Withdrawal...aka, I refused the 12 Step program; Alternate Title: Something I'm ashamed of

This may come as a shock, but I used to have a drug problem.  I also used to have a drinking problem.  I still have a smoking problem.



After Kathy moved out, but before I got divorced and before I left a set of friends in Indiana, I started going to strip clubs.  There were two that I frequented, The Rio and PT's Showclub.  I fell in love with a stripper at The Rio (her "name" was Raven and she promised everything and delivered nothing...kind of like the USPS).
After that little meltdown, and after my good friend Nathan got involved with his newest love, I turned to (gasp) DRUGS.  (Kids, take Nancy Reagan's advice:  Just say "No.")

I didn't start using daily (and never injected, because I've been scared of needles since forever...kind of like I'm scared of horses), but once you are riding there is no coming back.  I found friends, friends whom I knew, who also liked forgetting problems and failures, friends who had been hurt too.  So we met, and eventually I was introduced to something better.  Because cocaine only makes you feel like superman.  But heroin...let's just say that it doesn't fool around with "feelings;"  it makes you superman.  And I got over my fear of needles.  (I'm still scared of horses.)

I shot up frequently, to the point that I lost my job because I couldn't work unless I was drunk/high.  I didn't see a problem, even after I was kicked out of my spacious 3 bedroom apartment and had to move into a 1 bedroom closet.  I was able to keep everything together, somewhat.  Then, as always, things started to fall apart.
There are a few nights I remember which made me realize it was time to leave:
I had just lost my job, my apartment, and was working with a very small list of friends (thanks Todd, Binko, Jamie/New Guy).  I went to my favorite bar, Taylors II, and drank like a complete asshole until 2 am (while extraordinarily high).  Then I asked for a glass of water, no ice.  Jim, the bartender, served me up a large glass of water with ice.  I dumped it on the floor and said:  I didn't want ice.
Another night I kind of remember was this:  I was so drunk and high one night, I drove to see the girl I was in love with, Ellen.  I shouldn't have done that.  I sideswiped 3 parked cars on my way to her apartment building.  I called her from her parking lot and, when she finally answered, I couldn't do anything but mumble.  She told me I was a mess and needed to leave her alone.  I don't remember how I got home, but when I finally came to and looked out the window, I saw that I had left my car running, lights on and driver's side door open, right in the middle of the parking lot.
The final straw was this:  I was again at Taylor's II, tweaking, and Ian (another bartender, and a friend of mine, to whom I gave 2,500 to pay for an engagement ring for Jen) somehow pissed me off.  I got up to confront him, got aggressive and he told me that he would hit me if I didn't leave.  I laughed, then he hit me.  It wasn't so funny.  The next morning, Ian and I went to play raquetball.  I was feeling strong and beat him, 21-7.  He slammed his racket on the wall, breaking it, and said that he couldn't talk to me anymore.
I left that night.



(Find the album version:  Morphine, Cure for Pain)

I left at 6 in the morning, with a case of Natural Light beer underneath my seat.  Before I reached Pennsylvania, I drank all 12 (don't do this at home).  I checked into a motel near Harrisburg, smelling of booze and feeling like yesterdays socks.  But I couldn't fall asleep.  So I walked outside and picked up some blackberry schnapps and drank myself into a coma.

I woke up the next day and drove into Suffern, NY.  And I moved into my parent's basement.  I spent 2 months there, without contacting many friends, because I was in withdrawal.  I wasn't seeing invisible spiders, but I was falling apart at night.  There were times I wouldn't leave the basement for a couple of days.  There were times that I would leave in the middle of the day and not come back until the following afternoon.  I was fighting both my depression and my desire.  But I was holding on.




There are still times that I can't move from my room for days on end because  I want to puncture my skin (the only thing that protects me from this world) and feel like a hero again. There are still times I hate myself for ever needing to escape from this world that much.  But most often I am ashamed.  I am just an ex-junkie.  And I am scared of needles again.