| Chapter Five |
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| Written by Mike Johnson |
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Chapter 5
The Insanity Begins Insanity has been defined as "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." This is the definition I heard while in my first experience with a 30 day in-patient rehab center. What they didn't tell me is that Albert Einstein is the one that said it. Hearing this definition gave a whole new meaning to the statement, "just one more time." If you are an addict, then you have said this many times. You probably said it truly believing that it would really be the last time. If you are not an addict but have been close to someone who is an addict, then you have heard that statement as well. As a crack-cocaine addict I truly believed that if I used "just one more time" I would be fulfilled and thus have the ability to finally quit it for good. However, the results were always the same. I wanted more! Yes, Mr. Einstein had it right but the dictionary definition of insanity sums it up quite well. Insanity, according to the dictionary is "something that is extremely foolish." After getting out of the hospital from my panic attack and near overdose, I scheduled a date to start a 30 day in-patient rehabilitation program. Before I started the program I had to deal with the fact that I had a job and it wasn't the type of job that I could just ask for a 30 day vacation or leave of absence. I was a 6th teacher I had 35 kids depending on me to be there on Monday. The fact that I had just been arrested for cocaine possession, then spent the night in the hospital was not something I could just sweep under the carpet and hope nobody would find out. I had done something extremely foolish and although I had hoped I could use crack and still be a responsible human being, the arrest left me no choice but to confront my principal and tell him the truth. After meeting with him and telling him about the past few days he scheduled a meeting with the superintendent of the district and he and I met with him that afternoon. I feared the worse. I was terrified when I sat down with, not only the superintendent, but also three board members, my principal, and two assistant superintendents. To my amazement, the group was very supportive and asked me if I had thought about getting help. I explained to them that I was to start the 30 day treatment the next day. They decided to give me the option to resign my position instead of firing me. My record in the district as a good teacher who loved his students really saved me total humiliation. The next day my wife took me to the treatment center. before leaving, I had to say goodbye to my kids and at that time I told them that I was going to a hospital that would help me with an "alcohol problem." I just couldn't bring myself to tell them it was for "crack-cocaine" Their whole lives I had preached to them "don't do drugs!" Telling them the truth would make me a hypocrite and I wasn't ready to deal with that. I did plan on telling them the truth eventually, but not today. When I arrived there, I looked like hell. I had just come off a 4 day binge where I had slept a total of four hours. I hadn't eaten anything during that time and my hands and mouth had burns from the crack pipe. At this time in my life I wore my hair very short due to the onset of male pattern baldness. So short, it looked like I was a neo-nazi, white supremist. One of the other addicts in my group at the treatment center would later tell me that when I first arrived, they thought I was some punk gang banger off the street. When she eventually learned that I was really a 6th grade school teacher with three kids of my own, she was shocked. As I was being processed in, I begin to start craving crack. I wanted it bad! What could I do? I was desperate to have it but I was here in this treatment center with a fence around it and locks on the doors. It didn't matter to me that I had just been arrested, lost my job, my teaching certificate, and almost died. All I could think about was that I wanted to use crack, "just one more time." My crack-head brain went into combat mode. I had to figure out a way to get out of here and use one more time before I committed myself to getting clean. Before I had left the house that day, my two boys were playing on their skateboards. "Ah Ha! that's it!" I thought. So the lying begin. I told the person processing me in that I had gotten a call on my cell phone from my son just before I came into the building. He had told me that he had fallen on his skateboard and broken his ankle. My wife had gone straight to work after dropping me off and he could not get in touch with her. "I have to go help him! I am the only one that can take him to the hospital" I said. The counselor actually believed me and told me they could give me a two hour pass to take him but then I had to come right back. "Wow, that was easy." I thought. After signing the paperwork I told them that my car was in the parking lot, "another lie" and that I would be able to use it to get back and forth. The truth was that my wife had dropped me off and went straight to work. I had no transportation home and the treatment center was 5 miles from my house. So, I began to walk and I walked the whole 5 miles to my house. When I got home, my kids begin to ask me questions. "Why are you home? Aren't you suppose to be at the hospital?" Once again, I begin the crack-cocaine dishonesty dance. "Well, they told me I had to wait until tomorrow before the room was ready so I came home." Now, I had to figure out how I was going to get out of the house and find me some crack-cocaine. I told the kids that I needed to go to the store and get some supplies for the stay in the hospital and got in the car and left. At this point in my use I did not know of any places close to my house to buy it and I had not found a dealer that I could just call. The only place I knew of to get it was in the worse neighborhoods in South Phoenix. I knew it was dangerous. I knew that there were gangs, drug dealers, prostitutes, and all sorts of criminals in the area I was heading too but it didn't matter, I wanted some crack and I was going to get it no matter how dangerous it might be. Once I arrived in the area, I begin to look for anyone that looked like they might be selling crack on the street corner. I eventually found a guy and he told me he could take me to a place and get some. He was this big black guy with tattoos all over his body. He was very nervous and anxious and smelled like a dead body. In spite of the fact that I knew he could probably snap me in two with his bare hands, I opened the door and let him in. We drove a few blocks to this motel and he took me to the door. Someone on the inside yelled, "What the fuck do you want!" My guy yelled back, "It's Jerome man, let me in!" The door opened and the guy opening the door made my guy look like a choir boy. He was short but built like a bull and I could not see a single part of his body that wasn't covered in a tattoo. The next thing I noticed is that he had a 9 millimeter Glock stuffed into his pants behind his belt. He said something in Spanish and then let us in. As we entered the room, I could smell alcohol, marijuana, and something that I would eventually learn was the smell of crack-cocaine. There were four other guys in the room sitting around a table playing cards and they all had crack pipes, rocks, and beers in front of them. The thing that really begin to worry me was that they all had guns as well. One of them said something in Spanish to the guy who greeted us at the door that I didn't understand, but I did recognize one word he said, and that was "policia" "Oh my God! he thinks I am a cop!" I have to admit, I did look like a cop. I was white, my hair was short, and I had only been using crack for a few months so I didn't have a lot of the "crack-scars" one might look for. I realized that these guys were all gang members and had probably all been to prison at some point in their lives. Killing me would probably be nothing to them. Although my imagination was going wild and I pictured myself tied up in the bathtub while they beat me with a baseball bat, I still wanted a rock and I wanted it bad. 'Police?" I said. "I am not a cop dude!" The biggest one got up and walked toward me and reached for his pistol. As he approached, I begin to try and recall all the things I had learned in years of martial arts training. Could I use my training and get out of here before they shot me in the back? Would I risk killing one of them and then face life in prison? Every scenario I pictured in my mind turned out bad for "me." All I wanted to do is get $40.00 worth of rock and get the hell out of there. The big one got right up in my face and again said, "policia!" His breath reeked of marijuana and tequila. He smelled as if he hadn't had a bath in weeks. The others begin to laugh and spout off more Spanish insults. "I am NOT a cop damnit! How can I prove it to you?" The big one standing two inches from me pulled his pistol out and stuck the end of the barrel to my head. At this point I began to pray, "Please God, just let me get my rock and get out of this alive!" Insanity? I was asking God to not only protect me and get me out alive, but I also requested that He let me get the rock too! As he chambered a bullet, I closed my eyes and prepared to meet God face to face. "Is this it?" I thought. "Why couldn't I have just stayed at the treatment center?" Should I give this guy a swift "palm-heal" punch to the nose? Should I just run? How can I get out of this alive? My imagination was getting the best of me and all I could think of was that I hoped I got my rock before he shot me. Finally, he lowered the gun and handed me a pipe filled with a rock and said, "Take a blast white boy." I couldn't flick that bic fast enough and the fact that I was shaking so much made it very difficult. I finally got the flame going, put the pipe in my mouth and took a very deep breath and inhaled the vapors. Once again, the feeling of Euphoria overwhelmed me and all my fear was gone. Every man in that room could have pointed their gun at me and I would not have cared. I had my rock now and if I was going to die, at least I was able to hit the pipe "just one more time." Hitting the pipe was enough to prove to them that I wasn't a cop. They took my money and gave me a new rock. Of course, the guy that brought me there ask me, "hey man, hook me up." meaning, he wanted something for his trouble. I pinched a little piece off and gave it to him. After taking him back to where I picked him up, I drove around for hours smoking the rock I had just risked my life to get. At this point in my crack career, $40.00 worth of crack would last me for six to seven hours. A $40.00 rock was about the size of a piece of peppermint hard candy. About 4am I ran out and needed more. I knew where I could get it now and there was no need to drive around looking for a guy to take me to a place and then give him some of what I bought. No, this time I could skip the middle man and go directly to the source. So, I went back to the same house where I had nearly been shot in the head just seven hours ago. This time they acted as if I was their best friend. "What's up dude? How much do you want? Was that good shit or what?" I was thrilled that not only did I find a place that I could go day or night, but now they treated me like an old friend. I purchased another $40 rock and once again drove around until it was gone. By 8am I decided I better go back to the treatment center. Yes, I had screwed up again and I did enjoy it, but I had promised my family I would get help and I meant to keep that promise even though I had just lied to them and used once again. As I drove back to the treatment center, I threw my pipe out of the window and promised myself and God that this was the last time. "Now I'm ready to stop." I thought. I had my last time and it was good and I felt I was ready to commit myself to this treatment and put this behind me. I headed back to the treatment center and after signing back in, they asked me if my son was ok and what took me so long. I started to lie and tell them that I had spent the whole time at the emergency room with my son and we had just gotten out. However, I could see in their eyes that they knew I had been using. It was totally obvious since I was soaking wet from sweating and I had burns all over my hands and lips. "My son was never hurt. I lied to you so I could go use again." I said this praying that they wouldn't kick me out. In most of these programs you have to be clean for 72 hours before they will let you in and I knew that they had every right to kick me out and tell me to come back when I was truly ready to quit. They didn't do that though. They let me stay. I couldn't decide if I was happy that they were going to let me stay or if I was pissed off because I knew I would be stuck here for 30 days and wouldn't be able to use. Yes, I wanted to stop for my family. I didn't want to loose them. I didn't want to loose my wife and I felt so ashamed that I had lost my teaching career after working so hard to be such a good teacher. I wanted help, but I wanted it for all the wrong reasons. I didn't want it for me. I wanted it for everyone that loved me. I decided that I would take advantage of the fact that they had given me a second chance and put 110% into this program and hopefully be "cured" when the 30 days was complete. I was told that I was the first person who had ever checked into their treatment center, then left an hour after being processed in, then actually come back the same day. Although they were slightly reluctant to let me stay and disappointed in what I had done, they also found it very funny. I have always been good at talking myself out of just about anything and this was just another example of me using my charm to manipulate the situation in my favor. I have always been the type of person that gives 100% dedication to whatever I do. I gave 100% to being the best motocross racer. I gave 100% to being the best soldier. 100% to being a good husband and father. 100% into martial arts and got two black belts. 100% into college and graduated with honors. I had been very successful at just about everything I had ever done and doing this program was going to be no different. I felt that the only way it was going to work was if I committed myself 100% and learned as much as I could about what was wrong with me. They told me that what I had was a disease. I had inherited it from someone in my family and that it had no cure. The only hope I had was to arrest it by following their program. A program that involved following 12 steps to recovery and I had to do every step perfectly or I would fail. Each day I attended all the meetings and classes with pen and paper in hand and took notes on everything I heard. I participated enthusiastically and begin to get praise from my counselors for being so involved. "Maybe you should consider being a counselor one day" they would tell me. My background in teaching and leadership was showing and I begin to feel like the whole reason all of this had happened to me was because God wanted me to help others with the same "disease." I wanted to learn all I could about it and begin to read my "Big Book" religiously and with each page my ego grew larger and larger. I was told when I got out of the treatment center I would have to go to meetings everyday. I would need to get a sponsor whom I could call each day and who would be there for me if I ever felt the urge to use again. This was a disease that I would have for the rest of my life and the only way to keep it under control was to follow their path. I bought into the whole thing and after 21 days I thought I was cured. I felt I was ready to go back out into the world and be the "savior" for addicts everywhere. I had found my calling and I was ready. The treatment was suppose to be for 30 days but using my manipulative charm, I was able to talk my counselors and my wife into letting me leave after only 21 days. I left there with an ego the size of Texas and truly believed I had it all figured out. All I had to do was go to the meetings, work the steps, and get a sponsor and in no time I would be helping others "arrest" their addiction. I had been taught there that all drugs, alcohol, cocaine, meth, pills, etc.. were the same. I was an addict and because of that, I could not use any mind altering substance because my brain would react the same to all of them. It never occurred to me then that none of my counselors were "crack" addicts. They were recovering alcoholics, powder cocaine addicts, meth addicts and prescription drug addicts, but none of them could speak about crack cocaine from experience. However, to them, it was all the same. Crack was just another drug like alcohol or vicodin and therefore the treatment was the same. Follow the 12 steps, go to meetings, call your sponsor and you will be fine. Within three days after I got out of that treatment center I was using crack again. |
