phone bills and advertising in the phone books totaled over 1,300 dollars a month, eating out or buying an occasional want really seemed trivial. I treaded water for a couple of years, and remained content doing so. After all, I bought anything my heart desired and managed to make the bills.

It was about this time when I received the piece of mail which changed everything.

Losing my Name

One of the credit cards which had extended a substantial credit line to me decided I was carrying too much debt and jumped my interest rate from 3.9% to over 23%! In the banking world they have a tool they use to verify how loans and credit works with you. This tool being used is called the "debt-to-income" ratio. Being a former loan officer, I was all too familiar with that tool. I must say though, that in my case I believe this particular bank got cold feet with me even though I was making their payments and my credit score was near 780. My other cards were maxed out so I couldn't bounce that individual amount to one of those cards. I owed this particular bank about $23,000 and called them to try to see if they would work with me on the interest increase. That call, combined with others, got me nowhere. I was frustrated with the circumstance and to make matters worse I always spoke with someone who couldn't even speak English recognizable. With about $135,000 in unsecured debt and $124,000 in secured debt, I started to drown. To put the icing on the cake, medical bills and unforeseen circumstances decayed my bank account. Of course, living like Elvis probably didn't help matters any either.

I was forced into bankruptcy. The whole bankruptcy thing is a story in of it self, but let's just say that losing my credit was devastating. Once again, life stunk!

PART II

Over the Top Rung

Chapter Six: Cocaine Introduction

A New High

Over the next several weeks finances, relationships and mental health deteriorated. In my experience, when it came a financial storm it wasn't long before my life was flooded. The bankruptcy awarded me yet another of life's repetitive and devastating feelings. I had lived off of credit for so long, and now even my signature meant nothing. Work slowed to a trickle, due in part to my lack of interest. Fragmented sleep not only left me a walking zombie, but physically wiped out. Mentally I was broken, and if truth was told, I should have sought professional help. My own mind held me hostage crying over spilt milk, thus I couldn't live for the today.

My disposition needed some form of rescue from the pit I was still digging. Anything. What magical potion could relieve my manic thoughts? As with broken hearts and broken bones, sometimes patience and time are the only prescribed medications which work. I only wished, looking back, I had taken my own advice. Instead, I wanted an immediate cure. Just to give me empowerment, or something, to divert attention away from my problems; even if for only a few brief moments. Depression kept my thoughts on a vicious repetitive cycle that beer could no longer drown. My tolerance to alcohol was such that I could drink continuously without getting drunk. Desperate, I even took those devil anti-depressants to no avail. What could they have hurt? I believed sometimes those pills made matters worse; actually, that opinion never changed. Smoking weed occasionally did seem to help take the edge off, but I disliked the way it lobotomized me. I don't recall what combination of drugs and alcohol it took to drown out the world, but somehow I made it through that day.

Soon after during this time I was sitting in my office with one of my employees, and confided in him my predicament. Not looking to pour out my soul, especially to Alan, I found myself doing so anyway. In addition to the endless list of business gripes, I informed him about living out a mental torment and losing all my concentration. I worked fervently twisting a joint while presenting my case when he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a tiny, clear zip-lock baggie about the size of a quarter. It contained what resembled crumbs of hardened baby powder.

"What's that, Alan"?

He smiled faintly and said, "Don't roll that joint just yet."

I wondered why as he motioned with a quick and short backwards jerk of his head toward the tray with the weed on it. I handed him my Incredible Hulk tray salvaged from my childhood which contained the weed. He crushed up the hard powdery substance between his fingers and sprinkled it into the cradle of the joint I had formed, but not rolled. I furrowed my eyebrows and wondered what he added to the joint.

I wasn't scared to smoke it; in fact, I was willing to smoke anything to make me feel better. He finished up rolling the combination, and licked it for extra measure. Alan then proudly offered the joint to me. I examined the outward appearance, shrugged my shoulders and proceeded to light it up.

I must say I liked the taste immediately. It wasn't harsh at all, which is the norm with weed. The joint tasted quite smooth; it is tricky to define the taste. Unless a person had actually tasted cocaine, it is unexplainable. Most tastes can be described or compared to something, but not cocaine. Cocaine had its own flavor, just like an apple tastes only like an apple. Coke (short for cocaine) had a sweet taste that left me sucking my tongue just to get a reminder. Let me put it this way: As a child, I remember walking in fields filled with sweet smelling flowers. Whenever I pulled those flowers to my nose and breathed in real deep, the fragrance was heavenly. The smell was one in which I had to close my eyes to savor the scent. In my mind I thought the flower smelled so good that it had to taste good. Well, it didn't of course, but imagine if it did. Coke is to your taste buds as your favorite flower's aroma is to your nose. Thus the appeal; but like the flower, cocaine although sweet, is misleading.

Anyway, I didn't feel anything monumental immediately, so we continued to pass the joint between the two of us. By the joint's end I was stoned, but I expected to be stoned, that's what pot does. Only I wasn't merely stoned. I felt an elated feeling rising in me like the first drop on a roller coaster. I was happy go lucky, without a care in the world. I floated in a dream; an extraordinary dream where everything was blissful. Life was great. Life was beyond great. Memories of all of the despondent emotions disappeared faster than mom's homemade cookies.

As I tried to explain this high to Alan, he was already preparing another joint laced with the same powdery substance.

He acknowledged me with a nod and said, "I know."

There was no time to fully appreciate or evaluate this new high before Alan lit the second special joint. I loved the last one's results, so who was I to argue with another? After all it was free. By the time this joint was defeated my buzz was totally unlike the weed buzz I described earlier. Almost instantly and without warning, my hormone level rose.

Whenever I was called on in school, it always embarrassed me. Then I would feel the blood rushing to my head, thus causing me to turn red. That is about how long it took for my sexual desires to go from zero to one hundred. My beer consumption sunk to almost none. Actually, I threw away the beer I had. The alcohol desire faded away as this new desire was taking shape. Although I didn't want another beer, I will say that I did crave one more hit, a hard one. I figured if I could take a little more in and hold it a little longer then the stimulating buzz would have to be better.

I was right.

Did I get "hooked" immediately? Nah, I don't think so, but I do recall wanting to have the white powder in my marijuana cigarettes from then on. That substance, I later learned to be cocaine, was my new fantasy drug...but I was blind to the demons it would bring.

The next few weeks I smoked those laced joints known as "woo's" whenever someone had cocaine. I would like to say it was just socially, but it wasn't. After only a short while, it became dull as dishwater waiting for someone to bring over that sweet marijuana additive. I elected to ask one of my employees the favor of purchasing some cocaine for me. Just for my private use, and just for me.

I dished out fifty bucks and he returned about fifteen minutes later with what looked like a jagged white pebble. Perhaps that's why people called it "rock". The hardened semi-white substance sized up to about the mass of a pencil eraser. I lifted the pebble to my nose expecting some kind of scent; there was none.

"I can't believe I blew fifty bucks on something this tiny", I told myself.

I didn't smoke it right away; I just stashed it away to go with my weed.

In reality, I didn't use that rock at all to go with my weed. Fifty bucks was a lot of money, so I held onto it for a rainy day. The red flags should've gone up when I decided to hide it from Mary. There was a scruple, a gnawing inside feeling, which warned me cocaine was a shameful and dangerous drug. I wish I had listened.

Straight Crack

One week later, January 21, 2005. I remember the date, because of the horrible way it started. My Friday began with the phone waking me up in a most barbaric way. On the sender's end were unsatisfied customers way too eager to start their day with complaints. Whoever said "the customer is always right", must've been a customer.

I hung up the phone just in time to hear my wife vomiting. At the same time Mary was refunding the previous night's spaghetti, my star employee called in sick. This particular employee possessed the needed skills for a special job that day. I was succumbing to a knockout in the first round, and my feet had not even touched the floor. The aroma from Mary's regurgitation prompted me to get up. She never could clean up her own puke, or anyone else's for that matter.

I struggled just to mop up the spills of the day. The day ended as it begun. Turbulent. The crew arrived back at the office around 5:00 PM with complaints of their own. They were grumbling about the work, and rumbling among themselves. Besides being the owner of the company, I apparently inherited the title of chief babysitter and company counselor. Ready to pull my hair out, I managed to chase everyone off after a few shouting matches. I plopped down in Dad's old chair, leaned back, and popped the top of a beer. There were around fifteen more of those beverages chilled in the refrigerator; it was time to become acquainted. I sat all alone chugging as fast as my throat could manage the carbonated potion. I was alone, and wanted it that way.

I choked down about five beers while my mind swam like a one legged duck. My thoughts shifted impatiently from worry to worry, and then back to worry. How could I pay over $2,300.00 in current bills? Where would the money come from to pay my employees when I can't collect from customers? How could I make my wife well when I had no clue what she suffered from? My vehicle maintenance was way behind, my taxes were due, my yard looked like Sanford and Son and my dream car was just sitting there dead. Stepping outside to get some fresh air, I puked involuntarily.

I stumbled back into the office lightheaded and reached up to pull down my Hulk rolling tray only to find seeds and stems; no weed to speak of.

"That's just great", I mumbled to myself. "No pot".

Not having any more of my "mellow out medicine" angered me and fueled my aggravation. Sitting among those green twigs conspicuously was that week old cocaine rock. I stared at the rock for what felt like hours, even though only a minute or so had passed.

What if I smoked that cocaine without weed? Would I get hooked? How does a person smoke cocaine anyway?

Unsure of the proper approach to smoking cocaine, I felt confident in finding a way. I knew of what I had heard and what I had seen in the movies. Most addicts smoke out of what I learned later to be called a "stem" or a "shooter." A stem/shooter is a small hollow glass tube. These tubes were often sold in convenience stores as "novelty gifts" with a tiny fake flower in it. About the same circumference as a pencil, the tube measured only two to three inches long. A partial brillo pad was shoved in one end to hold the cocaine in place, and the other end was the smoking end. Some smokers would make a homemade device, such as an aspirin bottle using tape, foil, and a straw to inhale with.

Even without a smoking doohickey, I made up my mind to smoke that coke one way or another; I would improvise. My wits went to work as I invented my own form of a pipe. In the movies, people used razor blades to cut up the cocaine on a mirror. It proves true in real life as well, but applies only to the users who sniff cocaine. The cocaine I possessed was hardened with baking soda. While powder cocaine is normally sniffed, the hard cocaine is for smoking. When the cocaine is hardened it becomes what is known as "crack." Its name comes from the sounds it produces when lit. An old commercial for Rice Crispies, famous for their slogan, "Snap, Crackle, Pop", showed a fun loving child pouring milk into his bowl of cereal and then raising the bowl to his ear to hear the crackle. That is what crack sounds like.

My mind cooked up a makeshift smoking device made from a beer can.

I clipped tiny pieces off the rock with my fingernails and then dropped the small crumbs in the bed of ashes located on the formed spot of the can. Careful not to spill anything, I lifted the homemade smoking device up to my mouth.

My hesitation and anticipation met face to face. Was I really ready for this roller coaster trip? God have given me yet another opportunity to choose the high road, but the high road offered no quick fix. Therefore, I opened Pandora's Box.

I held my finger over the carburetor and proceeded to light up while sucking at the same time through the drinking hole. The cocaine began to crackle as I sucked in gently. I continued to inhale and blaze the drug until the crackling sound died out; then I let go of the carb that my finger was blocking and took in all the smoke left in the can.

It was such a sweet taste. I held it as long as my lungs would allow. Once I released the smoke out of my lungs, I felt a rush that really is indescribable.

Whoooooooo!

My heart rate jumped up considerably, maybe even doubled or tripled, I don't know. I felt as though I ran two miles in two minutes. My eyesight went into a sort of tunnel vision. Time seemed to stand still and I felt unusually keyed up. What was I excited about? Nothing in particular. The state and sensation of ecstasy I encountered should have its own place in Webster's, for I can't think of a deserving description.

Leaning back in Dad's chair contemplating this new euphoria, I was perfectly content wandering back and forth from reality to that place of diversion. Then, without any warning, my head was filled with abstract thoughts of women; women from my past and women from my present. Helpless to the control of the drug, my dominated mind embellished pure lustful thoughts. Those distinct, peculiar and crowded thoughts all streamed through my head within a three minute window.

Let me try to explain another way. Different drugs (including prescription drugs) have different effects and those effects depend on the chemical makeup of the individual. For example, alcohol fueled whatever mood I happened to be in at the time of consumption. Marijuana, on the other hand, relaxed my moods for the most part. As far as using drugs in combination with one another, well, that creates a brand new can of worms. Now in my case, cocaine was an aphrodisiac (a food or drug which arouses or intensifies sexual desire). Cocaine took precedence and overrode any other "high", even if used in combination with other intoxicants.

Although the pounding in my chest caused no pain, the pressure was intense. My escalated heart rate would not allow me the luxury of sitting. I jumped up and walked about the house; pacing around impulsively and aimlessly. My mind overflowed with abstract thoughts, and like confused squirrels in traffic, they would leave almost as soon as they entered.

Is it too feminine to wear a pink shirt? What did I get for Christmas when I was eighteen years old? Why can't I remember what I was thinking sixty seconds ago? I need to organize my comic book collection. Can tomatoes grown indoors taste as good as the ones grown outdoors? I'm standing in my spare bedroom...why? Who cares?

Twenty minutes later, I found myself back in the office, my "cave" as I called it. I wanted to be alone. That's all, to be left alone. Ninety percent of the euphoria was gone at that point, so I regressed back to a cold beer and lit up a smoke.

I just blew fifty bucks. FIFTY BUCKS! Calculated out, that was roughly three dollars a minute for mental Disneyland. Fifty dollars could have fed my wife and me for a week. Fifty dollars could have bought my cigarettes and beer for a week; or it could have paid one of those many bills I complained of.

Fifty dollars. Gone.

The next day. Shame and disgust choked out what little was left of my self-respect. Reflections of the previous day's blunder deterred me from partying altogether, at least for the day. After thoroughly licking my wounds, I set out to pound the beat, working harder than ever to make up for the financial loss, even though it was only fifty dollars. To be completely honest, I was too tired and worn out to party. That cocaine drained me of all energy and I felt physically depleted.

Like I said, I was working a lot of hours to provide for all those that counted on me. Life went a little better as the day wore on and business picked up as well. My wife was feeling better today. It was Saturday, which wasn't a normal work day, but it went better than the whole week prior. The mail even brought in a couple of checks owed to the company.

I felt pretty good as I leaned back into my Dad's old chair. As I sat there, I folded my hands behind my head and thought about how situations have a way of turning around. Twenty four hours ago I was about ready to hang myself but right then I felt proud that I was able to take lemons and make lemonade. The crack made me feel wonderful when I was doing it, but my sober mind told me it would be best to stay away from it. It was too expensive and the next day blues just were not worth it.

It had been several days since my last hit of crack, but thoughts of that euphoric high kept creeping back in my head. My mind wouldn't let me forget it. I kept reminiscing to the way it made me feel. I didn't intentionally set out to focus on that feeling; I just did. When I did that drug I didn't have a care in the world. All of my problems disappeared. It only disappeared for a few brief moments, but they did disappear. Problems disappeared and elation entered.

The more I allowed my mind to dwell on the blissful feelings that drug brought, the more I craved it. The more I told myself not to think about it, the more I did. I knew I couldn't afford this drug but I liked the way it made me feel. I didn't think of all the negatives because at the time the positive, getting high, outweighed the consequences. In my twisted way of thinking, I thought something that made me feel so good couldn't be all that bad. Essentially, I was rationalizing getting high.

I kept telling myself that maybe, just maybe, I could do it one more time. Just once more to experience that glorious high.

I convinced myself that I couldn't be an addict. I had only done it once. Besides that, why should not I be able to use it recreationally? I worked hard for what I had and did it on my own. I deserved a little "reward." Just once in a while; on my good days.

I didn't try to hide drinking or smoking weed from my wife. So I wondered why I felt guilty enough to hide this new fascination from her. I should have known that if I was hiding cocaine use that something wasn't quite right. To be honest, I didn't care. I wasn't cheating on her. Besides, I was making all the money and she had no trouble with that aspect of my life.

From the moment I let the thought of buying crack enter my mind to the time I was determined to purchase some was only minutes. I talked myself into buying another fifty dollars worth, justifying it with a series of reasons why it was OK. After a few phone calls, I located Alan and requested that he introduce me to his dealer so I wouldn't have to have a middle-man anymore. He was reluctant at first, perhaps because he couldn't pinch off of my dope.

Let me explain what I mean by that last statement. In the drug world when someone knows a dealer and the purchaser does not, the purchaser has to trust the middle-man to approach the dealer and make the physical purchase. Or, like in my case, the purchaser would wait in the car while the middleman goes into the drug house. The dealers are oftentimes very particular to who they will deal with. That is for good reason as the sentences for that particular crime can be a quite lengthy stay in prison.

The incentive for the middleman to get the drug for the purchaser is he/she will "pinch" off of the dope the purchaser's money bought for his/her own habit. In other words, he steals from the purchaser. This is a common practice although not commonly claimed.

Anyway, after enough nagging, Alan came over and I rode with him up to the local crack house. The dealer was only five minutes from my home. (Ironically, the dealer was my neighbor when I was married to Trish) I had never met him before. As I waited on Alan in the car, I felt nervous, even though he was gone only a minute or two. I kept looking all around and was on edge. I felt like the FBI or somebody was going to jump out and grab me. Buying marijuana felt nothing like buying cocaine. I kept thinking to myself that I sure don't want to get caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Once I gained sight of him from the car window, he motioned for me to get out of the car.

As we walked into this old house I heard the voices of many people. The front and rear doors were wide open. Where did all these folks come from? The driveway was almost empty. I never felt more out of place in my life. Dirty dishes were strung about and the floor had dust on its dust. Most of the mixture of black and white people looked unclean, and all of them were on their feet holding pipes and other smoking devices. There were no greetings, and if someone did say something to me it was to bum a cigarette. It seemed everyone had a conversation going, but no one was listening. I was introduced to a man named Jim by Alan, and to my surprise, the elderly black man sold to me the first time we met. I hate to admit it but there was something about this man I liked. I couldn't believe I was just in a crack house and bought crack for my first time. I gave Alan a small pinch for introducing me and had him drop me off at home.

Anticipation filled my soul. I looked so forward to getting home and sampling the product I had just bought. On the short journey home I still couldn't believe I bought my own drug; I could go buy it any time I wanted. The five minute ride home felt like an hour.

I raced into the house and locked the door behind me. I lit up two cigarettes for some fresh ashes and just let them burn in the ashtray while I searched the trash for a beer can to fix up as I mentioned earlier. I already had the master plan in my head. I couldn't get it ready fast enough.

The anticipation of tasting cocaine again made me impatient. My belly had butterflies in it. I can recall shaking slightly as I prepared the can. Like before, I had no razor, so I crumpled it with my fingernails. I looked over to the ash tray and although I didn't have enough ashes to make a good cushion for the crack, I didn't want to wait any longer. So I dropped, lit, and sucked. I released the carb to get the full blast of that sweet smoke in my lungs.

As I exhaled, I thought to myself whooooo! That was awesome! Instantly that ecstasy hit. I really WAS king of the world. It didn't matter what I spent because that feeling was like no other. That feeling was worth whatever price. Forbidden fantasies flooded my head. I didn't have to make myself think of them, they came whether I wanted them to or not! I wasn't complaining though, it felt soooooo good!

I am taking an educated guess here, but I believe about one or two minutes later I wanted to get another hit, as the buzz only lasts a few moments. Let me rephrase that last statement. The INTENSE buzz only lasts a few moments. There is not any left-over buzz, it is intense for the moments you have it, then it is gone within ten minutes. It left me wanting more. It always did.

With alcohol, a person can get his feel. What I mean is that after enough drinking, a person either passes out, pukes, or gets sick. Either way, that person is done. With marijuana, you could only get so high. After a night of partying, there is a possibility of beer left in the refrigerator. There is also the possibility of pot left over in a rolling tray.

Never is crack cocaine left over. I never got tired of taking one more hit off of the can with crack on it. Never.

The next day's feeling was always awful! In some cases, the next day could be days later due to the inability to quit and go to bed. One more hit. It was always just one more hit. Concerns of everyday life were put on the back burner. I wonder if all cocaine uses felt as I did, like a lower form of life. I was hiding things from my family; I must be the lowest form walking. I figured out why prostitutes do what they do. As a young and naïve person, I thought the prostitutes just needed money for food or rent...whatever. I didn't think so after I experienced that high. I understood why a person would sell their body more than I did before. I didn't agree with it, I just understood.

Facts about Cocaine

Cocaine and its various forms is derived from the cocoa plant which is native to the high mountain ranges of South America. Cocaine was first synthesized in 1855, but it wasn't until 1880 that its effects were recognized by the medical world. The two main forms are powder and crystalline. It is through chemically synthesizing the coca leaves to which the white crystal powder forms. The first recognized authority and advocate for this drug was world famous psychologist Sigmund Freud. Early in his career, Freud broadly promoted cocaine as a safe and useful tonic that could cure depression and sexual impotence. Cocaine got a further boost in acceptability when in 1886 John Pemberton included cocaine as the main ingredient in his new soft drink, Coca Cola (cocaine was removed from the drink's ingredients in 1903).

A national survey done in 2009 showed almost 40 million Americans aged 12 and older have tried cocaine at least once in their lifetime. About 2.1 million Americans are regular users. Of the 2.1 million users, just over 700,000 are uses of crack. Drug enforcement personnel estimate that about 2,500 Americans every day try cocaine for the first time. After marijuana, cocaine is the second most commonly used illicit drug in the United States. It wasn't until recently (2005), when prescription drug abuse passed cocaine as the leading cause of all drug related deaths, however, cocaine is credited with causing three times more deaths than any other illegal drug.

Cocaine is the most powerful central nervous stimulant found in nature. Its physical effects include constricted blood vessels and increased temperature, heart rate, and blood flow. Users of the drug experience greater alertness, energy, self-confidence and even power after administration. Cocaine produces its euphoric effect by activating the nerve cells in the brain that release dopamine, a chemical associated with pleasure and mental alertness. The drug then inhibits neural transporters from "mopping up" the dopamine and storing it for a later time.

In 1884, William Stewart Halsted, a famous American physician, performed the first surgery using cocaine as an anesthetic. Subsequently, Halsted became the first cocaine-addicted physician on record. The famous nineteenth-century literary character Sherlock Holmes was a frequent user of cocaine, and he is often described in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's tales as indulging in cocaine when no stimulating cases were present to excite his mind.

After cocaine was outlawed in 1914, use of the drug dropped dramatically until it rebounded in the 1960s. By the late 1970s, it was commonly used by middle and upper-middle class Americans and it became known as the drug of the 1970s and 1980s. Crack cocaine appeared in the mid 1980s and became an instant "hit" among poor and young users, due to its relatively inexpensive street price and quick euphoric effects. Smoking crack enters the bloodstream twice as fast as snorting cocaine, thus creating a more intense effect. Cocaine overdose is the most common reason for drug-related visits to the emergency department in the U.S. causing 31% of such visits. In 1978, cocaine accounted for only 1% of drug-related emergency room visits. When cocaine is used in combination with alcohol, the body converts the two substances into cocaethylene.and is the cause of more deaths than any other drug combination (nearly 75% of cocaine-related deaths in the U.S.).

In 2007, nearly 12,000 offenders in the U.S. were sentenced to prison time on cocaine-related charges. More than 400,000 babies are born addicted to cocaine each year in the U.S. Previously men were more likely to use cocaine than women, but the gender gap is decreasing. Worldwide, the use of cocaine has been reported in more than two thirds of all countries. The U.S has the highest incidence of cocaine abuse, with New Zealand, Mexico, and Colombia following close behind.

Back to Business

It was the next morning and I had to rise and shine regardless. It didn't matter I felt like crap and wanted to crawl under a rock, people were depending on me. I believe I had everyone fooled about my new drug desire and didn't think anyone knew what I was secretly doing. I had such a guilty complex that it had to show; at least I felt like it did. I decided that I wasn't going to let this drug get the best of me. I wasn't so mad at the money I spent, but was madder at wanting it so bad.

I pledged full devotion into my work and into my family. My previous day's mistakes drove me to work twice as hard and twice as much to alleviate my conscience. Depression existed before the drug, and my sober mind was making it worse. Oh well, everybody makes mistakes; I just had to convince myself everything was going to be OK. I knew from before I couldn't dwell on spilled milk.

Even later, same day. A good day for a change! I completed all goals I had set for myself. I figured that if I made an excellent day that perhaps it might make up for my recent screw-up's. I knew it wouldn't, but some type of reasoning told me that it would. At least it may improve my mood. Yeah, I felt good about the accomplishments for the day, but memories of the previous day haunted me. Being a perfectionist has its downfalls as I have always been hard on myself.

With a clear mind, I realized being alone only made me punish myself more. My new plan was to surround myself with people in my life who didn't participate in those activities. I figured as long as I am around people in my "circle", I would be less tempted. It worked, but it was only temporary.

What happened?

A few short days later I woke up and got dressed. I put on the same clothes that I had been wearing for days. Was it that I was just too lazy to change clothes, or was it that I just didn't care? I don't believe I had bathed for a couple of days either; I figured it didn't matter because I didn't stink. The size 36 pants that were so tight on me hung loosely on my hips, and I was down to the last notch on my belt.

What happened to me? Somehow, somewhere, I had lost twenty pounds! As I stared at the person in the mirror, I saw a much older and a much more tired looking man who had not shaven in at least a week. I contemplated brushing my teeth and for unknown reasons, I didn't. My once vibrant eyes were replaced with a sunken in hollow look. I couldn't even remember the last time I had combed my hair.

I plopped into Dad's old chair and dug out my planner to see what was in store for the day. What happened? My planner was blank; it had nothing written in it for months. Was I just then noticing? I remember writing in it just days ago. In reality it was over four months ago. What all did I do in those four months? I didn't remember much.

My wife headed out for the day to visit her family. The crew had finished their work early and had gone home. There I sat unsure of what I was to be doing. It was so quiet in the house and I was bored. I just about jumped out of my Levi's when the phone rang. It was one of my drug buddies.

"Yo Mitch, I got a hold of some killer stuff."

I replied, "Ah, man, I really can't afford it."

After a little more persuasion, I gave in. I went up to meet him and made a purchase of about $70.00 worth. My logical mind told me that if I buy in bulk that I can stretch it out and spend less. So, I went ahead and spent an additional $130.00, making the grand total $200.00.

I arrived home with the product, and like before I shook with anticipation. I was home long enough for the water to get hot before I am dropping, lighting, and sucking. Only this time I didn't clip tiny crumbs. I picked off a bigger chunk, maybe about half the size of a pencil eraser. After all, I had a better deal and a bigger quantity. I wanted to try out a "bigger" high.

I inhaled and took in as much smoke as my lungs could hold. Holding it in for as long as I could, I exhaled

As before, all my cares were in the wind and replaced with a euphoria which sent me clear to Mars. As predicted the high was much bigger. I fell in love with that feeling!

Not only was I anxious about my next hit, but I worried how I would hide this from Mary in the event she came home early. By now she had figured out what I was doing. It didn't take too long actually. I wasn't treating her the same way. I no longer waited anxiously for my wife to come home from work. I dreaded it. All she did was complain. The bills weren't getting paid on time, The kids needed money. Customers kept calling wanting to know when we were going to be able to get to them. Yack, yack, yack. All she did was cry and bitch. I was sending her on bogus errands just to get her out of the house. I was turning my phone off because I couldn't deal with relationships or customers or my family when I was high. She thought I was cheating on her again. I had another lover, but it wasn't another woman. It was crack cocaine. Paranoia set in, I didn't care. I just wanted one more hit.

Drop, light, suck.

I suppose I was getting a certain amount of immunity to the once great buzz I used to experience because it wasn't quite as intense. It took bigger chunks and deeper hits to equal the euphoria of the first time I got high. Perhaps I was doing it too frequently. Perhaps I have turned into a crack-head without a bit of warning. Of course, I don't know of anyone that admits to being a crack-head.

Drop, light, suck.

Obsessed

Hold on, what was that sound? I heard something outside that didn't sound familiar. What was that? I peered outside the curtain in the living room as if I were a fugitive running from the law. I was all alone in the house on a bright and clear day.

Who could be out there messing around? As I peeked out from behind the blinds, I saw nothing. There wasn't anything out there, but I couldn't shake the feeling there was something or someone out there. I scurried from room to room looking out each window as I came to them. Each time I peered, I would be somewhat disappointed when everything looked normal. My intellect told me I was hallucinating, but I still couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. I was so convinced that there was someone outside moving around the yard, with flash lights, I got my wife out of the bed. I needed her verification before I called the police. This occurred about 3:00 AM. Mary had to get up at 5:00 AM for work, so needless to say, she was none too happy about this. She asked me why I was whispering, and who I thought was out there. I told her I didn't know who they were, but I didn't want them to hear me, and no, she couldn't cut on the light. She proceeded to tell me I was crazy as hell and went back to bed, grumbling the whole way about having to get up in two hours. I later learned one of the side effects of smoking crack was extreme paranoia. Well, I learned that night about paranoia; it was later I learned it was a side effect.

My ecstasy buzz was gone. I still retained some leftover notions someone was outside, but I didn't care. I craved another hit. I hid in the bathroom to get another hit, thinking I would be blind and deaf to things on the outside. Inside this little cubicle, I threw towels at the bottom of the door and towels over the windows. I climbed into the tub, naked, and shut the shower curtain. I turned on the water to muffle out the sounds that I was hearing, be it real or imagined. I directed the water straight downward to prevent me from getting wet. I had locked the door so anybody out there who wanted me would have to break down the door. In my warped way of thinking, I thought that if I had the security of a locked door and I couldn't "hear" things, then I would be good to go for another hit. What little bit of cocaine which was left didn't last long. It didn't add to my high either. It was time to lie down. I took a handful of prescription meds given me to help me sleep.

Between three or four day crack binges, I tried to maintain some semblance of a normal life. I stayed in damage control mode. In order to appease my wife, I believed giving her money would keep her in check. Of course, this free money was money I knew I needed for the business. Throwing parties for my "partying employees" did not fool them any more than my wife was fooled. Customers were complaining to my employees; something which was new to them. They were forced to make excuses for me, and learn how to trouble shoot on their own. When unavailable (which was often), my crew would call my wife for instruction. I know my guys hated calling Mary; she stayed upset at my inability to cope. I showed up, on occasion, but was never around when I was really needed. What I mean to say is when the seas were calm, I handled life great; but when the storms of life set in, my competence come into question as did my availability. I might add, nobody involved in the business was too thrilled with having to pick up my slack, just so I could get high.

On one of those beautiful sunny days I was unavailable and taking a hiatus from my life. I was standing naked in my tub during the middle of the day with the shower on and a crack can in one hand and a lighter in the other. There was not time to analyze why; I just went with what I knew I had to do. I stood there in anticipation with a cigarette burning and resting on the soap dish next to the showerhead; I needed the ashes. I was too impatient awaiting ashes for my next hit, so I dropped a piece of cocaine, which I had previously laid on the tubs rear edge, on the can without ashes.

I hit the can hard; so hard it just sucked the coke inside of the can without burning properly. That ticked me off! While I was crying about the lost hit, the hot water from the shower was moisturizing everything, including the side of the tub. The cocaine was no use to me if it were wet! I stepped out of the tub, leaving the water running to drown out noises. At that point it didn't matter whether the noises were real or imagined. I just knew that drowning them out helped me. Looking down at what resembled a tiny bit of melted soap, I realized I just wasted $100.00 for nothing. At least I left the other half of the cocaine in my office, which I retrieved.

I was so ready and impatient for a hit that I became careless. As I was preparing the ashes and dropping bits of hardened cocaine on the can, my shaky hands spilled the majority in the bathroom sink. I looked at it and shook my head, as I lifted what wasn't spilled to my mouth. I inhaled a good hit this time. The steam from the shower was diminishing; I apparently was in there long enough to run out of hot water.

I cut the shower off, and quickly resumed what I was doing. Now the lighter wouldn't strike. I threw the lighter as hard as I could straight behind me hitting whatever was in its path. Infuriation set in. After all, I had just bought that lighter a few hours ago. But, after considering the blisters on my thumb, I realized in all reality, I had used up the lighter. One moment I possessed a $100 rock, and the next thing I knew I was down to tiny crumbs! How could that be? How long was I in the bathroom anyway? I come to the conclusion I must have dropped some cocaine somewhere on my way to the bathroom.

I threw a towel around my waist, and opened the door to the bathroom. Immediately, I dropped to my hands and knees. I had to find that precious drug which I so carelessly dropped on the way to the bathroom. In the drug world, the whole operation of falsely believing the drug (in this case crack) somehow was dropped or misplaced is common, and is known as "carpet picking." The process is sad when a person actually believes that there is more cocaine and he/she convinces their selves they dropped some. In some cases, people will carpet pick in rooms they were not even in! I made my way about eight feet or so when I found some of what I had dropped. I picked up the drug, dropped it on my can, and proceeded to light and suck. The taste was awful! It tasted like a burnt cracker. Come to find out, that is exactly what it was. I smoked some crumbs of saltines. The thought of finding another look-alike piece that might potentially be a toenail moved me to a bit of sobriety. Who knows, maybe I did smoke that whole $100 rock!

My wife was due home pretty soon so I jumped back in the shower to wash off the nastiness I felt (another side effect of the drug). The cold water sobered me up a good bit. Why wasn't there any hot water? Oh yeah, it went down the drain while I was taking a trip to Mars. I couldn't scrub hard enough, but I do remember enjoying the feeling; it reminded me of scratching a poison oak area. The harder I scrubbed the better I felt. I scrubbed myself raw and red, so I stopped. I cut off the shower and just stood there, rubbing my face and throwing my hair back. (My hair had grown out considerably because at some point I decided to stop getting my hair cut) I used to take great pride in my appearance and always dressed nice. My clothes always had creases. My gig line was perfectly straight. And my hair was perfectly groomed and styled. After all, my wife had her cosmetology license. I didn't even have to go out of the house to get a hair cut. It just didn't seem important anymore. I jumped out after about five lonely minutes of trying to shake the cobwebs loose and dried off. I noticed my body was so red from the harsh shower and brutal cleaning, I was almost blistered.

Mary would be home at any time, so I went to prepare a dinner for her to throw off suspicion. I remember savoring the smell of the food I was cooking, but had no appetite. I thought about not having an appetite and considered it weird because I have not been hungry in several hours. I don't know, maybe it had been longer since I ate. I didn't know, I just knew that I wasn't hungry then.

Once Mary arrived home, it took only one look into my eyes and she knew I was high on cocaine, although the intensity buzz had long sense gone. Excessive use of cocaine tends to make the user "bug-eyed." No amount of Visine would help either. Anyway, she said nothing, but the tears in her eyes said a lot. I tried to lie myself out of what she already knew, which made matters worse. I got tangled up in one lie to cover another, which ultimately led to my defeat. The tears in her eyes were not of anger, but of hurt. She didn't even say a word, which was worse. It was that look that she gave me that sent my heart under my feet. What had I done? I shattered her respect for me. I guess she thought she was going to spend yet another night in bed alone, while I hid in my cave. I decided that I was going to give up the coke. Smoking that junk wasn't worth losing my wife.

Slavery

My intentions were honest and noble, but I was a slave to that drug and I didn't want to face that fact. Sooner or later that craving always came back. Unfortunately, the craving came sooner rather than later. I was slowly slipping away from reality and into my own world of perversion. All the things that I treasured or thought the world of were replaced with my love of getting high. As I said, I tried to quit on my own. I would only make it 24 hours or so before I was indulging myself once again. How did I get in this mess?

The downward spiral I was locked into took its toll on my relationship with my wife. Since I stayed up all the time we never slept together. Intimacy was lost. Fights were common. Respect gone. My best friend and life partner had been reduced to a roommate, at best.

My wife was clean and sober as well as a non-smoker. She was quite health conscious and had her wits about her. The reason that I say those things is that I can listen to advice from such a person. I felt a sane and intelligent person would have a better chance of an assessment. So trying to "meet her half-way", I asked her just exactly what it was that she had against cocaine, besides the monetary loss. The following things listed are items that she thought I might not be aware of.

1. I am a loner, a hermit

2. I can't be trusted

3. I am a liar

4. After getting high, I am cruel

5. I will do anything to get high

6. I ignore everyone

7. Everyone in my family does not feel loved

Mary was right, I wasn't aware of those things. The reason I wasn't aware of those things is because I wasn't those things! Those things were in her head. I believed that list wasn't anything more than fabrications to make me be what she perceives I "should" be. The heck with her, I am not going to be her puppet. I didn't even know why I asked her opinion. I should have known what she was going to say. It reminded me of a non-smoker telling a smoker reasons why he/she should not smoke. It was just irritating!

I exploded at her for her opinion. Her opinion that I asked of her.

She cried so I went and got high.

Chapter Seven: Rehab

Betrayal

December 10, 2005. I am awakened at 1:15 PM to the rude sounds of a police officer in my bedroom. My name was called out rather loud. Then I heard it again. Was I dreaming? As I slowly sat up in bed rubbing my eyes, I realized I wasn't dreaming. There actually was a cop at the foot of my bed. As I was trying to focus and figure out what was going on, the first thing that came to mind was that I was being arrested for possession of cocaine.

The police officer who was speaking to me was a friend from high school. Actually, his father had a tire store that I did business with. Charlie, the officer, stood calmly at the foot of the bed and informed me that someone has taken out commitment papers on me. He also informed me I had to be taken to the hospital to talk to a doctor. That's all, just talk to a doctor, and I could come back home. I was disheveled and not thinking in my right mind. After gaining my composure, I realized what was going on. Between my wife and my mother, they had conspired against me to "fix me." Needless to say, I wasn't a happy camper.

There were three other officers there. Charlie allowed me to clothe myself with the clothing my wife provided. Then Charlie did what the law required, which was to handcuff me. I looked up at Mary as the cop escorted me like a criminal, and I could see in her eyes that she definitely knew what was going on. I didn't speak a single word to her. I think I could have taken her spitting in my face better than this betrayal. As I was being led outside, still handcuffed, I heard my wife weeping in the background. I paid her no attention and I refused to even look her way. I was put into Charlie's patrol car. I remember thinking I would make her pay for this betrayal.

We arrived at the hospital about twenty minutes later and Charlie stayed with me like a cop does with a prisoner transport. Triage took my vitals and started asking me questions. The first question she asked was "Do you feel like harming yourself or others?" The she asked, "What day of the week is it." "Do you know where you are?" Couldn't those people see I was not a suicidal nut nor was I high? I didn't even have a cold!

I was embarrassed, ashamed, and mad. After answering the nurse's ridiculous questions, I was police escorted back to the waiting room. Whether the waiting room is full of people or not, a person always waits. Finally my name is called and I am escorted into a deeper part of the hospital, and that is where Charlie and I parted company. I was sitting in that cold cubicle where my clothing was removed and I am put into a flimsy dress gown. That is the only way I can describe it. I sat and waited for what seemed like an eternity. Finally a doctor came in and requested blood and urine from me. He started asking me the run of mill questions, and then the suicidal/homicidal questions began. The light bulb went off in my head; I was here because someone told them that I was suicidal! That is the only way anyone could have got me here.

Then came the next shocker. My mother walks into the hallway of the room where I am being treated like a new disease. As I look in her direction, I see that there is a security guard assigned to me. Then my eyes crossed back over to my mother. She looked at me with her tender loving eyes.

The guard assigned to me approached and asked my permission for Mother to come in. I told him it would be OK. She admitted she was the one who set this whole thing into motion, although I am sure my wife helped nudge her. I just hung my head in disbelief wondering why my own mother had deserted me. My mother was the one person that I would have never suspected of betrayal. As Mother attempted to talk to me, I felt a rage inside of me. My ears were hot and my eyes were glowing as I refused to talk at first. Once I did talk, I let loose and flew off the handle. I don't recall what all I said, but I am confident that it wasn't pleasant. Did someone offer my wife and my mother forty pieces of silver to get me here?

OK, the tests came back with dope in my system. So what? Talking to the doctor was like talking to a brick wall; I could tell he didn't believe a thing I said. The next thing the staff wanted to do was have me talk to an in-house shrink. I thought to myself finally I would get somewhere. Once the shrink saw me, there would be no denying I was normal. All I had to do was to tell the truth.

I was escorted by way of the security officer to an eight foot square room with a recliner and a couple of magazines inside. It was cold in there. There was also a pillow and blanket inside. I figured out what the pillow and blanket were for about an hour or two into my "visit." No one had been in to see me yet, so I began to wonder. In came a nurse to give me a dry turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomato on the side and an apple. To my surprise, I enjoyed the meal. I don't think that I had eaten in the last 24 hours. I read both of those ever so interesting magazines that hospitals offer from cover to cover, and wound up falling asleep. I suppose it was about three hours and several naps later when a female shrink comes in to talk to me.

She looked like some back woods counselor. Actually she reminded me of the girl in school that no one talked to. She greeted me with a manly handshake (it matched her manly mustache). As I shook her hand, I couldn't help but notice she was looking at me like some new form of Rubik's Cube. Immediately I am bombarded with the same questions I had answered hours earlier. As patiently as I could, I assured her that nothing was wrong with me and I definitely wasn't suicidal. Once the long interview was finished, I felt as though I had proven my case. After she left I decided to go ahead and catch up on some more much needed sleep.

An orderly named Mark awakened me. He looked at me calmly and says the Sheriff was there and ready to take me to ADAC (alcohol drug abuse center). I was speechless! How could this be? I'm not suicidal! I don't need treatment! I became scared at this point; I had never been to a treatment facility. It would have been the same if you had told me I was going to jail.

I wanted a cigarette so bad; I had been without for many hours now.

The Sheriff escorted me out to his patrol car. I remember being so cold; the paper gown I wore didn't hold heat. As I sat in the back of the police car I felt a salty tear run down my cheek. I couldn't even wipe my face as my hands were cuffed uncomfortably behind my back. I sure was cold.

Then I felt even colder because I perceived myself being alone in the world. I was alone in the world. I was always alone. The front seat of the cop car had plexi-glass and a cage bolted to the rear of it so close to my seat that I had to sit sideways. Sitting in the back of the cruiser, I made mental notes of how criminals must feel when they are hauled off. But I wasn't a criminal! I kept thinking how backstabbing this stunt was. How humiliating!

I had done nothing short of taking care of those in my circle. That's how I got repaid? I stood by my family in all situations without regard to whether they were right or wrong; I was my family's best friend. I didn't understand. The flood of tears burned my eyes but I couldn't stop the flow. I tried not to cry, especially in front of this policeman who was a total stranger to me. My nose was running to match my eyes. My paper gown was getting soaked from everything dripping off of my chin. I still couldn't get over those handcuffs. I felt like yesterday's garbage. I was alone and I was scared to death.

Not a word was spoken between the officer and me. I did ask if he could stop at a store long enough for me to buy some smokes. He denied my request. So, about twenty-five minutes later we arrived at our destination.

11:00 p.m. It was about 20 degrees outside. I stood outside in the howling wind as the sheriff banged on the security door. As I stood there shivering, I looked around and noticed some very puny Christmas lights on a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. The tree was as puny as the lights. It had one bulb burned out. My bare feet were getting numb. I suppose it might have been that icy wet grass I had to walk on that made them so cold.

Along came a dorky looking dude named Melvin who opened the door for the sheriff and me. The cop un-cuffed me and told me that everything was going to be all right. As the cop left he looked back at me as if I were a lost puppy in the rain.

I was immediately interviewed and strip-searched. Then one of the staff brought me one small roll on deodorant, one small bottle of shampoo, one bottle of conditioner, one huge comb, one toothbrush, one small tube of toothpaste, one small towel, and one large towel. In addition, I was able to turn in my paper garments for sweat pants and a sweatshirt. I was also given flip-flops for my feet.

While being issued my toiletries and such, I inquired about smoking. I was told yet once again NO SMOKING! All I wanted was one cigarette! Was that too much to ask? I concluded that it must be. All wasn't lost though; they did offer me a nicotine patch. It helped all right...it helped to tick me off even more.

I realized that I was in a detox unit. It consisted of one hall about 30-35 yards long. On each side of it were rooms. A total of eight rooms adjoined one another; four on either side of the hall. The nursing station was at one end of the hall and housed a refrigerator. There was also a cabinet of snack crackers and cookies. A pay phone was at the other end of the hall where the sheriff escorted me in. There were locked doors at either end as well.

I was ushered into a locked room. My belongings were put into a separate locked room inside of this locked room. I was allowed to keep nothing. There in front of me at the desk sat a stethoscope and a blood pressure checker. A nurse, or what seemed to be one, asked me to sit down as she opened her file. After taking my vitals for the third time tonight, the questions once again arose.

"Do you feel like hurting yourself?"

"Do you feel like hurting others?"

I gave the same answers I had given all night, but I grew very tired of repeating myself. I was hungry and mentally exhausted. If there was one more person to ask if I wanted to hurt someone, I believe I would have showed them. Actually, I would have told them anything just to get a smoke; I was a bundle of nerves. My hands were shaking and I knew it was due to the lack of stimulants my body had become accustomed to getting regularly. I tried to speed up the interview just as quick as I could by giving all the answers I thought she wanted to hear.

Midnight. All the paperwork was finished and I was exceedingly glad. After expressing my hunger, I was given a pack of cheese crackers, a small bag of chips, and a small carton of milk. Chocolate milk. I couldn't believe how hungry I was. It must have been because my body needed something to replace the void of drugs; at least that was my guess. After scarfing down the snacks, I was led to my "cell."

The room was about 15'X12' and had a tiny bathroom that separated each of the adjacent rooms with a door on either side of the toilet. There were two men to a room, but four to share shower and toilet visits. I crawled into what appeared to be like an army cot only more uncomfortable. The bed apparently wasn't made for tall people. Although the pillow wasn't as square as a cinder block the comfort level was comparable.

It was totally pitch black inside, and I had to go to the bathroom really bad. I sat up and starting feeling my way along the wall to the bathroom. A voice spoke from the bed opposite of mine. A man by the name of Will introduced himself. I did the same. We immediately started trading war stories. Come to find out, Will had an alcohol and crack problem much like my own. Will was thirty-three, white, and from New York. He carried a cocky northern accent. He seemed nice enough, although he was a bit nosy. I needed a friend right then and Will was the only friend I had in the world. We continued our chat in our bunks for a couple of hours. The nurse came into the room and gave me some mild sleeping pills. I drifted off around 3:00 a.m. To my amazement, I slept sound.

Three hours later a brilliant light awakened me. The third shift nurse had no manners or patience when it came to awakening patients. She was only there to check my vitals, which were fine. The light went off for about forty-five minutes and then was right back on again.

6:00 AM Breakfast time. The small group of us met in the day room and our trays were put before us. I lifted the lid and I stared at two pieces of wilted cheese toast. Maybe it had something to do with my lack of culinary versatility, but I had never seen cheese toast before. Also there were about three spoonful's of grits, a plastic spoon, and a small square container of orange juice. For those of you that have never drunk from a square container, it is quite the challenge. About 1/3rd of the juice winds up on your chest due to leakage around the corners of your mouth. Everyone ate but complained as they did so. I just observed everyone while keeping my thoughts to myself. I didn't belong there!

As I picked at my food, I looked around at my surroundings. There were lots of entertaining things in this day room. In the closest corner sat a television with cable and a VCR with a variety of movies. I saw several board games and cards. The cinder block walls had "goals" and "achievements" posters all over them. They even had crayons and a variety of magazines. The floor was bare, and the chairs were the hard plastic ones with metal legs. I heard everyone talking about what had happened the night before I arrived. Apparently a patient threw the television through the day room window and escaped. That explained the patched up hole I had noticed. I couldn't help but laugh to myself thinking of the movie "One Who Flew Over A Coo-Coo's Nest." Had I been there when it happened, I am confident I would have been an accomplice.

As I was putting my tray back into the cart, I noticed a nurse standing there with a clipboard. She was taking notes on how much chow each person ate. I went back to my room and sat on my bunk. I craved a cigarette. My roommate came in and started to chitchat. I wasn't in the mood for conversation, so I just told him I was tired and I lay down. My mind was still trying to process why I had been betrayed.

Of the five other patients there, four were men and one was female. The female's name was Karen. She was an attractive young girl in her early twenties. She was a needle user and her drug of choice was Oxicontin. Brian was another young white person that had a teardrop tattooed on his cheek. He also had the Nazi symbol tattooed on his neck. Out of all of us there, I felt he had experimented with the most drugs. There was Will, my roommate. Then there was Chris, who was from my neck of the woods; he said his drug of choice was speed. I'm sure he was trying to say "meth" in a more socially acceptable way. Chris seemed nice and he was the quietest of the bunch. Lastly, there was an elderly gentleman around fifty-five or so named Thomas. He was black and proud to be so. He was an alcoholic and voiced his opinion on everything. He was also quite prejudice. I suppose all of them had qualities I liked but their personalities were day and night to one another.

It was still Sunday, and with the exception of my three square meals, I spent the majority of time in bed. I would sleep and then wake up disoriented. Will sensed my frustration and depression and suggested I make a call home. He said I should thank the ones responsible for putting me there. Those words went in one ear and out the other. Who was he to give me advice?

An hour passed by and Will's words kept ringing in my head. I was indeed lonely. Maybe my loved ones thought they were doing the right thing. I still didn't like what they did to me but I couldn't just shut off my love. I decided to call my mother and my wife. I called my wife first and was crying like a baby by the end of the conversation. I loved her and missed her so badly, but was still hurt for her putting me there. I couldn't hardly talk, so I sputtered out that I loved her and hung up the phone.

I gathered my senses, and picked up the phone. Still sobbing, I called my mother. The same thing happened, although I tried desperately not to get upset. I knew why they put me there but I still had resentments. The conversation was short but I let her know as well that I loved her. I stood there and wiped the tears. I didn't want anyone there to see me like that. I went up to the nurses' station and requested my meds. I went to bed and I went to sleep.

Monday morning. Well, it had been two days since I had any drugs, alcohol, or cigarettes. The shakes from the detox were gone. I noticed my bathroom visits were not nasty any longer. I felt as though I had put on about five pounds or so in the short time there. I ate breakfast again which was surprising since I had not eaten breakfast in years. Actually, I wanted food. Like the day before, I spent the majority of the day in bed. I wasn't sleeping though.

I read. I had not done that in years either. I really enjoyed reading. I wondered briefly why I had quit reading. It didn't take long for me to realize I quit reading because it was hard to hold a beer, a cigarette, and a book at the same time. For the first time in a long time, I felt something weird...peace.

The next couple of days were a mirror of the previous two. I interacted very little with the others and I stayed in my room most of the time. My mind starting thinking and processing more clearly; and my body began repairing itself. The much needed rest I unknowingly required made a huge difference in my overall health. In a way, I was thankful and not spiteful anymore.

I was reading a book in bed on about my third day there when I heard loud voices coming from the dayroom. I stopped reading and laid the book down on my chest and just smiled to myself; listening to everyone arguing about what to watch on TV. That happened on a regular basis. I stayed clear; I just wanted to do my time.

When my time was almost up, a staff member asked me if I would be interested in the rehabilitation program they had. I just sneered and said no thanks. The more they tried to talk me into it, the more it angered me. They finally gave up on me. The only two that wanted to go straight into the program were Will and Thomas. Unfortunately, both of them were kicked out due to racial outbursts between the two.

Thursday. I was being released from rehab. I was given a good report card and a good bill of health. I walked out the door to freedom, and in the room on the other side was my Mother. Her eyes found mine immediately and within five steps we embraced one another. It felt good. I was no longer mad, I was just glad to be back.

Chapter Eight: Out of Control

Ground Zero

I came home to open arms. The warm welcome strengthened my determination to keep clean. I felt as though I had a new beginning. Actually, it was a new beginning. In fact, I truly felt better physically and mentally than I had felt in a very long time. I decided to stay away from cigarettes. After all, I had already gone four days without smoking. I took the remainder of the day reflecting on what I had just gone through. I guess it was a good thing Mother and Mary had done for me even though I didn't think so at the time.

Mary stuck to me like glue. It was so sweet of her wanting to be with me so much. At first I thought she just missed me that bad. Then I realized there was another reason; she was being my security guard to ensure I didn't slip up. It wasn't until much later I could convince either her or Mother you can't make any one do anything. Sticking to me like Mary did might have done something for her own security, but in truth only drove an invisible wedge between us.

It was about fourteen days into being out of rehab and I was feeling pretty good about myself. Mary had lightened up on watching me so closely, so it was nice to have her trust again. Well...some trust anyway. I was able to run my business a lot easier because I awoke refreshed. If I were to be completely truthful, life itself was a lot easier. It had been a long time since I had a clear mind to work with. A very long time. I had never been clean this long.

The next seven days were a bit more challenging. Dealing with customer and employee complaints raised my stress level. Each day I kept thinking that the next day would be better. I wasn't superstitious, but it did seem if the day started off rotten, then the rest of the day followed suit. Each day started off a little worse than the previous one. On the sixth day my mood was rotten, started by my wife and finished off with business. As I sat in the office all alone, I realized I really was alone in my decision-making. Was I just imagining it, or was I really always alone? I just couldn't focus on any one thing.

My mindset should have sent up a red flag.

The next day was my twenty first day clean. Mary woke me up griping about some bad business decision I had made the day earlier. What would be so wrong with "Good morning honey", or "Would you like some breakfast"? There were three things I hated to wake up to: One was a bugle before daylight, one was a loud and rude alarm clock, and finally a loud and rude wife! I didn't care for starting my day that way, but never- the-less; I had to confront my demons.

I walked into the office and cut on the coffee. I wasn't a coffee drinker but I was craving it that day. The crew walked in, as they all car-pooled together, and tension was there. Apparently one of my crew-members owed money to another and there I was caught in the middle. Being a business owner had its benefits, but the babysitting I could have done without. I overlooked their troubles since I had bigger ones to fight. After discussing what the crew needed to do for the day, the crew was out the door.

I sat there rubbing my eyes. Slumped over in my chair, I rubbed and rubbed. I didn't know how much longer I could hold things together. I was beginning to lose my mind. At least that is the way I felt. I was ready to cry; not from sadness and such, but from frustration. I prided myself with my problem solving abilities, but I could come up with no remedies for that day. There was no one for me to lean on; I had to fix it myself.

I don't know about other men, but I do know I hate to be boxed in like a wild bobcat. The only thing on my mind was how I am going to escape. I felt like the bobcat in a cage which had been poked at by several strangers. The bobcat would jump at any chance he could to escape, and I was willing to as well. But the cage door was locked, and no one was opening it.

The thought of buying some coke did enter my head, but as soon as I had the idea, I chased it away. I had worked too hard at being clean. It sure was a nice feeling though. Stop. I can't entertain those thoughts. But guess what? The thought kept coming back. Maybe I could just get a little, just enough to knock off the edges. Could I? Maybe. After all, it does take away the worries, even if it was only for a moment. I have been good and I have played by all the rules. I needed a break; I deserved a break. I came up with all kinds of reasons to warrant smoking some crack.

But first I had to send Mary out on some bogus trip so I would have time to get high. She wouldn't expect that sort of thing from me because I had been clean for three weeks. The plan, whatever it was, worked. Once the house was empty, I made a call to make sure my local dealer was home. Fortunately for me he was. On the short journey I stopped at the nearby convenience store to buy a pack of smokes. I didn't plan on "smoking" the cigarettes, but I needed the ashes.

I spent a 100-dollar bill thinking it would be enough. I was shaking on the way home, excited about what I was about to experience. My belly was doing flips from the excitement anticipating the high. By the time I got home from the five-minute trip even my legs were shaking. What an indescribable feeling; a feeling predicting the euphoria I knew was coming. Once I arrived home I could hardly contain my excitement...and I wasn't even high yet! My hands were trembling as I locked the door behind me.

I walked directly to the small bathroom and lay down my product on the back of the toilet. I left the small cell to search for an old can of any kind. I searched and found an old beer can outside and a needle in my wife's sewing kit. I proceeded to make my homemade smoking device while lighting two cigarettes for fresh ashes. I entered the small cubicle again and laid the cigarettes in an ashtray awaiting ashes. I drew on the cigarettes here and there puffing hard. I continued without inhaling just to create ashes and then went back to creating my smoke device. Finally, the device was ready. I loaded the ashes, spilling a majority of them on the rim of the toilet and the floor. I broke off a portion of the rock I had bought between my nails and put in square in the middle of the can on top of the ashes. I exhaled deeply as I closed my eyes.

I was so ready for the much anticipated hit.

"Here we go."

I lifted the can to my mouth with my left hand and with my right hand lit the lighter. I lowered the flame till I heard a crackling sound and sucked soft and gently. I removed my hand from the hole in the side of the can to inhale what was left. I was barely able to hold it, but did. I exhaled after a few seconds and felt the familiar wave. I sloppily set the can on the back of the toilet causing the ashes fell off onto the floor. I just stood there tasting the memorable taste. Immediately my worries were replaced with ecstasy. Once again my mind was filled with abstract thoughts and fantasies.

I guess about three minutes passed before I was reloading. With each hit my mind was filled with more and more perverse thoughts. Sweat beads were running down my face and down my back. Smoke filled the tiny bathroom.

My hits were not three minutes apart anymore. I was lighting a new rock immediately following the previous one. Actually, I couldn't keep up with the ashes and breaking down the rock into smaller pieces. I attempted to relax my quivering body by means of smoking a cigarette. It didn't work. Everything was going too slow.

I was getting very inpatient within only a couple of minutes. I tried to scoop up ashes off of the floor, but apparently my sweat was very severe. The whole floor was wet. I started putting pieces on the can without ashes. It was unbeneficial, as the coke just melted and went through the holes of the can. I guessed I was in this tiny bathroom for a total of about an hour. Who knows. When experiencing cocaine, time has little meaning and little understanding. By the time I finished with all that I had, I was drenched with sweat. I couldn't have been any wetter than if I had just stepped out of the shower. I couldn't even see my hand in front of my face due to the smoke. My body felt drained of all energy, which is uncommon for a lot of folks that do cocaine.

I opened the door and the smoke poured out as I got a whiff of some cool fresh air which I found comforting. Actually, the air was so cool it almost knocked me over. The sweat continued to drip off of my hair. I wondered how far from death I stood at that very moment. My heart was pounding so hard and so fast it was a medical miracle that I was alive. It had been like that for what I guessed to be about an hour. The cool air hitting me felt like an arctic wind although it was only 70 degrees in the house. My heart didn't hurt, amazingly. For some reason my chest was able to fight off a for sure heart attack. I stood there for what seemed like hours, but was sure it had only been moments.

I was elated, but the high was fading fast. I started making plans in my head to get some more cocaine. That drug was so insatiable. I still was able to lie to myself and think that just one more rock would be enough. It was never enough!

Imagine having a bizarre and perverse thought burned into your mind for only three to four seconds and instantly erased from your memory only to be replaced with something equally abstract. This continues for as long as the buzz lasts, which traditionally for me was seven to nine minutes. After about twenty minutes, I would become somewhat normal again. When I became excessive, smoking more than twelve to fifteen "hits", returning to normal took much longer.

If the initial high is followed by continual abuse of the drug, then certain side effects occur and only increase with usage. Hallucinations, both audible and visual are not uncommon. The eyes appear to get a wild stare to them. Hormone levels rise. Deep paranoia sets in. Lack of appetite and restlessness are a certainty. Judgment is impaired and thought patterns cannot be trusted.

During the time period under the influence of cocaine, it masks out responsibilities and alters the conscience. To say a person indulging in cocaine is selfish is an understatement. A person would pay the price, whatever it was, for that great high. Other things which went along with the "high" were poor concentration, increase in blood pressure, increase in heart rate, and sleeplessness. Experienced users would often experience fear.

Whenever buying the drug, I told myself that I would make it up later. Later never came. I bought into this lie of "making up" until I ran out of money. Sometimes it would be hours later, sometimes it would be days later. I always stayed high as long as I had money. I have actually started off with hundreds in my pocket only to wind up scraping change together to get one more hit.

I thought that I was able to hide my usage from everyone; but everyone knew. I believe everyone just felt sorry for me and let me live out my lie. The cost of my usage at that point probably averaged about $200.00 a day.

After my twenty-one days clean, I was at the fourteenth day of being high at some point throughout the day. What I once trusted to my memory was fading with each and every hit of cocaine. Bills that I once paid on the day I received them were now buried under a pile of other bills. Threatening phone calls from creditors were becoming common. My bank account stayed in the red and I was bouncing checks regularly at my suppliers. I started losing jobs because I didn't keep appointments. Everything took a back seat to getting high and if I were not getting high, I was recovery from being high.

Relations with Mary ceased.

Uncle Sam wanted his money, which totaled several thousands. My house was falling apart. The only vehicle I owned that was operable, outside of business, was running hot and leaking water. What little food that was in the refrigerator was either spoiled or rotten. I was so lazy that I just kept the fridge door shut and hoped that the magical custodial technician would remedy the problem. The curtains in the house were turning black from the cigarette and crack smoke. I went back to smoking cigarettes like they were going out of style.

I stumbled outside and squinted. The daylight seemed so bright. I opened the mail for the day where I received a $300 dollar water bill and a $300 electricity bill. I wondered how that could be. Great mother of toast! How could anybody run bills up like that? How did I run up a light bill when I'd used it less than ever? For that matter, what was in that water...champagne? What was I going to do? How would I get out of this mess?

I couldn't.

I just tossed the bills on top of the ever-growing stack of paperwork. I suppose calling it a stack was like calling a volcano an ashtray. The bigger the mountain of paperwork grew the more I stayed away. My mind was numb. I didn't even try to sort things out in my head; I wouldn't even know where to start. I just sat there staring off into space.

I remember feeling so down on myself. I walked into the kitchen and checked out the cupboards and the refrigerator. I did this several times. Walking back and forth, I was thinking that something would change with each look. I wasn't even hungry but my body was dying. The thought of food was almost disgusting to me.

It was so hard to distinguish what my thought pattern was. For example, when I drank, which I did for twenty plus years, I knew the pattern. Drink and have a good time, or have a fight. Get drunk, finish good times or bad, and pass out after a meal. That was pretty much the norm.

If I drank and included some weed, then the fights were less, but the party lasted longer. Every night was a party in my life. Whether I was alone or with other drunks, it was indeed every night.

Add cocaine...well that was different. I had only experienced smoking cocaine with a group of people on two separate occasions. For me, it was a very selfish drug. I didn't want to party with others while smoking coke. There were times I was actually accused of being associated with law enforcement because no one ever seen me use the drug. One of my dealers essentially made me take a hit in front of him to prove I wasn't the law.

As I mentioned earlier, my mood and behavior varied. There really wasn't a so-called pattern while smoking coke. At least I didn't feel as though there was. I do know that when I ran out, I crashed hard with feelings of severe hopelessness and depression. Those feelings were predictable enough.

Within days later I found myself alone in the house once again. It was no surprise that my thoughts immediately went to crack. Obviously a pattern had already formed. Getting high was pretty much a guarantee anytime I was alone. Knowing that I was going to be alone for a while, I started thinking about how much I should buy.

Never mind the bills that were demanding payment. I didn't even think of paying one of those debts which were causing a good portion of my depression. That behavior was so un-like me; to not pay a bill. But then again, I had not been me in some time.

I fashioned my can and filled it with ashes before I left home. I took my five-minute trip up the road and was back inside of fifteen. I was in the house dropping, lighting, and sucking inside of twenty minutes of starting my plan. Only that time, it was a much bigger chunk. I kept on putting bigger chunks on every minute or two. I was probably wasting more than I was inhaling, but I was so obsessed over that drug. I kept reaching for a newer high by inhaling more and doing it more frequently. I saved nothing for last call; I went all out.

I stepped out of my smoking room (bathroom) and stood in the hallway in disbelief of what I had just done. The crazy thing is I always felt devastated at my foolish decision...after the high faded. How did I think I was going to feel after throwing a hundred dollars away within minutes? It was almost as if I refused to remember how I felt the last time I decided to be unwise. Why would a person continue to do something that hurt themselves and those around them? Are a few seconds of intoxication, no matter how intense, worth all that it brought?

I just stood there wondering what I should be doing. My brain wasn't operating in a normal behavior. I don't know how long I stood there, as time really took a back seat to the numbness I was experiencing. See how I was completely covered in nasty smelling perspiration and the cocaine was used up, I jumped back into the shower to clean up. The water was cold of course, as I ran out all of the hot water out while getting high. I scrubbed so hard I looked like a ripe tomato. As with every time before when I smoked crack, the harder I scrubbed the better it felt. I jumped out of the shower while my mind was returning to normal. I decided to clean up the house a little and get dinner on to throw my wife's suspicion off of me. I was out of money anyway; no more high. I wasn't hungry, although I should have been because I have not ate in hours...or was that days...I don't remember. All I knew was that I wasn't hungry at that point.

Once my wife arrived home she took one look at me and I could tell she knew. She could always tell, like a mother knows her children. I tried to lie myself out of what she already knew, but only got tangled up worse by lying to cover another. The tears in her eyes made me feel worse. What could I say to make things better? Nothing. I shattered her respect and trust in me. I walked off like a scolded dog and went to my cave. I sat there with my head between my hands, slumped over. I remember having yet another disgusting feeling with myself. I was going to quit. I had to. My world was being crushed all around me.

Quitting would prove much harder than I thought.

The Woods

August, 2006. I partied regular spending anywhere from $500.00 a week on my habit to in excess of $1,000. Granted, it wasn't every week. I did go without altogether sometimes. Let me put it this way; I was either smoking hard, or not at all. When I wasn't smoking cocaine, I was partying down on some other drug or drinking alchohol.

Anyway, it was about August when Mary and I decided to go camping. I wasn't drugging at the time because when I wasn't using cocaine, I was drinking. We went to a place deep in the woods where there were no stores, no cell phone service, and no people. Just us.

We pitched our tent and organized camp to suit us. I was enjoying my eighth or ninth beer sitting around the campfire. Mary and I were enjoying ourselves, and for the first time in a long time, I must say crack wasn't on my mind. It was nice to be with my wife; I almost felt like a normal man. I was joking around and told Mary this is the place I needed to be to get off crack; I would be too busy existing to worry about the drug. We kind of chuckled and then she quit laughing. She looked up at me and I could see the wheels turning in her head. She took to the idea immediately, not knowing I was only joking.

She liked my idea so much, she left me to start my wilderness rehab about an hour later. As Mary drove off into the dusk, I stood there holding my last beer. I thought to myself that camping alone would be a piece of cake; but once I ran out of liquid courage, my attitude changed slightly. Not only did I not think it was going to be a walk in the park, I became getting a bit jumpy. I started hearing sounds that only the woods without civilization could make. I wasn't a city slicker, but I sure wasn't a country boy either.

I gathered as much scattered branches and wood as the remainder of lighting would allow. I re-checked the cooler hoping for another beer, but was disappointed. Actually, there were no drinks of any kind, although I did have ice. I looked around at my surroundings and they consisted of a tent with a sleeping bag and pillow. I also had some canned food and a couple of books including the Bible. After gathering all the wood I could, I built onto the existing fire.

Being alone in nature at night created a fear in me. OK, I admit it, I was flat out scared! Every little sound made me snap my neck looking for the boogey man. I sat outside near the fire long enough to build it big. Real big. I didn't want any surprises. Even though I wasn't tired, I got into the tent. I figured the thin plastic outer shell would protect me from the wild. Yeah, right! I slipped in the sleeping bag and covered my head like a frightened turtle.

I wished I could have called my wife to come back. When I had the beer buzz, the idea of being a man alone in the wilderness sounded well...manly. Never the less, I was there for the duration. Nothing was going to change that. I lay towards the fire, keeping it fed best I could. I started to get sleepy but fought it off because I wanted to be so tired that I wouldn't wake up for the extent of the night. I snuggled up and to my surprise, I fell right asleep and slept well until the dew, the daylight and the smell of a campfire awakened me. I awoke to the sounds of the "daytime woods"; things like birds chirping and squirrels running from tree limb to tree limb, and water running.

Once awake, I felt proud! I had made it. I was with earth and her creatures all night and I lived to tell of it. The fire had diminished but was still smoldering. I got dressed with the warm clothing which I had kept in my bed. I tucked my pants into my boots and stepped out into the wilderness. I felt cold, and although it was August, I was in the mountains where it is known to get cold at night. I quickly scooped up some leaves and twigs and tossed them on top of the smolder. Almost instantly a fire came to life. I smiled. I was hungry, so I set a can of beanie weenies on a rock near the fire. I enjoyed that breakfast as though it were my last. The ice in the cooler was still there so I had some water from a nearby running creek that also tasted great.

OK, there I was in the woods. What do I do? Well, first I was going to make sure I had lots of wood for the coming up night. No more dark nights, as I had no lantern. I went out shopping. About ½ mile above my camp was a camper's paradise; wood everywhere. Previous campers left some logs which I was ever grateful for.

Between the walk and the hauling of wood, I would say about three or four hours had passed. Even though it was during the daylight hours, I went ahead and built a small fire because I wanted to keep a fire all the time. I rested for just a few minutes before I realized that I stunk. I looked over at the rushing creek. I really didn't want to get into that freezing water, but I really was filthy. So I walked down the bank to the edge of the creek and stripped totally naked. That was an odd feeling to be standing outside without a stitch of clothing on.

I dipped my foot in the water just to verify it was as cold as I thought. I knew this wasn't going to be pleasant. I stepped in and I couldn't imagine it being any colder without it being frozen! It took my breath as I squatted with only my feet in the water. Then I did it. Cold turkey. I randomly splashed my body all over as quick as I could. I didn't breathe at all. I couldn't breathe; my breath was taken! I continued to splash fast and furious knowing it would be over in just a minute. Once I was completely saturated, I stepped out of the creek and put on my underwear and sat by the premade fire. Actually, I felt good at that point. I felt clean and revigorated. I didn't mind sitting around in my underwear cause there were no other people around, and I was sure nature didn't mind.

I had my pen and journal with me and was taking notes as I was feeling them. It dawned on me that I was going to be here a while because Mary liked the idea of leaving me there to dry out. So I just started out writing about my feelings. I was in about my second paragraph on my first page when I seen someone out of my peripheral vision wearing black walking down the road. I paid no attention and kept writing. Then I sensed the figure walking towards me.

Annoyed, I looked up from writing to see what he wanted. Right as I looked up with a disgusted look on my face, I became paralyzed. That figure was no man, but a 400 lb. black bear! I froze! I was sitting in my underwear staring at this bear approaching me slowly as if I were his next meal. I stood up cautiously and slowly backed up inches at a time wondering what I was going to do. He kept his head focused on mine. I am guessing he was only twenty-five feet away. There was nowhere I could run or hide if he wanted me. I knew that. So I just kept creeping backwards trying to think myself out of that predicament. I backed into a pot and it rattled. Thank God, it scared him away. He scampered the other way and as slow as he looked galloping, he was gone in a flash. I later learned from a forest ranger that bears can smell five times better than a dog and can run up to thirty-five miles per hour.

Mary came back to the woods around dark thirty that same night and I was all too elated to see her. Maybe part of me thought she wasn't coming back. If she had not, I can't say I would have blamed her. I ran to her and welcomed her with open arms! I felt as though she had been gone for months. She probably thought I had lost my mind. I am sure she didn't know how to take me being so affectionate. For months I went out of my way to be away from her...to be away from everyone.

Mary had brought a radio, food, clothing, and other items she thought to be pertinent to my stay. Actually, I compiled a list of necessities that she could bring to me if I were to stay for any time. Right then crack and alcohol meant little to me. Staying alive and somewhat comfortable was my focus. I had talked Mary into staying with me that night. It was inconvenient for her (the travel was over an hour away) but I was selfish and I needed her.

The notes I had taken at the time reminded me of how it felt to be alone. Not alone in a bad way, but in a peaceful way. It reminded me of rehab in a way. I had no worries. Even if I did, I couldn't do anything about them. So I decided to make the most of my "vacation" and get better.

Roughing it proved to be a challenge but I was always one for a challenge. As I said earlier, Mary left me with useful tools for living in the wild. Besides the tent and the sleeping bag, the following is a list of items I had.

1. One skillet

2. Reading material-including the Bible

3. Two cups, two plates, two sets of silverware, one pot

4. Soap

5. Flashlight and batteries

6. Trash bags

7. Chair

8. Radio

9. Knife-shovel

10. Rope

11. Clothing

Bears never did come up to me again in broad daylight. But, nighttime was different. One night in particular, in the early stages of my wilderness experience, I was awakened by a bear. I could hear and smell him as he woke me up brushing against the backside of my tent. He stunk so bad that it burned my nose. I sat there motionless. As morbid as it sounds, I was hoping that if that bear was going to eat me, I hoped he would start with my head. I didn't want to be eaten with him starting on the other end. It's crazy what was on my mind at that very moment. I wonder if I would have been considered an optimist or a pessimist for that train of thought. I wasn't a bear expert but if I had done my homework, I would have realized that black bears seldom attack.

Then it sounded as if the cooler lid opened. It was located directly against the back of the tent, within inches of where my head was. I couldn't imagine that bear getting into that cooler because it was shut very securely. I could hear the ice and water sloshing all around. Whatever business he had behind the tent was finished within a couple of minutes. I managed to coward very still and somehow drifted back off to sleep...eventually.

Once daylight had arrived I stepped outside and walked around the tent to investigate. I couldn't believe my eyes. That bear had opened the cooler! He didn't knock it over. He didn't carry it off; he didn't even move it. He simply lifted the lid and cleaned house. He took it all leaving only ice and water. Although he had stolen all of my food, I had to give that bear an A+ in dining etiquette.

After that incident I started hanging my food from a tree in a trash bag. Also, I took no food in the tent. I emptied the cooler at night. All extras, scraps, or leftovers were thrown into the fire with extra wood. I kept a fire burning twenty-four hours a day from then on. The mice came by on occasion but realized nothing was there for them, so they were not a problem for long.

Having the radio throughout the day was nice when I needed something to remind me of civilization. I didn't use it often because I wanted to save the battery life. I could only pick up one station, and I normally waited until after the evening meal to listen to The John Tesh Show. For those unfamiliar with John Tesh, he was known for his radio show Intelligence for your Life. In between songs, John would give helpful hints on everything from losing weight to studying for a test.

The only recreation which I enjoyed in the woods was reading. Along with some old westerns, I had a Bible. I started off with reading parts of the Bible. I was at the bottom of my barrel and I thought reaching towards religion was what a person did. I would sit down and begin reading, but it wasn't long before my mind was drifting. I tried on several instances to focus and to digest what I was reading; I never succeeded. Most of the time, I would wind up in a Louis LaMour western. They were easy to read and grabbed my attention immediately. They also took my mind off of depressing thoughts.

Everybody knows that there isn't a McDonald's in the woods (although I am sure business would be booming if there were). I didn't even have a grill-just a hole in the ground. Once thing was for certain; I had to eat. Since I didn't have any drugs or alcohol to shove in my mouth, I was going to compensate with food. With that thought in mind, I set out to fashion my kitchen.

My first order of business was energy. That basically meant that I needed wood-lots of wood. Without a chainsaw or even an axe, I was limited to scouting and dragging. I looked for all forms of wood. I gathered everything from twigs to partial trees. That particular back breaking task took most of the day to complete. I sorted the wood by size in different piles. I had used muscles that I hadn't used in years, but wasn't sorry.

One time upon returning to camp from one of my wood exploration trips, I stepped over a small copperhead snake. Surprisingly, I only wondered what the snake was up to. I wasn't scared, although the thought of snakes used to terrify me. I simply treated it as a part of nature; after all, I was the foreigner. Nothing could compare to that big black bear approaching me; I had got the hard part over with already. I actually felt myself learning a little bit about co-existing with nature. There I was deep in the mountains-miles from anything-enjoying it as though I were Grizzly Adams!

Within a few additional days, a nighttime routine began to develop. Mary would come out at about sunset to spend the night with me. She would get there around 6:30 or so, and I would have dinner prepared. After eating, we would talk about the day while sipping on coffee and listening to the radio. I didn't even miss television because it gave us time to talk. Eventually Mary and I would lie in our tent at night watching the firelight and talking about abstract things-like teenagers at a sleepover.

I was into about a month and ½ when things turned south. My ignorance of living in the woods proved to be my downfall. I learned that you cannot hang your laundry out on ropes across the creek (at least not for weeks on end). Someone had complained, perhaps they seen me bathing, I don't know. All I knew was that a forest ranger raced up to my camp. He wasn't very understanding. I exchanged words with him trying to explain my ignorance of the woods and the proper etiquette, but to no avail. He was one of those young gung ho types and liked pushing people around. I didn't like being pushed around, so he and his mighty authority pushed me of the campgrounds. With no other choice, back to civilization I went.

The woods were definitely a good thing. I was doing well, and for the first time in a long time I enjoyed life. Once I was pushed out of the only safe haven I knew, I give up on life in a sense. I felt betrayed, so I reached out to the one thing that made things better; something that would give me immediate relief. That's right, cocaine.

The first hit was like my very first hit. My hands started trembling as I exhaled the sweet tasting smoke. I had barely exhaled before I was reloading. That insatiable desire was burning inside of me. Instant euphoria set in! I loved that feeling. I wanted to keep that state of bliss where it was, so I kept on hitting the can. I hit it and by the time I exhaled I was reloaded repeatedly. I reloaded until I ran out.

Security Mom

September, 2007. A few months had passed by (I am not sure how many) and I was right back where I was with my cocaine usage. With each and every failed attempt at quitting, my whole being suffered. Man, I have tried just about everything; what could I do which would work for more than a week or two? I felt like there was nowhere to turn; so I swallowed my pride and looked to my mother for help.

As a child, I remember Mother fixing everything. Why couldn't she fix this situation as well? Although she was remarried and living in Illinois, she agreed to come down to North Carolina and live with me in my vacant house. At the time, I was living in the home which I grew up in. The vacant house was filled with my folk's furniture and personal items.

My mother showed up at about 8:00 AM. I had been on a binge the whole night before and spent all my money. I packed up some clothing, books, medicines and a few what-knots which I learned from rehab would be beneficial while drying out. Mom stopped by the store and bought a huge amount of groceries, namely my favorite ones. She even bought my cigarettes. Although I was going to be without my cocaine or alcohol, I was actually looking forward to spending time with my mother. Having been up for who knows how long, and out of drug stimulants, I was extremely tired by the time we reached the house in Old Fort.

Mom's room was upstairs, and mine was downstairs. I unpacked immediately, and got ready to crash out. I went upstairs and got me a large bowl of ice cream and bid my mother good night. I went downstairs and looked at the medicine bottles and decided not to take any that night. I just curled up in that soft clean bed and was out almost immediately after eating my ice cream. I slept like a baby.

I awoke about twelve hours later to the smell of bacon. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and headed upstairs. There stood my mother with one of those cute aprons on. She looked my way briefly and said good morning in her cheery way. I replied, and started investigating the breakfast masterpiece she was cooking. I chose bacon and eggs, and started to devour the food. I think the last time I had breakfast was in rehab so long ago, but it was no comparison to Mother's cooking. I suppose a mother's love is different than any other kind out there, because I just couldn't believe how my mother stood by me and took care of me even then at the age of 40. I was truly fortunate to have her by my side regardless of how worthless I felt. She refilled my orange juice and brought some jelly over for my toast. That particularly day I felt a love for her that I thought could overcome anything.

The remainder of the day was a little slow. I didn't crowd mother too much, I wanted to be alone. I stayed the majority of my time in my room thinking. I tried to draw, but just didn't have the motivation. I flipped a tape in the VCR, as we had no cable. Actually, I only threw in the tape for noise, because it was quite living in Old Fort. Old Fort is a dry town with only one red light, and we were far from that light. There wasn't anything in walking distance, not even neighbors. I attempted to read the Bible, but once again I lost motivation. As I sat on my bed staring off into space I notice those pill bottles lying neatly one by one on the dresser. I counted the bottles and realized I had one bottle too much. I recounted. Same result. I got up and investigated the medicines I had brought and found what the extra bottle was. It was a mild pain killer and the bottle was full.

I had never been a pill person, but the temptation was too great. I popped about four of the painkillers and in 20 minutes I had a decent buzz. It wasn't a cocaine buzz or a drunken buzz, but one I liked. I felt light headed and kind of like I was in a dream. I could learn to deal with this buzz. Best of all, no one would even know!

I went upstairs at the height of my buzz because I wanted to talk. I wanted to talk to my mother. I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bag of chips to snack on. I then walked into the living room where Mother spent most of her time reading Christian literature or the Bible; I always admired that about her. I interrupted her just long enough to say thanks for everything and wandered on down to my dungeon. Once in my room, I rifled through my video collection and popped in a tape. I sat down on the bed and was staring at that pain killer bottle. I thought to myself I could pop a couple or three more to keep the buzz up, so I did. I lit up a smoke and started watching the film.

Dinnertime came, and I believe I was cooking that meal. Mom and I were getting along so well. There was no outside world, just us and only us. Having regular meals again with my mom took me back to my childhood. I remember as a child thinking that I couldn't wait to grow up and get a job so I could have money to buy myself stuff. At the silent times during our meal, my mind kept drifting back to good times as a child; climbing trees, coloring super heroes, and my infatuation with the movie Star Wars. Then, as quickly as those thoughts entered, they were replaced with what the world had done to me. I suppose it wasn't the world that done it to me, but I only had myself to blame. As a child, my decisions for the most part were already made for me. All I had to do was conform. After the military experience and having freedom of choice, I did all those things I was told not to do. I think I only did them because I wasn't "supposed" to. I called that "the grass is greener on the other side" theory. I wanted to go back. Who doesn't want to go back though? I was focusing on what a failure I had been instead of how I could turn things around. I knew if I kept that attitude, then the battle was already lost before I began. But I had a problem with forgiving myself, and that would prove to be yet another downfall for me.

Mother and I had our routine. We kind of had set hours for meals, much like my childhood. We went our own ways afterwards, as she liked to study and I was a hermit in my hole. We had no need to get out of the house for anything. I started getting antsy and wanted to try to hook-up with a dealer I knew in town, but I had no car, no money, and I had no cell phone service. Frustration set in so I started taking more and more of those pain killers. They did the trick, especially when combined with my normal medicine prescribed to me to help me sleep. I spent a good part of the next few days dazed and confused. Mom started picking up on it, and I just blamed it on the drugs I was prescribed. Instead of being lightheaded and joyful, I started getting uneasy and bothered. I remember one night in particular when I was complaining about how I felt over dinner; she gave me one of her Xanax's thinking it would help. I took the pill and within 5 minutes I couldn't keep my eyes open. I went straight to bed with Mom trailing, wondering if I was OK. I stayed awake only long enough to insure her I was fine.

Mom's husband came down from Illinois about three weeks into my new recovery program. I loved my step-dad, but almost immediately I felt out of place. I managed to get in touch with my wife and asked if I could come home. I think she missed me as well, so it was agreed I could come home. I left the next day with all my belongings and Mother and Pop took off back north. I got through that night at home as I went straight to bed and had my wife wait on me. I believed the pills taken in the fashion I was took them created a state of deep depression; a depression I cannot describe. I just wanted to cry and lay in bed. I probably slept 38 hours out of the next 48. I would wake up and load up on pills again. By then, I was taking around 25 painkillers a day.

A Few Facts about Painkillers (prescription drugs)

Chapter Nine: Death, Again

Pills

November 4, 2007. I wasn't drinking or drugging but I was staying loaded on pills. For the next two weeks I was increasing my dosages, as my body got immune to the amounts I was taking. I was able to enter back into the workforce and help run my company. My wife and I were getting back into a normal relationship. Somehow I was pulling off all the pills I was taking. Maybe it was because of my immunity, or maybe it was because she just thought that I was in that state of mind all the time as a result of not drinking or doing cocaine. At least I was able to function a lot better than before.

Two weeks later, I was taking over 30 pills a day. One day in the middle of the week after a good day at work, Mary and I had dinner and retired early. We were lying in the bed just chit chatting about this and that. I was laying all the way horizontal with my back against her and she was sitting up in bed next to me. According to her, I was acting normal and carrying on a customary conversation. Mary said we were about five minutes into our conversation when I quit responding. Apparently I went into some type of seizure. As my wife described it, I froze up, with my arms bent at my elbows tightly up to my face with my hands clenched. My eyes were rolling in the back of my head and I was swallowing my tongue.

Mary climbed on top of me desperately slapping and shaking me. She had to reach in my mouth and pull out my tongue. Mary's daughter, Crystal, was there at the time and called 911. Apparently I snapped out of it momentarily, but it was short lived as I went into a couple more spells before the ambulance showed up. My heart, I presume, must've quit beating because the paddles were used on me twice. I remembered none of those events, but do remember waking up disheveled in the emergency room of the VA hospital. I didn't have a clue what was going on, but I do remember feeling extremely sleepy, looking at my wife standing by the bedside. A nurse came into my curtain drawn cubicle and let me know I had angel dust in my system. She said it with a scowled face in a "shame on you" attitude. I had no clue what she was talking about; I didn't even know what angel dust was. The mystery of angel dust never did get explained. I felt fine by this point, but the hospital kept me overnight. Not much to say there, most people knows what it is like to eat hospital food. Most people know that "smell" that all hospitals have. But those things were endured only for the night and I was released. Knowing how close I was to death was enough to ensure that my pill taking days were over!

Deep Dark Depression

November 21, 2007. I went home the next day after the hospital gave me a clean bill of health. I felt like a person that had no meaning. I couldn't help with the business and I couldn't help with my own health. My mind was in a suspended state. I couldn't concentrate on anything at all. I was a walking zombie with no emotions a virtual vegetable. The only thing I did feel was wore out, tired, and useless. The only desire I had was for sleep. Sleep took away any pain I was feeling. I could escape reality through sleep, so I chose the dream world, staying in the bed the majority of those days. My diet consisted of freezer pops and peanut butter crackers for the most part. Up to that point my medication had been altered so many times, I didn't even know what I was supposed to be taken. Of course, my shrink had not seen me in a while due to me dodging him, so I just took the mild sleeping pills prescribed and said the heck with the rest.

My wife required little from me, just to stay clean. It was a lot easier since she had control of all my finances and the keys to all my vehicles. By that time my credit wasn't in good standing with my dealers. I owed several hundred, maybe even a thousand dollars to my drug suppliers. I would have normally just picked up the phone and had my stuff delivered, but I still owed money and my credibility was going south rapidly. I did try to devise ways to get my drug of choice while Mary was out running my business, but was unsuccessful. It didn't anger me, it just added to my already deep depression. I thought of walking to the store with some rolled pennies to buy some beer, but my physical shape really wouldn't allow that. Mary provided my cigarettes, which at that time I smoked around three packs a day, but allowed nothing else. Cigarettes and some orange juice are the only things I actually craved.

Things went like that for a couple of weeks. During that time dry, I kept having dreams of getting high. The dreams were so real I would wake up shaking and could actually smell the cocaine. Those zombie days ran into one another to the point of me actually wondering what it would be like to be dead. Would the world miss me at all? I had even contemplated the exact way that a suicide could be carried out without pain. I think that the fear of possibly winding up in hell kept me from killing myself. The hell thought combined with what my family would go through also gave me a different outlook on the easy way out.

Things continued to take a downward spiral. As time grew on, I managed to lie, sneak, and manipulate my way into getting high on a regular basis. Mary had enough. She was going to leave me, and I couldn't blame her. I knew I literally couldn't live without her, thus I made a promise to re-enter rehab. I kept good on that promise to Mary, and entered rehab after sucking my last bit of cocaine down around 7:00 AM on October 14th of 2007.

As I described earlier, the same course of action lay ahead of me. Go to emergency room and claim I was suicidal, although I wasn't; then spent the night in a rubber room cubical. The Sheriff hauled me off to the detox unit. I spent four days in the detox, and was transferred into the rehab portion of the program, which was only a two week stretch.

I attended all the classes in the jam packed days. I got out of the program a new man, hoping and praying I would stay clean and sober. Actually, I did better than I knew in my heart I would do. I lasted about two weeks before I got a few beers in me and the evil thoughts entered my head.

December 7, 2007. I snuck out to the local motel, which was traditionally where I would go to do my drugs when I couldn't at home. Mary found out I was there; she always found me. After attempting to call me several times, she called the law and told them I was suicidal so there would be an immediate action taken. Sure enough, the law was knocking on my door after I had been there only a couple of hours. I had a chair propped up under the door knob, which only angered the police further. I threw my crack can under the mattress, and held about $90.00 of cocaine in my mouth, awaiting the cops. They finally broke in through the window, but before they could get to me, I swallowed the crack rock.

The cops tossed me around like a rag doll. Of course they found the crack can, and diligently searched the room for cocaine. They checked everything from behind pictures to the toilet. They found no drugs, but ultimately I was charged with paraphernalia. I was then whisked off to the hospital for the same routine I had already been through twice before. My wife showed up at the hospital, and to say I was upset would be an understatement. She stayed with me long enough to tell the doctor the truth; which being I wasn't suicidal. They discharged me several hours later, although they performed a drug screen on me and observed I was full of cocaine.

January and February were just a blur. I recall nothing in those months, although I am confident of being high the majority of the time. I could write something fictional to make those months sound more interesting, but I wouldn't know how. Because I was a full blown addict, crack made all those days run together. I only know that I stayed depressed and was either high or sleeping. I rarely bathed or ate. Those things were a constant when going on cocaine binges.

March 13, 2008: I missed my court date on the paraphernalia charge and had a warrant issued against me. So what...everything else in my life was in the mud. What was one more thing? My inspiration and attitude were at an all time low. I could hardly live from moment to moment. I truly was going crazy, at least in a medical sense. Basically, I was just going through the motions letting my wife take care of my affairs. Even with her standing by me and not leaving me, I didn't care. I didn't care about anything or anybody. I only felt hopelessness with no light at the end of the tunnel. Heck, what light? I couldn't even see the tunnel. I wouldn't even look people in the eyes for fear they would see the person I was. I was so deep in debt, and was so out of it I could only see one thing...getting high. It was all I had...a continual craving for just one more hit.

Back to the Wilderness

April 2007. My wife and I decided to venture back to the woods; the one place I felt where I had success. We just stayed clear of the place where I was booted out of. Things seemed better in the woods. I cannot explain it, but it is almost as if the troubles of the world disappear. I didn't mind the absence of intoxicants or TV. Living in the woods takes a certain amount of patience and a lot of hard work. Mary and I would leave everyday for work, and stayed together to help keep me clean. Later, we would return "home."

Once at camp we would get the fire going and get dinner on. We were camping at a place called Curtis Creek. The bears were plentiful there, and showed little fear of walking into a campsite, but that only happened at night. Therefore, we had to either hide our food in the truck or hang it from a tree. Also, all scraps from meals had to be thrown into the fire. My fear of the black bears diminished as I got used to them. They were just hungry and after all, I was in their back yard. I was the foreigner, not them.

Following dinner and gathering firewood, my wife and I would both get a book to read. After working all day in the real world and then working at the campsite, we were pretty tired. About a week to two into our camping we stopped over at the Sheriff's department to let them know I had missed a court date. He said I was to turn myself in the following morning at 6:00 AM Oh, just wonderful, more good news! So we broke down camp and headed back to our house. All night I dreaded going to the courthouse.

Chapter 10: A Day In Jail

Behind Closed Doors

April 18, 2007. BEEP BEEP BEEP! I awoke to the rude sounds of an alarm clock at 5:00 AM. I managed to turn it off before slamming it back down on the nightstand. I had to turn myself in for missing court. I wasn't looking forward to it at all. My insides were all jumbled so I skipped breakfast and just had some strong coffee and a smoke. Then I lit another smoke and stuck it in the ashtray as I fumbled around to find something decent to wear; something that would fit my skinny frame. I had to be at the jail at 6:00 AM, so I scurried about and was out the door.

It was a chilly morning as I climbed the stairs to the jail. I walked in and addressed the officer behind a bulletproof glass and was told to sit and wait. A lot of thoughts entered my head as I sat there awaiting my arrest. Most of the things I thought of started with the word "why." It wasn't so much I was feeling sorry for myself; I just couldn't understand how a person like me could end up right here. I suppose everyone maintains a certain amount of innocence in his or her own thinking. People seem to always have reasons as to why and I was no exception. I was indeed feeling sorry for myself, but the truth was I had made my bed and it was time for me to sleep in it.

About thirty minutes later a jailer finally showed up with handcuffs in his hand. He was polite enough, but turned me around and cuffed me behind my back. We were buzzed into the next room where I sat on a hard bench. This was my first time in any kind of situation like this, so my eyes wandered. Across the way I seen a couple of individual holding tanks where apparently there was a problem with one of the occupants at the time I showed up. I heard some commotion coming from that cell. Apparently someone was drunk and ticked off about something and wanted a fight.

A black officer about 6'4 tall and about 240 pounds of sheer muscle unlocked that particular cell door and left it open. I couldn't see who was inside, but it sounded like a local redneck. He was spouting off nonsense and threatening the officer. The officer played his game for a few minutes with a few insulting words of his own. Then he shut the door and locked it. About 10 minutes had passed and I suppose it was time to transfer that redneck to wherever he was going. He was roughly 27 years old with long hair and couldn't have weighed more than 130 pounds soaking wet. His mouth continued to run as he challenged the much larger black man. The obnoxious man kept telling the officer he wished he would come down to his neck of the woods. He kept taunting, as a lot of drunks do, but this wasn't the day to mess with the black officer. I knew the moment the redneck crossed the line by the way the officer hurried to open the cell. It was entertaining, to say the least, to see the officer manhandle that redneck. He pulled out the drunk and rammed him into door jams, slammed his face against the bulletproof glass, and let a few blows land in his midsection. All the while, the cop was taunting him. But by this time, the redneck couldn't even stand, much less reply to the officer. That was the last I seen or heard of that poor drunk.

Another officer approached me and had me empty my pockets, take off my belt, and remove my shoelaces. Once again, I was put back on the hard bench as my belongings were taken away. I was asked a few abstract questions, and was led to yet another room with another hard bench to sit on. In this room I signed a paper that showed what the previous officer had taken off of my person. Also, this room is where the mug shots were made, so I gave them my best side. I kept saying to myself that I didn't belong here.

Next, I was led down a corridor to a large room with a window about three feet by three feet. Of course it was about three inches thick as well. I entered into this room and as I did my handcuffs were removed. There were twenty-eight gentlemen in this room which I would say is about the size of an average living room. Most of these guys were sleeping on their shoes on the floor. I noticed one toilet, which had no stalls. There was built in benches, but were all taken, so I made my way in trying to find a place just to stand. I found a place right next to the toilet and watched as the jailer locked the door.

I looked around at my surroundings, and made some mental notes. The majority of people in here were white. There were very few blacks, and even fewer Latino's. There were about four or five of those white guys talking all bad and complaining. They were trading war stories about how they got busted and how they were going to get back at the system. Some of the terminology was foreign to me, but then again, I had never been exposed to this particular situation. Even so, I couldn't help but noticed that these folks were not highly educated. That is not to say that those guys were dumber than me. In fact, right here where I was, they knew a lot more than me.

I managed to get a spot to sit on the floor by the time they had called a few of the "guests" out for court. I was eagerly awaiting my name to be called; it had been a couple of hours already. I was growing inpatient and irritated. Another hour passed by and a few more inmates were called. Each minute in that hole seemed like hours. I was really growing tired of hearing these guys bragging and trying to outdo each other's stories.

Finally, lunch came. I had nothing to compare jailhouse food to. It wasn't like military food and it wasn't like hospital food. What was served on that particular day was pinto beans and cornbread with stewed tomatoes. Desert was peaches, and there was tea to drink. I realize the meal sounds pretty good, but trust me, it wasn't. First of all the beans had absolutely no taste whatsoever. Actually the same went for the rest of the meal as well. No seasoning at all. Salt was prohibited. There were only about three swallows of tea, which was the best part of the meal. I ate it anyway, as I was unsure how long I was going to be there and I was hungry. I choked down the food and apparently it was custom in the tank to stack your trays, thus I did so.

Eventually my name was called around 2:00 PM. I was escorted along with some of the others who were in the tank with me to yet another room where shackles were put on our feet and linked to our hands cuffed in front. After the few of us were properly secured we were escorted single file towards the courthouse from inside corridors. We could only walk about two feet at a time because the chains on our feet kept us from taking any kind of stride. We had to load in the elevator facing the back. Once we arrived in the courtroom there was a special place for us. We had to get into a little cubicle with a hole in the glass to where we could speak. I felt like I was being treated as a serial killer. I honestly believed that there was lighter security transferring Charles Manson!

My name was called so I approached the small window cuffed and shackled. It must have looked like I was already a convicted criminal. My bail was set and my new court date was set. Once the remaining suspects received their court dates and what not we were escorted back to where we came from. I was called almost immediately to be released. Thank God and my wife and mother for getting a bondsman for me. My things were given back to me with the exception of my cigarette lighter. I was so glad to be out of that place. I told myself I would never go there again.

Chapter 11: It Worked Before

Back to the Woods

I was home about long enough to make toast before my wife insisted I hit the woods again. That was the only place which any showed promise of success...even if it was temporary. I agreed reluctantly as there weren't any drugs in my system and I wasn't craving them at that particular moment. Mary wasted no time in ensuring that we packed up immediately and head out. By then, I knew what I had to have in the woods to be fairly comfortable so I packed all I could think of. Keep in mind if Mary wasn't running my business, then I wouldn't have even had the option to "run and hide."

For the next twenty-two days Mary and I were spending the maximum of time allowed in one spot in a variety of camping grounds. Most of the time it was either two or three weeks, then we would pack up and travel. I had become quite proficient at living in the woods on a minimum amount of supplies. There was something about living in the woods that gives a man peace. I cannot explain it; perhaps it is because all cares of the world are in the wind. The only things I worried about in the woods were food and shelter.

I had a broken down van at the campsite with a flat tire and something wrong in the cooling system. I never contemplated using it for anything; it wasn't legal anyway. On that 22nd day I wanted something from the store, I don't remember what it was. I wanted to have our campsite dinner ready once Mary arrived. This particular camping site was only ten miles from a store. I put on the spare tire and loaded up a few bottles of water in the van as well as filled the radiator. I was going out.

I made it to the small convenient store, but there was steam boiling under the hood, so I used up my water to cool down the radiator and borrowed water from the store to fill up my containers. While I am doing this, an unexpected thing happened. One of my drug -dealers pulled into the store and seen me. My hands started shaking and my heart picked up a beat. He walked over to me and I instantly asked him if he had anything for sale. Most sane people would ask why in the world I did that. For the drug users out there, an explanation is not necessary. I felt so dirty inside, but had already come to the conclusion I was dirty. I was a worthless crack-head and didn't even mind admitting it.

OK, here I am riding around in an illegal van that is overheating as I am driving. I am also sucking a can while going down the road. Paranoia set in almost immediately. I actually had the nerve to drive to the house I used to own and sit in that driveway. I couldn't stand the heat from smoking inside the van, so stepped outside to smoke in the open. By then I was about as stable as a soup sandwich. I figured about an hour had gone by and Mary was due back at camp anytime. I thought about going back...for a moment or two. Of course my attention went straight back to being high. I wandered up to the front door to see if I could sneak in and finish the product I had. There was a padlock on it, which was no surprise as I quit paying the mortgage long ago. Smoking outside was no longer an option as my intoxicated mind told me that the government could see me from satellites. That wasn't a joke! I always felt like I was being watched.

After I couldn't enjoy the rest of my drug, I decided to go back to camp to enjoy the rest. Perhaps I could encourage Mary to go to sleep. You would have to be completely stupid or out of your mind to go on a federal ground with cocaine and a smoking device; but I was out of my mind. I was so out of my mind, I went into the grounds, which have federal agents on duty there, smoking out of the can I had in this illegal vehicle. I made it to the campsite to a very angry wife. I had forgotten I put a roast on the fire and by now it stunk the whole area up. That wasn't the worst part though, I had to face Mary. I would rather have faced a firing squad. I bowed my head like a scolded dog and took all that she had to say, as I deserved it. Now that the camping thing wasn't working anymore, we headed back home.

Chapter 12: End of My Rope

The Grace of God

The next few months were just a blur of more of the same. Mary had quit her job to help me run the business, since I obviously wasn't successful doing it alone any longer. When the Calvary did show up, it freed me up to do more of what I wanted to do. Smoke crack. Besides, when I did decide to participate after being out of the loop for a few days, Mary and my crew knew more about what was going on than I did. I had to ask them what we were doing and when we were doing it. My company would have been so much better off without me.

I single-handedly had made it nearly impossible for my crew to be able to work. My $50.00 dollar a week habit had turned into a $500.00 dollar a day habit. I was going to the bank as soon as it opened up in the morning and withdrawing the profits from the previous day to smoke crack. I wasn't fooling anybody anymore. My wife, my crew, my customers, my neighbors, and even the tellers at the bank knew I was a crack head. My wife tried to stop them from letting me make withdrawals, but legally she couldn't. We had jobs lined up to do, but the crew sometimes couldn't work because we couldn't pay for supplies; as the suppliers had long since cut off our credit.

Mary basically threw her hands in the air stating she wasn't going to do my job any more. She was going back to work, and away from me. Mary grew tired of working sixteen hours a day just to pay employees, and supply my drug habit; it wasn't worth it to her. I didn't argue with her, I knew she was right; but it didn't mean I was going to change. I told her I didn't need her help; I had started the business without her and I could keep it running without her. She said fine, I could sink or swim on my own.

I did manage to make it work for a couple of months. I called my customers to get the money up front for supplies. I somehow promised, manipulated, and motivated the crew into working harder. We were back on top in just a few weeks. I started feeling like I was king of the world again and managed to save a little money in the bank. I had shown Mary I didn't need her after all.

OK, I admit money was in the bank long enough for the ink to dry, but not much longer. The temptation was simply too much for me.

Mary had started going back to church at some weird hippy church down town. She loved it. She talked about it all the time and attempted unsuccessfully to get me to go with her on several occasions, but I had no interest. I will say, however, the church sounded interesting enough with its share of ex-prostitutes and bums. I must say I noticed a difference in my wife and her attitude after going to this church; at least she wasn't always mad at me all the time. I know she thought I was going to die, because she kept telling me so. She told me she had given me up to God, whatever that meant.

After a couple of weeks, she told me we had landed one $3,500.00 job that could put us back in the green. The customer had given us the customary half down on the job, so I couldn't help but be elated because it afforded me the opportunity to visit the ATM several times. I smoked up a great deal of the up front money, therefore, the next day Mary was in for yet another surprise when she went to pay for supplies and there wasn't enough on the debit card to cover the amount needed to start the job. The employees were already at the job sight waiting on supplies. Without supplies there was no job. With no job there would be no payroll funds.

I later found out Mary pulled over in the Starbucks parking lot, because it was the closest available place, and cried uncontrollably. Mary was like, "What now God? I don't know what to do. I've done everything I could do and it still wasn't enough. Please tell me what to do!" Then she said immediately our foreman, who was in the truck with her said. "I know somebody who will give you $30,000.00 for this business today."

Joe, our foreman, made a single call and lined up a meeting.

I met with the gentleman, Jim, at Chili's. We had a few cocktails and discussed a few numbers before he decided he wanted to buy it. Jim had recently received a retirement settlement and he had wanted to invest in a business. Mary said she thanked God on the spot, and gave Joe a big hug and a very heartfelt thank you.

Within a few short weeks, the business was transferred, and I was out from underneath the debt and stress. A decision was made between my shrink, Mary, and me to move. I knew for me it was a necessity if I were ever going to have a chance at getting off the drugs. I simply could not hang around the same ole places and the same ole people and expect change.

I felt like I was giving Mary very little choice in the matter so I asked her about her job.

She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, "I'm not in love with my job; I'm in love with you." We held each other and each of us cried.

The deal was done and within three days we were packing. Mary kept saying, "It's a God thing." At that point, I started believing her. I had hope for the first time in a long time; I stopped smoking crack that day. I don't know how to explain it. I had hope again.

Within three weeks we had packed up and, moved to Greenville, S.C.

Happily Never After?

Hey, I would love to say "and we lived happily ever after", but unfortunately I can't. Once in Greenville, Mary and I both landed jobs and things were pretty smooth sailing at first. We stayed busy, when we weren't working, on our new home and new life. I even attempted to appease her by attending a handful of churches in the area. Our relationship had definitely improved since the move, and we both agreed it was a smart thing to have done. Moving away from all my drug dealers and partying people curbed my appetite for the most part, but convenient stores were plentiful. As far as that goes, alcohol could be found everywhere, including the grocery store.

I started "sneak drinking" until I finally got caught. I asked Mary since she couldn't tell I was drinking (when I was hiding it), what was she all upset about? Anyway, the one time argument didn't go far; she knew I was going to do what I was going to do. It seems I have always been getting high on one thing or another. I was always trading one drug for another (if not using them in combination with one another).

I became a full blown lush within a couple of months, drinking close to a case of beer a day.

Chapter 13: The Answer

Undeserving

January 25, 2009 Sunday morning. Man, I felt rough. I didn't pass out till the AM sometime. I had drunk deep into the night, or the morning, however you want to look at it. As my eyes opened, I was once again surprised to be alive. The familiar swollen hangover showed in my hardened face and in my bloodshot eyes. As I lay there in my drunken coma, I noticed my mouth tasted like toilet water, again. Scratching my head and groaning as my routine called for, I rolled out of bed with the enthusiasm of a death row inmate. Once in the bathroom I stared blankly in the mirror. My belly seemed more bloated than ever, and my body looked disproportioned. After completing my business, I retreated to our only chair in the house. I slumped over and fingered through the ashtray for a cigarette butt, which I found, and lit it.

Ok, here's the deal. I had promised the previous night, during my drunk, to go to church with Mary to appease her. I was already planning my escape and how I was going to get out of that commitment, but couldn't come up with a believable enough reason. So, as Mary was getting ready for church, I approached her like a child with a failing grade. I asked her as softly as I could if she would mind me staying home. She looked at me in the mirror with that ever so familiar disappointed look and simply said that if I wasn't going, she wasn't either. She dropped her curling iron in the sink and cut off the bathroom light as she walked off.

I quietly strolled off hanging my head. I got what I wanted, didn't I? She wasn't yelling at me and I was off the hook. But was getting my way worth it? It didn't feel like I won anything. My selfishness and my sober conscience was getting the best of me as I began to think about my wife. Mary was always happier when she was active in church, but she had not been in a while. So who was I to keep her from her happiness? Of everyone I knew, she was one who surely deserved happiness. How much was it to ask of me to attend church for only one hour? After all she had put up with over the last few years and staying committed to me unconditionally, I was doing her dirty. Mary was the only one left standing in the ring that used to be overcrowded with my so called friends. Not only was she my wife, but also she was the only thing worthwhile I had not lost. I couldn't be the sole reason for her staying home. "Not going" was no longer an option.

I turned around and told her I would go, hoping to bring some form of happiness to her. She relaxed her look and smiled slightly as she softly said "OK". Big deal, one hour. I couldn't buy beer until after 1:00 PM anyway. As I showered, I was already planning my 40-minute trip to NC after church. (Beer wasn't sold on Sunday where I lived) I needed a shave and a haircut something fierce, but it obviously wasn't a major concern for me that day.

The church we planned on going to was recommended to me by a fellow I met at my neighbor's house while smoking pot. I had vague directions, so I thought if I was slack in looking for it then maybe I wouldn't find it, therefore causing us to have to come back home. She wouldn't be able to blame me. After all, I did get ready and "try" to go.

Well, guess what? I drove right up to the church without trying. And was early. The white building was relatively small, with a sign out front identifying it as a Wesleyan church. I remember wondering what a Wesleyan church was. The first person we seen and were greeted by was the pastor. The look on his face was warm and gentle. He really did seem interested that we were there. As we walked in people were all over the place chit-chatting. I suppose there were around 70 in attendance. Hardly anyone was dressed up in a tie and slacks. Most folks were dressed casually, but neat in appearance. Next, I noticed the "stage." It was on the pulpit complete with guitars on their holders, a piano, drums, and mic stands. I nudged Mary to sit on the back row as she was being greeted. I was fairly confident I still smelled like green alcohol leftovers so I purposely shied away from folks. As I looked at the seating arrangements, I was reminded of those benches as a child with the hymnals in back of the bench in front of you. Except here, these were not hymnals, they were Bibles. I immediately took the furthest seat against the wall. Once everyone was seated the band members took their place. The band members were a young and good-looking bunch. I was intrigued with the amount of female members. It was apparently this church's custom to stand while singing. So as I stood a mellow sound and a loud boom screamed at me from the female drummer. Then the other members jumped in with a cool modern rock sound. I must admit that at that point I was impressed and intrigued.

The lyrics to the songs were projected on the wall behind the band so the congregation could sing along. I didn't recognize the songs and didn't sing, but the tempo was good. The only church music I had ever known up to that point was old time gospel. I suppose the church had changed a little over the last 40 years. I was more comfortable than I originally thought I would be, although I would be ready to go when the time came. I stared off into space letting my mind wander, occasionally looking at my watch anticipating beer thirty.

Then something almost unexplainable happened. Actually, it is unexplainable, but I will do my best to put it into words. Somewhere in the middle of one of those songs, it appeared the singing was fading out very slowly, although the music continued. It was as if the voices had disappeared gradually into the music like chocolate syrup stirred in milk. This sounds bizarre, but it sounded as if all the music extended from a single instrument. The melody was bold and thunderous, but at the same time, soft, like a whisper. As I said, it is thorny to explain. I felt as though I was experiencing a new form of intoxication because of the trance this music was putting me in. To be completely honest, I originally thought I was carrying over a buzz from the previous night. But it wasn't like a drunken buzz at all. The feeling I had was blissful, tranquil, and peaceful. In fact, there are no human words to portray what I felt.

Normally in a public place I pay particular attention to my surroundings, but I hardly even noticed all the strangers around me in the church. I felt as though I was in this building all by myself in a dream, the kind of dream I wasn't ready to wake out of yet. Next, I felt what only I could describe as a rush. A warmth or heat was growing in me to the point of me perspiring. I went from cool to hot in about the time it takes the eye of a stove to peak. Beads of sweat ran down my neck like tiny rivers. Then the music started fading slowly out. Once again, it is hard to explain, but I knew there were people all around me singing, and that the music was pumping, but I was becoming deaf and blind to it. The solitary feeling in the building was even stronger, but at the same time I felt a presence there that was my equal. What I mean is somebody there knew exactly how I was feeling at that moment. How did I know? I don't know. Who? I didn't know. Did it matter? Not at that time. I was just glad the presence was there so I wasn't so alone.

I felt an odd peace about me. What I mean by that is I was in a calm relaxed state. Serene. What happened next took me by utter surprise. My eyes started to fill up with hot tears. I did my best to suck it up, but the more I tried to block the dam, the more holes I got in it. I wanted to run; I was scared of what was happening to me...in me. There was this all so strange "fight" inside of me. Part of me had an extreme need to get out of that building and another part of me couldn't leave. Both sides of me felt strong about what to do, and the part of me that wanted to go outside was winning. I started to walk out as discreetly as possible when yet another strange thing happened. I couldn't move! I know that this next part sounds unbelievable, but I literally couldn't move. It was as if my feet were concreted in. Although that experience was strange, unexplainable, and scary, I wasn't scared any longer. To put it into another illustration, the feeling was like when I was a young boy and riding a bike for the first time. I was scared and it was strange to me, but my Dad was there. I trusted my Dad not to let anything bad happen to me, so it was ok. It was that same identical feeling, although Dad wasn't there this time. There was "something" giving me that assurance that all was good. How do I put it into words? I cannot. All I can say is that the sensation was unbelievably genuine.

The next thing I remember I was sitting down and the music was over. I don't even recall the band finishing their set. Then the preacher took his place on the pulpit but was wearing some heavy-duty chains around his neck. I don't mean regular eighteen kt gold neck chains; I mean like truck towing chains. Thick and heavy. He started preaching on strongholds in life. I figured out that strongholds were things that you didn't necessarily want in your life, but they dictated how your life was run. He compared the chains he was wearing around his neck to those strongholds. He was an enthusiastic speaker and spoke with a sense of urgency. As he moved about the stage, the chains made a noise like you might hear in some horror movie or as you would imagine a prisoner or slave wearing. I recall being mesmerized and hanging on to his every word as though he was talking directly to me and only to me. Once again I found myself weeping and sniffling. I didn't even know this man, but it was as if he knew me. However, I understood and agreed with the points he was making. The ½ hour service was over in the blink of an eye. At the end of the service he dropped those heavy chains to the floor with a thundering boom.

His message was so straightforward. Why wear all those heavy chains around your neck? Why carry around all that mental and emotional garbage you have been lugging around for years? Does not the thought of walking around "free" sound better than walking around a "prisoner"?

As we stood to end the service in song, I thought to myself that I wanted a piece of that action. I indeed wanted to trust in this Jesus I have heard so much about over the years. As soon as the music struck the faucet began to drip. I got those concrete shoes back on, so I just gripped the bench in front of me with sweaty palms. I wanted to talk to Jesus and tell him pretty much what the pastor had said, but didn't know how. I couldn't move, I couldn't speak, and I couldn't pray. With my head hanging low I felt so powerless. I was so drained. I was so tired of my lifestyle that had caused so many woes. The only thing I could get out was the word "help." It was at that Moment that I felt an all powerful arm on my shoulder as I wilted. I can not say that I actually heard a voice, but I "felt" a voice that assured me I wasn't alone. Through that last hour a transformation was taking place that I didn't understand, but I knew, I absolutely knew that Christ was in my heart and my life would never be the same. It kind of goes fuzzy after that until I got back home, but I do remember feeling like I had dropped a two hundred pound rucksack off my back!

I had dropped my chains!

It was on that very day that every desire I had to party had simply vanished, or more accurately, they were taken from me!

Chapter 14: Why Jesus Works

July 2010

How do I complete and wrap up what I began writing years ago? I don't know...I'm not a writer. As I sit here now, sober many moons now, I contemplate the real reasons for initially writing what I have written. Was it my purpose? Was it for my benefit? Was writing all this stuff down really necessary? Will what I have written ever be read? Will it ever make a difference? A million questions with no answers. I don't know why I have held on to writing in this book off and on for years. I would like to think there was a genuine purpose in it, even if it were one I didn't understand. Perhaps YOU are that one person that can relate to my story and would like to know that there can be a happy ending.

I sometimes reminisce my childhood days and try to analyze and am reminded that as a child a parent only wants the best for that child. That is only natural, as the parent loves the child. Somewhere along adolescent age, these young adults in their years of vast knowledge and wisdom get to thinking they know more than everyone else...especially their parents. So these young Einstein's start making tough decisions. Moral decisions. Real life decisions in which they have never made before. It's a brand new world to them. You may warn them of the "mud puddles of life" in their path but it is ultimately their decision on which way to go. Sometimes they will walk around the mud puddle, sometimes they will go right through it. I suppose deep down in all of our hearts, we know that is just part of life.

Our forefathers tried to teach us things that only life itself could teach and their forefathers tried to teach them, and so on. How many of us have said to ourselves, "Boy, I wished I would have listened to Dad/Mom"? That does not take away a parents feelings though. It is a terrible, terrible thing to have to watch your child make bad decisions and then watch them pay the price for it. How much more then do you think it hurts God, our very creator, when we educated adults make bad decisions?

I have heard it said that you can lead a horse to water but you cannot make him drink. If that is the case then I was thirsty for about three decades. What I learned and started applying in about a one hour span took me thirty years of education. Think about that! Thirty years of hardcore partying, thirty years of hardcore living, thirty years of walking right through the middle of that mud puddle!

I say all that about the parents and the mud puddles and the horse to simply say that God has given us all the advice and knowledge we could possibly need to live successfully, to live joyfully, and to simply live life abundantly in a single book...the Bible. The sad thing is that I venture to say that in this good ole USA that there is not one solitary soul that does not have access to one of these life and soul saving books. What's even sadder is that we don't read them! To compound it further, a lot of folks are like me in that they own a Bible and they have read out of the Bible, but they have not applied what they read from the Bible. I know firsthand. In other words I have not learned from my "forefather" in God. The principle is so simple. Just because I am all grown up does not mean that I am not still God's little teenage boy!

Even in my ego, when I was a slave to myself, I knew this to be true. Why then did I not change? I mean I wanted to, and if I wanted to then it would make sense that I would change. If I wanted to eat, then I ate. If I wanted to sleep, I slept. So if I want to do good and quit these horrible things I have been doing, I should quit...right? Easier said than done! Ask anybody out there with an addiction they will agree with me wholeheartedly. After some serious contemplation and soul searching, I went to the source that has always been there...the Bible. The answer to my above question was written down some two thousand years ago.

I am by no means qualified to speak in the place of a pastor or spiritual leader, but I am qualified to share my personal experiences where God has shown me through prayer and scripture about being free to make a choice. First, for the person that has not put their full trust in God or have not done much Bible research I found a simple answer. You had no choice!! Actually, you still don't. I realize that this sounds a little insane, but hear me out. There are tons of scripture to back me up, but I will be conservative. In Romans, chapter 6, verse 16 The Living Translation puts it this way: "don't you realize that whatever you choose to obey becomes your master? You can choose sin (alcohol/drugs), which leads to death, or you can choose to obey God and receive His approval." So it really boils down to making a choice between two forces at work within you...IF you know Christ as your personal savior.

So for people that have not dedicated their life to Christ or simply don't know about devoting their life to their creator, they really have no choice at all! There is only one force working within them. Think about it, if you don't know God, then you only know Satan (and we have all known Satan since the moment of our birth). Therefore, if you only know Satan, then you only will choose the one way you know. In simpler terms, if there were no menu in restaurants you would have to just accept what they offered.

Secondly, for the person who has already claimed Christ as their Savior I found the following: In the same book, chapter 7 verses 15 through 17 it plainly explains why those that know Christ intimately didn't change. The Living Translation says it this way: "I don't understand myself at all, for I really want to do what is right, but I can not do it. Instead, I do the very thing I hate. I know perfectly well that what I am doing is wrong, and my bad conscience shows that I agree that the law is good. But I can not help myself, because it is sin inside of me that makes me do these evil things." This verse is fairly common to the Christian realm.

Both sets of these folks have a common problem. Sin. So, it's all boiling down to this sin thing being the dilemma. So before we go any further let's just define the word "sin" so we may see just exactly what it is holding us down. Zondervan's Bible Dictionary says Sin is "anything in the creature which does not express, or which is contrary to the character of the Creator." Not bad, but I like the way Nelson's Bible Dictionary defines it. Sin is "lawlessness or transgression of God's will, either by omitting to do what God's law requires or by doing what it forbids." Now, if you are still with me, we have to branch off even further to investigate God's will. See, that's where that Bible study HAS to come in. To learn what "God's will" is, praying for a receptive heart and examining the Bible is a must.

God cannot co-exist with sin. This concept was very hard for me to grasp.

This sin has to be dealt with in order to move on to "being free." "Being free" in the Christian world merely means having the option to choose between good and evil, but having the ability to choose good. I feel confident there are folks out there that have had success in quitting drugs and alcohol with various forms of help. For me personally, that didn't work. Not only did it not work but no program man could ever have come up with would have placed the genuine and spirit filled joy in me now. The Lord Jesus taking the drugs and alcohol away FROM me was simply a miracle. Even in this miracle, it wasn't anything compared to what He has done IN me.

July 2012

Summing it Up

I think it is time for me to finally let go of carrying these words around. As I have said before, I am not a writer, nor am I anyone special. I am not famous, and I am not super smart, super religious, or super anything else. I am just an average guy who got wrapped up in addiction. Have I provided anything "new and improved", or "guaranteed", or even "magical" in this small book? Not really. Just as Edison said when asked about how many times he "failed" at inventing the light bulb, his response was "I haven't failed; I've just found 1,000 ways that didn't work." Just like Edison, I tried everything in which I knew to do to relieve myself of my addictions, and found "many ways that didn't work."

In the final stages of my personal war with alcohol and drugs, I found one way which did work. Is the one way which worked for me the ultimate and only answer for all folks who are addicted? Of course not.

I have purposely not published, or even attempted to publish, this book until I had some time under my belt clean and sober. I needed time to edit much of my unneeded crude writings, and more importantly, I wanted to make sure my freedom was not short lived. I have also purposely not forced my beliefs in Christ on anyone, just as I haven't degraded rehab programs or meetings simply because they didn't work for me. My story is just my story.

I have been spared a life in prison, and spared the grave during and after my addictions. What sort of person would I be not to write about what I have learned? I do not write this book for monetary reasons, but only to be a tool for whoever may need it. I pray my roller coaster ride was entertaining, educational, and of some benefit to you or someone you know or love.

Sincerely

Mitch H. Webb

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