| Chapter Three |
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| Written by Mike Johnson |
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Chapter 3
The Rush I sat at the starting line revving my throttle waiting for the gate to drop. As I looked left and right at the other 24 bikes lined up with me, and then gazed out at the first turn and realized that there was only enough room for one of us to go through I felt terror as I had never experienced before. Here I was, 12 years old, sitting at the starting line of my very first motocross race with a 90 horse power Yamaha YZ 80 strapped to my ass and the deafening noise of 24 other riders revving their engines. The starting official signaled that we had 30 seconds until the gate dropped and I was expected to be the first one to that tiny first turn. If I didn’t make it there first, I would be wrapped up in the havoc of fighting with the other riders to make it through without falling and getting run over. As the starting official turned the sign sideways to indicate 15 seconds until the gate would fall my stomach tightened, my whole body began to shake, and I felt the “butterflies” one feels before having to give a speech in front of hundreds of people. They say that public speaking brings on anxiety like nothing else to the untrained or inexperienced speaker. Evidently, the person who said that never sat on the starting line of a motocross race. As the gate fell, I released the clutch and all 25 of us sprung forward toward that first corner, all of us hoping that we were the first one there. As I speed closer to the turn I begin to visualize myself being the first one there. I saw myself holding the throttle open just a split second longer than all the others. I saw number 43 hitting that berm before anyone else and escaping the bottleneck of mangled metal fighting for second and third, or just making it out of there with all their bones intact. As we all came within feet of that first turn, I convinced myself that I must hold the throttle open just a tad longer than the others and then make use of my front and rear brake at the same time so that I could navigate the turn successfully and not over shoot it. As we all hit the first turn my nerves settled down and I focused my attention on the second turn, the first jump, and the next 20 laps. I became one with my bike and entered the "zone." The zone was something that happened naturally for me. As I said, this was my first motocross race, and I had never experienced the kind of anxiety, trepidation, and then total peace that I felt all in a matter of minutes. Once I had made it through that first corner in first place I calmed down and somewhere inside found the courage and determination to navigate my bike around that track 20 times and finish in first place. I had found my niche. I had discovered something that I was incredibly good at and most of all, I had found something that satisfied my, then, unknown need for adrenaline. As the years passed I found that I was attracted to many other dangerous “hobbies” that satisfied that thirst. I couldn’t get enough of it. I craved the uneasiness and stress of sitting on the starting line and hoping I would be the first one to that first turn. I had no fear, just a thirst for danger. I don’t know why, but no matter how dangerous, no matter how life threatening the activity was, I felt like I was in control. I would use this confidence to try and be in control of every situation I encountered over the next 30 years. I was determined to be the master of my domain. To have the determination to be successful in everything I did. Little did I know, that 30 years later I would face my biggest challenge. I would eventually fail at controlling the adrenaline that coursed through my veins. I would ultimately allow something to master me instead of the other way around. I would learn how it felt to be so out of control that I didn’t even know the man I saw in the mirror anymore. When I called my mom at 7:30 am on that warm January morning I was desperate. I had spent the entire night using crack cocaine. I had actually been on a three-day binge and was exhausted, paranoid and scared. The night before, I had told my wife that for the past 2 months I had been using cocaine and that I couldn’t stop. I explained to her how I had tried it one night, thinking it was marijuana and now I couldn’t get enough of it. She was shocked but stood by me and told me that tomorrow we would get on the phone and find help. I was so ashamed that I had let this drug take possession of my soul and that I had allowed it to turn me into someone I never dreamed existed. I was a teacher, and a damn good one. I was actually the most popular teacher at my school where I taught sixth grade. The kids loved me, the parents loved me and I was proud that I had been so successful. More importantly though, I was proud that I had been a great father and husband. At this time in my life I had three children and I had been very active in their lives. Coaching, volunteering, attending all their functions at school, etc… and we also all took karate together. We went on vacations every year, went hiking on weekends, and played online video games together. I had it all, the perfect family, yet, somehow I lost sight of that along the way and at 41 I made a choice to go out and put myself in a position that ultimately ended up in me trying crack cocaine. The night that I told my wife about the cocaine was no different than any other Saturday night. We were going to go to the movies as a family. After we talked she said that the kids were ready to go and that I needed to get ready. Although I wanted to go on this family outing as we had hundreds of times, something inside of me was telling me that since I was going to get help tomorrow for the cocaine use, I could go out just “one more time” and use the cocaine. I could have just “one more” party with the devil, that way when I started recovery I would be able to have closure and focus on getting over this addiction. She protested and told me that it was a stupid idea and that I should just go to the movie with my family. I argued as her and my kids stood looking at me as if I was some stranger they didn’t know. The look on my children’s faces was breaking my heart but the pull inside of me to go use more cocaine was overwhelming. I had a choice. I could let it go, get in the car with my family and tackle this demon in the morning with help from professionals, or I could give in to the lure of this evil substance and send them on their way without me. From the day my daughter was born and then my two boys, I swore that I would always be there for them. I made a promise to myself and to them that I would not let them down. I made a promise to God that I would be the best father a child could ever want, yet, at this particular moment, I completely forgot about the promises I had made. Nothing else seemed important. The only thing I wanted to do was use cocaine even if my kids were looking at me and telling me by the expressions on their faces that they wanted me to go with them. My wife finally gave up and said, “fine, do what you want, we are going to the movie.” They left the room and as I watched them walk away, I could see the disappointment on their faces. I could feel they were confused as to why I would want to go out by myself and not with them. My kids didn’t know why daddy was going out, they only knew he didn’t want to be with them. When my mom told me that she was at work and she would call me as soon as she got home, I should have just gone home and waited. I could have gone anywhere safer than where I went, but I still had $40.00 worth of cocaine, and as ashamed and desperate as I was, I didn’t want to let it go to waste. As I hung up the phone, I turned my truck toward one of the local state parks so that I could sit in my truck and use what I had left. My plan was to use it up, wait there until my mom called, then go to her house and call my wife to come get me so that we could go to the treatment center where I would get help and never use this all powerful drug again. “Best laid plans” is something I had heard when I was a kid that meant that sometimes our best intentions don’t always turn out as we had planned, and this was one of those times. I made it to the park, backed my truck into a parking spot and began to smoke what I had left. It was very warm for a January day and I remember sweating profusely as I took every hit of the pipe. I was wearing running shorts and thought that “if” a cop did come by I would just say that I was there jogging and had just returned from my exercise. However, as I smoked more and more, my senses became impervious to anything around me. As I sat there smoking the rock and pondering what I would say to my mom, who thought I was the “perfect” son, I heard a knock on my tinted window. As I turned to look I saw a deputy Sheriff standing there. Needless to say my heart started pounding, I began to sweat excessively and my hands were shaking like never before. For a moment, I remembered that time when I was 12 years old, sitting on the starting line of my first motocross race and recalled having the same anxious feelings I was having right now. As I scurried to hide the crack pipe and gather my wits, I rolled down the window. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I just finished jogging and I am just resting before I drive home.” I replied. He asked for my ID and I fearfully pulled my wallet out of the glove box. I guess I really was distraught because as I went to hand him my drivers license I handed him a credit card instead. He just chuckled and said, “Is this a bribe or a joke?” I tried to gather my thoughts and when I noticed what I had done I said, “oh, sorry, here is my license,” as I handed it to him. “I’m going to have to ask you to get out of the vehicle sir.” Was his next response and by this time I was completely beside myself and knew I was going to be in big trouble. The last time I had felt ditress like this was just before the 1979 US motocross championship when I was sitting on the starting line with 50 other riders and a six foot trophy at stake. I had always welcomed fear, craved adrenaline and was able to control the anxiety once I made it through the first turn, but something told me that there would be no first turn this time. There would be no “zone” to go into. This time, I was going to be tangled in the bottleneck of all those that didn’t make it through the first turn without crashing. As I started to open my door, I slowly tried to relocate the crack rock that I had sitting on my seat to somewhere he wouldn’t see it. I moved my arm and hand toward the floorboard to place it there as I opened the door. His first reaction was to grab his 9 millimeter Glock and point it at my face, “LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS!” he yelled as his index finger rapped around the trigger. I had never had a gun pointed at me before and although the adrenaline rush was frightfully captivating, I let go of the rock and did what he said. As he held the gun pointing at my head, he slowly opened my door and ask me, “What are you hiding under the seat? Do you have a gun!” As I continued to compose myself I responded that I did not have a gun and that I was just trying to open the door like he said. Once he had the door open, he grabbed my arm and pulled me from the truck. “What are you hiding under the seat?” he persisted. “Nothing!” I replied. Although I was high, nervous, distressed, I was honestly trying my hardest to cooperate and show respect. I said, “Yes sir” and “no sir” and I followed every direction he gave. Once out of the truck he made me sit on the curb and then went on to ask me if there was anything in the truck that he should know about. This was my first such confrontation with law enforcement and I knew I was trapped. There was no way out of this one so I might as well cooperate and be honest.” Maybe if I do that he will be more lenient.” I thought. He explained to me that he suspected drugs and that he was going to search my vehicle. He told me that he was within his rights to search my truck because I had failed to purchase a state park parking ticket when I entered the parking lot. I was parked there illegally. Therefore, he was going to search the truck. I told him that I did have a pipe and some drugs in there and he asked me exactly where they were. I told him and after finding them he proceeded to handcuff me and read me my rights. I remember that day, that moment, like it was yesterday. As I stood there in handcuffs my mind went back to the day a few years ago when I had picked up my middle son Matt from a friends house and he smelled of marijuana. When I asked him why he smelled like Marijuana he began to cry. He told me that he had smoked some because his friends pressured him and called him a pansy. He folded under the pressure and did something that he was ashamed of. I tried to handle that particular event with restraint and gave him the “Don’t do drugs” speech. I had given that speech to all my kids before and never thought it would become a reality for them. Although I knew that the reality of living in a big city in the twenty first century certainly stacked the odds against them never being exposed to it. After telling him that I loved him and that I wasn’t mad, just disappointed, I made a statement that had now come back to haunt me as I stood there in handcuffs with "Walker, Texas Ranger" pointing his gun at me. “Matt, I have been very successful in life. I have succeeded at everything I have done. However, the one thing that I am most proud of is that I have never been in trouble with the law.” It made me feel good to say that to him that night and my hope was that he would want the same thing for himself. To make good choices and be a good, law abiding citizen. What I didn’t realize at the time is that I was setting myself up for failure and flaunting my pride to my naive son. “Pride commeth before the fall” is something I had heard preached from the pulpit when I was growing up in the Bible belt in the late sixties and early seventies. A year after bragging to my son about how great I was, here I was at the lowest point in my life and there wasn’t a thing I could do to change it. After the deputy found the crack rock and the pipe he began to question me. I told him that I know it looks bad but that I was actually a good person. “I have never been in trouble in my life officer, as a matter of fact, I am a teacher and have three children of my own.” I prayed that this would speak to his compassionate side and he would just let me go. Instead, it just made him more impassioned and he told me I should be ashamed of myself. He didn’t know just how disgusted I was at myself and how helpless I felt. Due to the fact that we were at a State Park and he had no back up to come get me he had decided to let me go home even though I was still being charged with possession of narcotics. He gave me a sobriety test which I astoundingly passed and sent me on my way. Before I drove away he told me that I had been arrested and that I would be getting a letter from the county attorney in a few months. Until then, he suggested that I stay out of trouble. “No problem officer, I am on my way home right now to meet with my mom and wife to see about rehab.” As I drove off, I started getting that sick feeling in my gut again as I pondered how I was going to explain this to my mom and wife. As I entered my mom’s house my knees became weak and I was beginning to become numb all over. I sat down and began to explain to her what had transpired over the past two months and how it had led to what had just happened. My mom was in shock and I could see in her eyes that she was at a loss for words. I could feel that she was reminiscing in her mind about how “perfect” I had always been. I could only imagine the disappointment she felt that her only son had gone from being such a successful father, husband, teacher, and human being to getting arrested for drug possession. As I sat there in total humiliation I glanced over at a picture she had on her living room table. It was a picture of my family. A picture showing the “perfect” family. A symbol of love and security. “What had I done?” I thought. “How could I do this. I had it all, and now I have lost it all in a matter of hours.” The feeling of distress overwhelmed me and my face became numb. In a matter of seconds I began to weep uncontrollably and my whole body just seemed to give up. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breath, and I couldn’t feel my body. The doorbell rang and it was my wife. When I saw her I became even more tormented. I began to have a panic attack. My chest tightened, my heart pounded harder, and my head felt as though it was going to explode. “Was I having a heart attack? Was this it? Is this the way I am going to die?” I thought to myself, as my wife and mom tried to make me breath slowly and relax. My wife and mom are both nurses and although I knew they would know what to do, the fear that I was going to die was the only thing on my mind. As my body began to feel as though I had been pumped up like an inflatable raft, I grew more anxious. “Please call 911!!” I pleaded. My wife told me that I was going to be fine if I would just breath slower and calm down. “PLEASE CALL 911!!” I am dying!” I said over and over. At this point all I could think was that I was going to die in my mom’s living room and it would be their fault because they didn’t call 911. Although my wife was calm and sure that it was just a panic attack and that I would be fine, my mom became scared that maybe I was having a heart attack and she finally called 911. It seemed like hours before they finally showed up and by the time they arrived I was in full blown panic hysteria. The paramedics loaded me into the ambulance and started on the journey to the hospital which was a few miles away. I noticed that they didn’t have the siren on and I beseeched them to turn it on and drive faster. One of the paramedics just looked at me and ask, “Why should we drive faster?” “Because I am dying!!!” I screamed. He just chuckled and said, “Well, if you do, you only have yourself to blame.” I remember thinking to myself that this guy was either the most impassionate paramedic in the state or that he wanted me to die because I was a cocaine addict. As the journey continued I started to pray to God. At one time in my life I had a very close relationship with God. My family and I were very active in church. I was even a Sunday school teacher and led the music on most Sundays. I hadn’t prayed much over the past few years as I had started drifting farther from God and stopped going to church. Now, here I was on what I thought was my death bed and I cried out to God. “Please don’t let me die God!” I repeated over and over. I was terrified that this was actually the day that I was going to die and I wanted to make sure I was right with God. Call it a “fox hole” prayer if you will, but I honestly thought that within minutes I was either going to meet God or Satan face to face. Once we arrived at the hospital I felt I had made peace with God and was convinced that I would see Him soon. I begged my wife to not tell my kids how and why I died. I didn’t want them to know that their daddy had become a drug addict and that I had died due to it. Calm as always, she reassured me that I wasn’t going to die and that I would see them again. I wondered if she knew that people die from cocaine overdoses everyday or remembered that I already had a heart condition and the cocaine was just asking for a heart attack. In spite of her words of assurance, I was still resolved in my mind that I would never see my children again and that the only thing they would remember me by is that I was a cocaine addict. Saint Francis of Assisi once said “The secret to immortality is to first live a life worth remembering.” I had always tried to remember that and live my life in such a way that when I did die, people would remember me as a good person who did good things. Lying there on that stretcher waiting to see a doctor I recalled that quote and my heart broke with regret. “The only legacy I will leave is that of a crack head.” I thought. “God, please forgive me!” Well, I didn’t die that day and I would have 4 more visits to the hospital for the very same reason over the next four years. I did enter my first 30 day in-patient rehab a few days later and went there thinking I had it all figured out. As usual, I knew best, I knew how to control me. My stay there introduced me to the 12-step method of attacking drug addiction. It introduced me to a way that has helped others get clean, but I would soon find out that it just wasn’t the way for me. I would soon learn that this wasn't just a drug addiction, it was an evil possession of which I had no control. |
