| Chapter Six |
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| Written by Mike Johnson |
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Chapter 6
Do Drugs go to Jail or Die While in the rehabilitation center I made a few new friends. Obviously, like myself, these too were people with drug or alcohol addictions. Only one of the 15 people in my group was a crack addict like me. I was 41 at the time and he was 20. He was my roommate and your typical 20 year old with loads of energy and had dreams of becoming a professional golfer. I was there because my family wanted me there and I felt I should at least give it a try even though my heart was telling me I didn't really need any help. John had been sent there by his parents as an intervention when his crack use and irresponsible behavior had gotten out of hand. I had insurance to foot my bill, but John's little stay at the "rehab" was costing his very wealthy dad, $1500 a day because he had come here from Canada and Canadian health care would not cover a stay in an American rehab. Two guys, with a 20 year age difference from two different countries, one very educated, the other a high school drop out, yet we bonded like brothers, father and son, and best friends all because we were both crack-heads and as such, were in a whole different category than the other addicts there. John and I both got out, or "graduated" the program on the same day. My wife, kids and mother came to my "graduation" ceremony, as did John's family. Here we were, sitting in chairs at the front of the room for all in attendance to see. Most everyone being graduated that day had friends and family there. All of the non-addicts or "normal" people were facing us and I noticed that they all had the oddest expressions on their faces. As I gazed out at them, I couldn't tell whether they were proud, embarrassed, happy, sad or just plain confused. It sure wasn't anything like the day I graduated from college and had my family there patting me on the back, taking pictures and telling me how proud of me they were. No, this was more like being the last one picked on the playground. In spite of the fact that I felt proud of what I had accomplished in the past 21 days, I really felt like the biggest loser in the world and thought it completely ridicules that this "graduation" was even taking place. I was embarrassed. I was full of shame and I was expected to give a little "post therapy" speech about who I was, why I was there, and what I had learned. When it was my turn, I had to introduce myself in the "12-step" manner saying my name and what my addiction was. "Hi, I'm Mike, and I am an addict." Saying that, in front of all those people, especially my wife, kids and my mother was probably the most difficult and embarrassing thing I had ever done in my life. This was suppose to be a day to celebrate my progression from "consistently using crack-head" to educated addict on his way to arresting his "disease." Until that day, I had not told my kids that the reason I was in the rehab was for "crack." Although telling them the truth was very important to me, being honest about the "real" reason I was there was not something I could bring myself to do. As far as they knew, I was there because I had a drinking problem. As introductions were being made and 10 out of the 12 people there introduced themselves as "I am an alcoholic", I sat there terrified that when it came time for me to introduce myself, I had the choice to lie and save my kids the disappointment of finding out their "perfect" daddy was really a crack addict, or tell the truth and pray one of them didn't throw something at me and run out of the room. Either way, I didn't feel comfortable with my options. The look on their faces when I finally did tell the truth in front of that whole room broke my heart. Until that day, my kids respected me, looked up to me, and I had always taught them to stay away from drugs. At the time my oldest was just 16 and there was no way I could expect them to "respect" me even if I were telling the truth and taking this step to work a program that was suppose to help me with this addiction. I could see it in their eyes. I had just become nothing but a big hypocrite. As I mentioned before, John was from Canada and although his parents had a nice house for him to come back to, he did not want to return to Canada. Part of the 12-Step program is to help others. I felt I had this addiction thing all figured out and was ready to start doing what I could to help other addicts. I decided to start by offering John a place to live. In my mind, I was helping a friend get a new start. He accepted my offer and the day after we left the rehab center he moved in. Here we were, roommates again, only this time, my wife, two boys, and my 18-year-old daughter were part of the equation. How could I have been so stupid? What was I thinking? Had I lost my mind? These are just a few of the questions I still ask myself. The truth is, I honestly thought by helping him with a place to live, food to eat, and a ride to meetings, I would somehow be helping myself as well. I could go on and tell about how he annoyed the hell out of me, seduced my daughter, ate all our food, and took advantage of me, but those are just things that happened as a result of the real problem, and that was, I allowed him to bring crack cocaine into my house. I can't say it was all his doing. We often talked about the fact that because we didn’t know each other before the rehab we had never used crack together. We spoke to each other about our past "crack" exploits and all the stupid things we had done while using. Most of the stories were very similar. I don't care who you are, where you come from, how you were raised, how much money you make, or how religious you may be, if you use crack, you are STUPID, and have done stupid things while under it's spell. Crack-heads from all over the world could get together and share stories and they will all be the same. John and I were as different as night and day, but our crack sploits were very much the same. One day John came home and told me that he had talked to a guy that could get him an ounce of crack really cheap. We both had been struggling with cravings and wanting to use again. I had been battling with euphoric recall. This is some thing that happens to most addicts at some point in their recovery. Basically, it occurs when your brain wants you to remember how great the drug made you feel, so it sends you a little reminder and to some extent you feel the high and when that happens, you either fight the feeling and use whatever tools you have to get through it, or you go use again. Between our conversations about our past crack use, the cravings we were both having and the fact that neither of us were really working our program we finally gave in and decided we would get some crack, use it together and then we would start working the program. "Just one more time" we said. An addicts famous last words. That "one time" turned into another, then another, and before long, both of us had returned to full blown crack addiction. Before meeting John in rehab and having him come live with me, I didn't have any "crack contacts." All my crack purchases were done in dark allys from other crack-heads who would rip me off and run with my money more times than not. I was, not only a stupid "crack-head," but a "stupid" crack-head. I didn't care how dangerous the location or how big the risk, when I wanted a rock I would go to any length to get it. I can't count the number of times I went to "crack" neighborhoods, 'crack" motels, or areas known for not only crack, but gang related shootings, rape, prostitution, you name it. I was very inexperienced at this point and did not have a dealer I could just call and arrange a pick up or have it delivered to me. I wasted a lot of time and money during those early months of use. When John came into the picture, things changed. He had contacts. He had experience, and he was all but willing to share is knowledge and his dealer. Now all I had to do was pick up the phone, tell the guy how much I wanted and then meet him at some location close by. No more dark allys. No more guns. No more loosing my money because I trusted some guy I didn't know to go around the corner and get me a rock. Now buying crack was as easy as ordering a pizza. My crack use had now graduated to a whole new level. Had I now become a "smart" crack-head? Not even close. For the next couple of months John and I used often and pretty much forgot that we were suppose to be working a 12-step program. However, one night we decided that we would go to one of the "alumni" meetings for addicts that had graduated from the in-patient rehabilitation center we had both been in together. The meeting that night had about 15 "alumni" and in the usual 12-Step manner, we went around the room introducing ourselves. As I glanced around the circle while people introduced themselves, I saw one face in particular that looked familiar. When it came time for him to introduce himself, I listened anxiously to see if his name was familiar to me. He was a young guy, probably 18 or 19 years old and not only did I think he looked familiar, but when I introduced myself, he looked at me with an expression that indicated that he knew me too. "Hi, my name is Jared and I am an addict." His name sounded familiar, his face looked familiar, but I couldn't recall where I had seen him before. As the meeting progressed, each of us told our stories. When I talked about my road to "crack" I told about my years as a teacher and talked about how I was struggling with the problem of driving my truck because every time I got in it, I smelled crack and it reminded me of my use. My truck was a "trigger" for me and I was thinking about selling it. In the 12-Step programs they use the word "trigger" to describe anything that may cause an addict to think about their drug and hence end up using due to the reminder. Today, I know that a "trigger" is nothing more than an excuse to be a dumb ass, but at the time I bought into the crap. When Jared heard me talking about being a teacher and that I had a Dodge 1500 truck, his eyes lit up and I could tell he too knew me. When Jared spoke, he told us all how much he had been struggling and that he had just relapsed the day before. He really wanted to stop but just couldn't. After the meeting we both made a bee line toward each other. When he approached he said "Mr. Johnson?" with an expression of wonder on his face. I had not said my last name was Johnson because in the 12-Step rooms, last names are not mentioned. He knew me, no doubt. I told him that I was Mr. Johnson and inquired as to why he looked familiar to me. He went on to explain that when he heard me talk about my truck he knew right away that I was the Mr. Johnson that was his 4th grade teacher when he was a kid. Until that very moment I had been through a lot of embarrassing moments, but at that point in time I wanted to crawl under a rock. Oh my GOD!! This is Jared M. and he was one of my students when I taught 4th grade ten years ago. To make matters worse, I was also his basketball coach. We also lived in the same neighborhood. As a matter of fact, we still lived less than a mile apart and he still saw me pretty much on a daily basis driving my truck. When I was his teacher, D.A.R.E. was a program that elementary schools used as an anti-drug campaign for young kids. Although local police departments sent officers to teach the classes, teachers stayed in the class while the officer was teaching. I can remember like it was yesterday that when it came time for D.A.R.E. I would always tell the kids to listen up good because the information they were getting might save their life one day. Now, standing there in front of Jared 10 years later, once again, I was a hypocrite. A few weeks before I had sat and looked at my own kid’s faces as I admitted I was a drug addict after telling them their whole lives not to use drugs, now I was facing a former student I had given the same speech to. Jared and I talked for an hour and reminisced about old times. We both gave excuses about how and why we got into drugs. We both admitted that we had made bad choices, and we both talked about getting past it and working toward a better future. When we both climbed into our own vehicles and left, the thought that it would be the last time I ever saw Jared never even crossed my mind. Actually, all I was thinking about as I climbed into my truck was getting John to call his dealer so we both could get high. We did get high that night, and every night after that for another week. I don't know why, but on that same night a week later we both decided to go to the alumni meeting again. When we arrived and started seeing all of our drug addict friends, I noticed right away that something was wrong. Some people were crying and some were just shaking their heads. I asked one of the guys what was going on and he replied, "What? you haven’t heard?" Well, obviously I hadn't because I seemed to be the only one that wasn't upset. "What's going on?" I asked again. "Jared died yesterday man." said one of the others. I couldn't believe it. I had just talked to him a few days ago at another meeting and saw him in his yard yesterday as I drove past. Jared had been found dead in his room at his mom's house the day before. Nobody knew if it was suicide or an overdose. Nobody really cared why, Jared was 19 years old and he was dead! Dead because of being an addict. Dead because he had made a choice years before to try drugs. Dead because he couldn't stop using the drug that made him feel so good. Dead... The reality that Jared had died because of his drug use should have been a wake up call for me. Knowing that he died at the age of 19 should have given me more motivation to get my own addiction under control. Remembering that he was just a kid that once looked up to me and trusted the things I taught him should have made me take a long look at the direction I was heading. Attending his funeral with 120 of his friends one of whom was my own daughter should have broken my heart enough to say no to drugs forever, but in spite of the sadness and shock around our neighborhood and NA meetings around the city, I still continued to crave that stupid rock called crack. I was ashamed, embarrassed, beat down, and sick, yet I still couldn't find the strength to say no when the craving came. One of my ex-students had just died and I had once told him "say no to drugs" and in spite of my humiliation, I was still on that same road to destruction. We never found out whether Jared’s death was an accident or if he just got tired of fighting and decided to end it all. What I do know is that Jared was a good kid and once had hopes and dreams of becoming a man his family would be proud of. He was a good student, and excellent basketball player and was never seen without a smile on his face, even up until the day he died. God knows how many former 4th graders, former basketball stars, and former sons or daughters die everyday because of this horrible drug we call crack cocaine. |
