In the beginning. No wait, it’s not what you may be thinking.
In the beginning I was just an ordinary happy little boy. That lasted a little over six years.
Then I was introduced to alcohol, by family members. And I liked it. I liked it a lot. Drinking alcohol is fully accepted within my family, at any age. So it didn’t take long to become a habit.
Jump ahead one year. At the ripe old age of seven, I discovered my brother’s weed. And asked him what it was. He was only too willing to show me. And I liked it. I liked it enough that I was dealing before my eighth birthday.
Morals are weird things. Even at eight, I would not sell to anyone under eighteen. Doesn’t make me a good person. Just a little less evil, at that time.
Around age 10 or 11, I branched out to pills. Speed, of any kind, was my candy. Of course, dealing made it possible. Bottle upon bottle, stashed in my hiding places. Had to keep my brother’s out of them.
Wasn’t long before the pills turned to powder. The powder gave way to acid. Dealing wasn’t enough. Switched over to manufacturing.
Abundant supply and a love of product, are a dangerous combination.
All through my drug usage, alcohol consumption continually increased. It grew to a daily rate of a case of beer and a fifth (if not a half gallon) of dark rum.
A little jump backward: I have been able to get served in bars and package stores since the age of thirteen.
The hours I spent in bars and using had their expected results. Many times I found myself in jail with yet another assault charge hanging over me. Did I mention I was a violent person during those years?
When heroin and pure opium found me, I thought it was a blessing. Now I had something that didn’t make me want to fight. It didn’t make me want to even move. A relaxed high like I had never experienced before. Just a little inhale and all just mellowed out around me. And I liked it. I liked it so much I looked for ways to increase the effect. Use a little more? Nope, just made me sleep. How was I to make it hit me harder and faster?
Ended up with a broken bone. In the hospital the doctor gave me a shot of morphine. And there it was, my opium buzz.
Being to smart for my own good, I thought about my mom. She was a bad diabetic. Needles I could get. I even had one in my tackle I used to shoot air into the tails of worms for fishing (cheating but effective).
I stole a couple of mom’s needles, and was on my way. I have never been a fan of getting shots, so this was an adventure, in itself. Just my luck, first attempt hit perfectly. I had prepared a small dose, just to see what it would do. What it did, was made me love it.
Wasn’t but a few days until larger and larger amounts were flowing. Then came the mirror. I had hit myself with enough to drop a horse. And I looked in the mirror. I saw myself sweating blood. End of heroin use for me.
Two weeks later, sitting in my living-room, with my beer, my weed and my microdots rivet beside me, I paused. I thought. I said outloud, “What the hell are you doing? You don’t even like this shit.” And I stopped.
My life was filled with many other addictions, which I have passed over in this telling. But I stopped, I stopped them all. No program, no medications, nothing at all. But I stopped.
That was March 15th 1983. Never went back.
Now, I dedicate my life to helping others, in whatever way works for them. My path is not the right path for most. So I support program use, replacement medication, religion based treatment, self will, or whatever it takes to bring a person to recovery.
It’s just the way I roll.