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There aren’t a lot of pictures of me, and that is purposeful. It’s not because I think I’m ugly. I’m obviously extremely good-looking and dress well and am very, very humble. It’s just not something I do much of, for whatever reason.
So I was a little surprised and confused when my wife showed me a pretty amazing photo of me in New York City, standing in front of the Empire State Building, holding one of my kids when she was only about a 1 year old.
At first, I didn’t even realize which of my three kids I was holding because I was distracted. The kid I was holding was bundled up like we were looking for polar bears in Antarctica, and I was in a fleece with no hat, no gloves, nothing. In the background, everybody else looked like they were in Antarctica, too.
That’s when I realized that this was a photo of me, holding my first daughter, in 2007 or 2008, which means this was me high. I don’t remember that exact moment, but I had a lot of times where I did the exact same thing on a weekend day. So I can almost guarantee this photo came in the middle of this scenario:
On Friday, I probably was absolutely exhausted and hung over and vowing to quit drugs and alcohol forever because I’d most likely concluded another week of sneaking around, overdosing, doctor-shopping for opioids, lying and cheating and stealing to keep up the facade. As I limped to the finish line on Friday afternoons, I often would be so worn down and spiritually broken that I would vow I needed to take the weekend off. “No drugs or alcohol for a few days!” I would proclaim.
Then I would leave my stash of painkillers in my desk drawer for Monday. I lived in New Jersey and worked in Manhattan, so I would never ever become so overwhelmed with the urge to drive or ride 90 minutes back into midtown Manhattan just to get my drug stash. Right?!?!?!
Then I would do it every single time. Not once in a while. Every time. It’d get to Saturday, at around lunch time, and I would start agitating to go into the city. Sometimes I would say I forgot something in the office that I desperately needed—that was not the truth, but also not quite a lie because I was a raging drug addict at that point.
Or, I would make the case that the whole family should ride into New York City to do x, y and z. I would always come up with an enticing plan to get her interested and eat up an afternoon entertaining the kids.
And we’d always go. I was relentless. I wouldn’t say it, but the actual conversation happening was, “I’m leaving for six hours. You can come along or not. Up to you.”
That photo captured me on one of those days. I have a dopey, distant look in my eyes, and my smile is hollowed out. I can tell that I am very high and feel pathetic in the picture, yet I am trying to project a smile to cover up all of that despair.
My pants are hanging off my body—I look like Tom Hanks at the end of Big when he is wearing an adult suit but has reverted back to a kid’s body. And that fleece on what was probably a 20 degree day? I used to take 10-15 painkillers at a time, then wait an hour or two and take 10-15 more. So I probably had about 30 painkillers in me at the time, and I would usually have two physical reactions on a regular basis: I would itch a lot, and I would get so hot I didn’t even need a jacket in winter. I would be boiling hot, itching and trying to not throw up from all the opioids in my body. Sounds like a delightful Saturday afternoon with your family, huh?
The good news is, I don’t have pictures like that any more. I don’t have many pictures, period. But the ones I do, I am not itching my ass off, and I am not the only person in shorts and a T-shirt as a blizzard happens in the background. For that, I am grateful today.
This newsletter is a place of joy and laughter about the deadly serious business of sobriety. So, as I will often do, let me close with a joke:
HEARD AT MEETINGS:
“Walking around drunk is like walking around with your fly open. Everyone sees it except you.”
(Credit: AA Grapevine, November 2003, Mark C.)
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