Journal

Then nothing happens.

You’re faced with having to do it all over again the following week, just getting through to the following week. And you have to unwind yourself, while helping him to unwind. And it turns into petty bickering and next thing you know it’s a full blown fight. Just the opposite of what you want.

When I’ve complained about the stress, he asks, "Do you know what it’s like to go to jail?" All I can reply with is, "No. But do you know what it’s like to deliver your best friend there and watch him being taken away in handcuffs?" A stalemate.

I know it sounds horrible, but if he doesn’t wind up in a fuckin’ jail today, I’m going to lose it completely! I can’t take it any more! It’s got me worn out, used up, broken.

I simply cannot afford, or risk, another half-day off at work. I can’t go with him to court today. City court is mornings, Judge Byrnes is at 9:30 and 11:00. I’m wondering if maybe it’ll go right today. Maybe he’ll finally begin one of his sentences today. Maybe parting the way we did last night is the better way. All the sadness without all the stress. Well, maybe only one’s own stress. I can almost deal with my own stress. I certainly can’t deal with stress for two.

Yesterday, I waited all afternoon for him to stop in or call. I walked over at about six. It was one of Debbie’s two monthly benefit days. As usual, the task at hand is to smoke the entire amount the very same day. The lights were on, so I threw stones at the window until Jeff opened the blinds, and looked to see who it was. I waved, he came downstairs and let me in.

The tension in their apartment was thick as thieves. Debbie was in the bathroom smoking, and visibly angry. I asked for a hit and found out why. Comeback. Looks real, feels real through the bag, tastes real on the finger. Synthetic crap, absolutely legal, near zero buzz factor, tastes like shit when smoked. Ripped-off again.

Just when I think things are okay between Debbie and I, she bounces off in yet another snit of jealousy or whatever. A few minutes after I got there, she stormed out. Anyway, Jeff and I watched the rest of the Bills vs. Jets game, (I love it when Buffalo gets trounced,) and we headed out in the cold and the rain. He wanted to go over to Daphne’s, about a 45 minute walk, and you have to go past my place on the way.

We’ve each had some issues to discuss with the other lately, but the timing hasn’t been quite right, and in our current emotional states, it’s hard to have any discussion without it turning into an argument, or worse. A few minutes into the walk, Jeff brought up the subject.

He said he didn’t want to discuss any issues right then because of the way things escalate out of control lately. But he acknowledged the hurt we’ve caused each other in the past couple of weeks and the stress it’s put us both under. He wanted to put his thoughts on paper, and suggested I do the same, because then we can construct our thoughts better, and we can read and re-read before we respond. It slows things down a bit, which is good, and we have at least 100 days.

I listened, and although there were some things I wanted to ask before he goes in, I respected his position, and after thinking about it, I agree. I also told him I thought that even though there’s hurt and several issues between us, it was a good sign that we were still together and, although postponed a bit, that we wanted to work things out. He agreed. But it was hard not discussing ourselves and our feelings, and we walked the rest of the way in silence.

As we turned on to my block, I remembered he still had some things in my apartment. I asked if he wanted to stop and get them. "No", he replied. "Too many bad memories." I asked if it was okay if I continued to Daphne’s with him. He thought I was being sarcastic. I explained I was trying to be accommodating, by deferring to his wishes.

When we got to Daphne’s I wasn’t ready to go in. In fact, I’d decided to go right back home. But there was a bit of business we couldn’t defer. And that was saying goodbye and such. Jeff sat on Daphne’s back porch steps while I stood in the parking lot.

We agreed,(I reluctantly,) that visits were out of the question until after we had settled our issues by phone and letters, because what we have to discuss is not exactly visiting room material. I apologized for causing so much hurt between us. I explained that when I’m not in touch with my own feelings, I sometimes forget about the feelings of others.

We then got to the part we’ve been avoiding now for several weeks. While we’re both concentrating on ourselves for the next while, what’s been unsaid is that 100 days is a long time. Since we’re both doing a rehab, we’ll emerge (with any luck) as completely different people. It will certainly effect our relationship in a profound manner. And the possibility exists that one, the other or both of us will may decide not to continue our friendship. On the other hand, neither one of us gives up on people in our lives very easily, so there’s a very strong possibility that we’ll be able to start things anew. Still, the chance we’ll part has to be acknowledged.

We hugged, I turned and started walking home. He called, "Hey Bruce, one more thing." I walked back. He asked, "You know that dollar of nickels and dimes you have? Would you give it to me so I can get another 40oz?" I smiled, dug down in my pocket, and gave my last dollar to my best friend, turned and left for home.

The tears started on the way home. Mixed with the rain, no-one knew. Did you know the Goodman Street bridge over I-490 doesn’t have anti-suicide fences? A 36" high open railing is all that separates one from one’s own oblivion. Didn’t matter anyway. My thoughts were so far away at the time, I never looked or listened as I stepped off the curb to cross the off-ramp, right into traffic. Clueless. Boy, does that annoy people.

I was pretty much cried-out by the time I reached my building. But I wanted so badly to get high, to hide my pain from myself for just a while. Even if it was for only 20 minutes. I managed to distract myself after a while with dance music, pretzel sticks and a book. And after a short time, it began to feel like I had my life back, such as it is. Or is it, "sucks as it does?" I can never remember.

Around 10:15, the phone rang. There is only one person on this entire planet who would even think of calling me after 9:00, and then act upon that thought. "Can I come over?" I wondered what had happened to all the bad memories that kept him from stopping earlier. Ten minutes later he was at the door, and I found out.

We smoked our last crack together. Although it was only a nickel, it was pretty good stuff. My tolerance has built up rather quickly, so there wasn’t enough for me to get a buzz, a dime or two would have been better. But no matter how much you have, there’s only one feeling you have, buzz or not. That feeling is "MORE!"

We played gin rummy for a about an hour. He kept calling around trying to find Debbie, I’d taken my bedtime meds before he’d called, so it was hard for me to keep from dozing off. Finally, he came to a decision. "Can I leave my backpack here? I’ll be back for it before you leave for work at 7:00." Sure, sure, why? "Well I don’t have any money to take to jail with me so I was going to hustle a trick or two."

Someday I’ll write about how that feels. I don’t have the time or initiative right now.

He took off, I unfolded the bed, and for the first time in months, didn’t pull the mattress down on to the floor. I nestled in around the lumps and those stupid metal bars all sofabeds seem to have, and I dropped off in only minutes. Strangely, I didn’t seem to mind sleeping alone.

One forty-five. Phone rings. I get it on the fourth ring. Call ID says it’s from the lobby. "Hey, it’s me. Can you bring my backpack down?" "Why can’t you come up here and get it?" "Well I’ve got a ride and I don’t want him to leave without me." Fine, fine.

I found my glasses, put on some pants, almost forgot to take my key to get back in, grabbed his pack and took the stairs that open to the outer lobby. "Hey, thanks. I gotta go." All I could manage was, "See ya." I’m sure I looked all disheveled from bed, but he’s seen me often enough like that. He gave me that million-dollar look that melts me every time, and in a single movement, gave a gentle pinch to a nipple and lifted my chin to his. We kissed, and he was off.

There was a message from Jeffrey when I got home tonight. He’s decided he’s going to stick with the original plan to be sentenced on December 21 and 30. I may not live that long. I’m that worn out.

How am I going to protect myself from him? How am I going to protect myself from me?

My worst fears were confirmed when I returned that call to Danger-Boy last night. He wanted to meet at the Forum, (where it’s two-for-one on Tuesdays) at 11:30, "and bring some cash, about $20. I know where to get the bad thing and it’s good."

"I’ve gotta work tomorrow, man", I protested.

"You’ve had a couple nights to catch up. You should be rested by now. Besides, you haven’t gone to work after an all-nighter in a while now."

Reluctantly, I agreed to meet him at the Forum.

I promised more openness and honesty a few weeks ago in the journal entry written on Saturday October 17^th and posted on Wednesday the 21^st. And for the most part, I’ve delivered. Some stuff just plain doesn’t belong in an online journal, and you’ll never see those things here. Other things, I’m embarrassed or ashamed of, and avoid putting here.

Recovery is about facing your demons, and shame is one of them. Two things have happened lately that fall in that category, and I have to release them so I can deal with them.

First: Despite occasional self-destructive spending binges, I’ve always been able to budget my money well, keep the bills paid, and still have some left over. Rather than scale my income to meet my expenses, I scale my expenses to meet my income. In the past three years my weekly take-home pay has ranged from $225 on unemployment to about $700. Presently it’s somewhere in-between. The point I’m getting to is this. Even on $225, my bills have always been paid on-time and in-full, with spending money left over.

Cocaine is an expensive habit. Especially when you’re buying for two. The combination of Jeffrey and cocaine has undone every budgeting and money management skill I’ve ever had. I can’t say "No" to either one. I can’t remember the last time I got a past due notice on a bill. I’ve been flooded lately with disconnect notices, referrals to collection agencies, and all sorts of phone calls demanding payment of past due balances.

The checkbook is empty, and it has been empty for months.

I hit bottom a couple of weeks ago when on a payday, I had shut-off notices for the electric, local phone, long-distance, cable TV (which includes my cable modem internet access), and the web hosting service I use for this site. And I was behind on the rent, and the car was broken-down. I paid the rent, and we smoked the rest in one weekend. Monday came with the next payday two weeks away, no food in the house, no money in the checkbook, and all the shut-off notices still in hand.

Clearly, I was out of control.

The first thing I did was the second most humiliating thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. I gave my checkbook and VISA Check Card to my ex, Vince. What made it so humiliating was that in our 15 years together we always strongly disagreed on how to manage our money. And here I was, handing over my financial control to someone I’d argued with about money for a decade-and-a-half.

Now, I give all my bills to Vince. My paycheck is direct-deposited to my checking account every-other Friday. He writes the checks and I sign them. I’m on a very tight budget now. Each day Vince portions out to me a $5 bill, three singles, and eight quarters. Total: $10.00. On Saturday or Sunday, he takes me grocery shopping with $30.00. He has been very good about all of this and has never scolded me or made me feel bad about it in any ways. I think he recognizes how I already feel, which is ashamed.

Now, back to the second thing I’ve been too embarrassed and ashamed of to put here. It’s no secret that as long as the combination of Jeffrey and money are around, I use. This past Saturday was no exception. What happened though is part of what caused me to write last night that I’d been handed a backhoe.

By the way, this gets even more convoluted than the first part of the story, so pay attention. It’s also one of the bits of dirty laundry I’ve been promising to air since around the end of July.

Way back in 1982, I lost my driver’s license for too many speeding tickets in 18 months. I never took the trouble to go through the process of getting a new one at the end of the revocation period. So for 16 years, I’ve had no driver’s license. In those 16 years, I had one ticket in 1987 which I ignored until after officer had left the force. No officer, no case. Discharged.

In 1992 while sitting in traffic at a stoplight, I was rear-ended by a 17 year old girl who had her license for only three weeks. I was charged with Aggravated Unlicensed Operation 3^rd degree (AUO3), which back then still a violation, although now it’s a misdemeanor. I was taken to town hall in handcuffs nonetheless, put in a cell for around an hour, and was arraigned in the same town courtroom where Jeffrey has been missing his court dates lately.

I can relate to being handcuffed, uncaged and marched out into a courtroom full of people. I was in a business suit, not a jail uniform, and my handcuffs were not chained to my waist, nor was I in leg shackles. But, let’s just say I didn’t care for the experience. Anyway, I plead not guilty, Vince bailed me out about an hour later, and as I recall I paid a $75 fine when it came to trial, and then I put it all behind me. I still saw no reason to get a license.

I finally got a reason this summer when I found you need a government issued photo ID to visit an inmate at the Monroe County Jail. They bent the rules for me the first couple of times because all I had was an employee ID I’d kept after leaving a contract a few years back. I’m certain the only reason they bent the rules is because I’m a balding middle-aged white guy. And my natural charm of course.

This summer I became the proud holder of a New York State Learner’s Permit. You see, if you’ve been unlicensed for more than two years, you’ve gotta start right at the beginning again. It occurred to me, as I was filling out the paperwork and taking the written test, that the last time I'd had a driver’s license, most of the kids in the room hadn’t been born yet.

My car had been registered and insured under my parents. They’d been pushing me to get the license taken care of, but let’s be realistic, for years they’d been enabling my illegal driving. Anyway when they found out I had the permit, they said that at the next insurance renewal, I was done. I talked with my agent, who said I could have plates and insurance on the same day I passed my road test.

Well cocaine intervened, I couldn’t get up early enough on Saturdays to take the five-hour course, and I’d smoked the money for it anyway. Then the water pump let go, so I couldn’t drive the car anyway. My parent’s insurance ran out, and as promised, they didn’t renew it. And as you may have read a few weeks ago, I gave them their plates back. Ever resourceful, I found an old set of plates to put on the car after my brother replaced the water pump and we were back in business.

What I’m getting around to is this, I know a thing or two about how not to raise the suspicions of Officer Friendly. On this car alone I’ve racked up nearly 140,000 miles. Jeff knows a thing or two about avoiding suspicion in his illegal activities. I defer to his judgment when things fall into his area. He does not defer to mine when the issue is in my area.

Now, back to this past Saturday night. Have cash, have Jeff, have craving. Still fairly early in the evening, he tells me where to park while he makes a buy. I tell him it’s not a good place to park, he says, "Just wait here." I should have listened to myself, not to him.

Here we are, the only white guys in the ‘hood, parked on the wrong side of the street in front of a fire hydrant. To me, this is like sending up a flare saying "arrest me." He's talking with someone on the corner. Officer Friendly cruises by, notes the parking discrepancy of my car, and runs the plate.

Thirty seconds later, four cruisers surround the car. I’m put in the back of one, Jeff in another and the dude in a third. Since the car was parked, they can’t charge me with anything, although you could tell they would have loved to. Switched plates, unregistered, uninsured, and for me it would have been another AUO3. The deal hadn’t happened yet, so there were no drug charges on Jeff or the dude either. But they towed the car.

To get it back, I have to pay the towing and impound fees, and have it towed out. This I cannot afford on $10.00 per day. Besides, with the holes in the floor, bad brakes, leaking sunroof and questionable cooling system (I suspect a warped head, or blown head gasket), it’s hardly worth bailing it out anyway. I’m seriously considering just mailing them the title.

I spent five hours last night wrestling with myself over whether or not to meet Jeffrey at the Forum, and if so, whether or not to drug with him.

On the one side: I really want to get my shit together in recovery, and get my life back. You know how much I like music and reading. I haven’t purchased a CD or a book for myself since May. I like quiet evenings at home. I like going to bed early so I feel good the following day. And I like having a few extra grand kicking around in the bank.

On the other side: I like Jeffrey, a lot. I like having the emotional and psychic intimacy we share. I have never loved and felt so close to someone, or felt as loved by someone in my entire life. I like the fact that he accepts me as I am, the good with the bad. And I like being able to accept him as he is, the good with the bad.

What I fear is that these things are mutually exclusive. I fear what will happen to me if I continue to drug. I fear that if I stop drugging with him, Jeffrey will go away. I fear the loneliness that would follow if he goes away.

These are some of the issues I wrestled with last night. These are some of the issues I’d hoped to avoid if we each worked a recovery program for 100 days, then came back together. Now I’m faced with working a recovery program, yet with Jeffrey and the temptation he brings in such close proximity.

Last night I did meet him at the Forum, only after he called me from their pay phone. We had a wicked wind and rain storm last night, and I’d hoped I could take the easy way out and stay inside from the storm. Nope. He braved a 20 minute walk into the wind while I avoided a five minute one with the wind to my back.

What made it easier was that Vince is in Montreal with his new boyfriend. He wasn’t home to give me my allowance. So I had only $3. Two beers, one for each of us, and it was gone. Judgement by default in favor of not drugging.

I can’t say for sure what might have happened if I’d had an extra ten or twenty.

I’m glad that Vince is still in Montreal today, because Jeffrey called again tonight. I was able to skirt the entire issue by beginning the conversation with, "Gee. There’s no envelope from Vince again tonight." Easy way out for sure, but when the easy way presents itself, I say go for it.

For instance, we had a very interesting session in group this morning. The presenter teaches Advanced Pharmacology here in the medical school, and we got a two-hour mini-course on the pharmacology of alcohol and street drugs, and of the five types of psychotropic medications used in psychiatry, (anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, anti-anxiety, hypnotics, and mood stabilizers.)

It was interesting to see, within the context of neurotransmitters and brain chemistry, the relationships between people’s diagnoses, their drug(s) of choice, and the meds that work for them. It certainly helped explain why I find cocaine so attractive, and really couldn’t care less about marijuana and alcohol.

Another interesting drug relationship they explored was the one between certain people’s alcohol use and their cravings for cocaine. I noticed that in Jeffrey six months ago. I’ve never seen him smoke crack without drinking heavily first. The more he drinks, the more he craves cocaine. There’s actually a reason for that!

Frankly I thought it would was just marketing horseshit about reducing cocaine and nicotine cravings. But damn. Eight days of not smoking and I feel remarkably normal. When I quit smoking seven years ago, I went through months and months of torture from the cravings. The two times I tried to quit again earlier this year were just as bad, perhaps worse because I knew what to expect, and feared it.

Hunnylemmetellya, I haven’t had a single craving for either drug in the last two or three days, even when I’ve been with people smoking. No outbursts of anger, no mood swings, just a little anxiety, (usually mid-afternoons), and that’s probably from everything else going on in my life. I never even went through the three days of confusion I’ve always had when I quit cold turkey. Some of the physical symptoms of nicotine withdrawal are still there, mostly metabolism stuff like energy levels, temperature regulation, and my body clock feels a little out of whack, like I just got in from the west coast.

And as for my experimentations with cocaine, even though my tolerance ramped up pretty quick, thank heavens I somehow managed not to get physically addicted. I've watched Jeff detox from cocaine right here in my apartment. Twice. It’s not pretty, even though it’s over fairly quick, three or four days, as compared to three months for nicotine and six months for heroin.

We were talking about that the other day after he got back from Montreal with Tony. I was wondering what Tony thought of Vince helping me out as they’re beginning their new relationship together. I didn’t really get a good read on that. I mean, the words were convincing enough, but the way he said them made me think that he’s trying to protect my feelings. I, on the other hand, have never seen Vince happier. I’m so relieved that he’s found someone. I’ve worried a great deal about that in the three years since we parted.

Anyway Vince asked how I was doing with the withdrawal and all that. It flashed through my head, "Haven’t you been reading the site?" Then I remembered that I hadn’t posted the Thursday and Friday entries yet. I’d just sat down to check mail and do some writing when he came in, so I let him read those entries while they’re still in Word.

He laughed when got to the line about growing hair. And he said, "You know, Tony used to be bald. Now he takes a pill every day and his hair grew back." Gee, I hope that doesn’t count as an "outing"! I’m the first one to admit that most of my hair is in the shower drain. But some guys are a bit more touchy about it. Anyway, Vince reports that he never knew Tony had been bald.

Brainbug, "Nightmare (Sinister Strings Mix)"
Brainbug, "Benedictus (Epicus Modi Mix)"
Sunscream, "Looking at You (Jimmy Gomez Club Mix)"
NSYNC, "I Want You Back (Orchestral Mix)" which has some great tympani
No Mercy, "Please Don’t Go (Spike Club Mix)"

Then I segued into synth strings and orchestral styles:

Faithless, "Salva Mea (Epic Mix)"
Pet Shop Boys, "Somewhere (Orchestral Mix)"

And, tired of feeding the CD player, I switched from CD singles to full-length albums, selecting some trance favorites:

Jam & Spoon, "Triptomatic Fairytales 2001"
Apollo Four-Forty, "Electro-Glide in Blue"

I’m quite not sure what brought this on. I mean, how often do you hear of someone craving cellos? If there’s a secret underground of cello lovers, let me know, okay? And in case you didn’t notice, I prefer my cellos in contemporary dance music, not classical, thank you very much.

As the music plays …

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. It’s a natural part of recovery to re-examine yourself, your actions, your reactions, your interactions … Not all of it makes it to this page. Sometimes it’s because I’m not through with it, sometimes it’s because I don’t feel it belongs here, and sometimes I just plain forget. Let me relate a few things that have been on my mind.

In Wednesday night group, there’s one guy who seems to engage the entire group with his tales. The man is a fantastic storyteller. I for one could listen to him all night, and I think everyone, including the counselors, looks forward to hearing him. There’s one theme that runs through every one of his stories:

Recovery demands of you only three things:

Honesty,
Openness, and
Willingness to change.

Consider the cosmic irony in that I’m always complaining I know what I need to do, but I don’t know how to do it. Honesty, Openness, and Willingness to change. H-O-W.

I’m being more honest lately, with myself mostly. And also with others, and with these pages.

Openness is something that frightens many people. Having a site like this, and doing what I do with it, is pretty much the epitome of openness. Being open doesn’t really bother me with people I don’t know, because don’t really care about their opinion of me. It’s with those to whom I’m close that I have difficulty being open.

Perhaps as an outgrowth of my shyness, I get all full of anxiety, sweaty, muscle tension, I stammer and stutter, the whole works when I have an intimate conversation with someone I know. But put me in front of a group of people, or put a keyboard in my lap, and we’re off to the races. I guess that’s just the opposite of most people.

There are literally thousands of personal sites like mine. Of them, I read 30 to 40 on a semi-regular basis. And of those, there are only three I check almost daily. Although I imagine each one of us has some particular need that this fulfills, I’ve never asked anyone else why they journal online.

Using a commercial-grade web-hosting service, there’s all sorts of information about visitors available to me. Far more information than a hit counter could ever provide. I don’t pay attention to the site statistics any more. The last time I checked was June, I think. Maybe it was August. I wrote about it then so if you really need to know, go through those entries.

The point is, even though I pay for gobs of visitor data to be collected for me in the site logs, I don’t use it, or even look at it. I have no idea how many people visit the site, or how regularly they do. It could be three a day, or 30,000. I really don’t want to know. But of those readers, there are three or four who e-mail on a semi-regular basis.

Although it’s going to be posted for who knows how many people to see, I don’t think about anyone else as I write. And I don’t usually use the site to communicate specific things to specific people. I can think of only three occasions where I’ve done that. But I’m not telling when, what and to whom. I write to satisfy only one person in the world. Me. If you take something with you after visiting, that’s just dandy. But that’s just the icing on the cake.

Still, living openly online is a tough nut for other people to crack, even other web journalists. One of whom wrote me recently that "it's often overwhelming to keep up with your life through the journal." Imagine what it’s like living it! And believe me, you can’t make this stuff up.

Anyway, that’s not where I’m heading. There are a dozen or so people who have known me first offline, and then have read the site. Their reaction is always, "I didn’t know that about you!" My reaction, generally, is to examine the toes of my shoes.

(Which brings to mind a joke: How can you tell the difference between a introverted computer geek and an extroverted one? The extroverted one will look at your shoes when he talks to you.)

Then there’s the online community. This group of people have gotten to know me through the journal first. In some cases, we’ve gotten to know each other by e-mail later, and I’ve actually spoken to two on the phone. Anyway, their reaction is, well, you know what your reaction is. In general, I get a lot of positive feedback.

My reaction to new e-mailers is generally to thank them for writing, respond to any questions, offer some new information and ask a couple of questions of my own. Sometimes we strike up a friendship, sometimes things fizzle out after a couple of notes, and sometimes I never hear from them again.

Until last week, I’d never actually met someone who’s read the site first. I found that a member of the group read the site after I’d mentioned it. I didn’t know quite how to react . I still don’t.

I haven’t been a big participant yet in group, (imagine that!) so we can pretty much say, that except for being able to pick me out of a line-up, knowing I work at the Med Center, I’m gay and of course that I belong in a MICA group, folks in group really don’t know me. And so, one group member reads a couple of weeks of entries and I’m thrown for a loop.

Then, that same morning after group in a one-on-one with my counselor, I found out that the head of the Addiction Psychiatry unit at the hospital, Dr. Gloria Baciewicz, reads the site. It seems she’s taken an interest because I was the first patient to self-refer from Addiction Psychiatry web site. All our communication has been by e-mail. We’ve never met. It’s not quite the way you’d expect to enter recovery. But then again we’re on the verge of a new millennium, so anything goes, I guess.

Another thing my counselor said was also quite interesting. She said that she usually has to encourage people to write about their feelings, not just talk in group. With me, it’s just the opposite. Always the odd man out.

I haven’t forgotten where I’m headed with this, so hold on for just another paragraph or two.

Last week in Wednesday night group, the subject of urine testing came up. As part of the program you have to agree to pee in a cup whenever you’re asked. Some programs require it at every meeting. Ours is random. The consensus of the group was that every-visit testing showed an intrinsic lack of trust on the part of the treatment team, and everyone has the right to be feel trusted. Random testing, like it is in our group, was deemed appropriate, as treatment team has the right to verify occasionally.

Naturally, whenever you have a group of addicts together talking about urine testing, strategies on how to beat the test come up. Since our group meets only on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, you can beat the test with short half-life drugs, like alcohol or (surprise!) cocaine. Use Thursday night, or maybe Friday, and you’re clean if they spring the test on you Tuesday.

Can you guess where I’m heading?

Of course you can. I used on Friday night. I could probably beat the test on Tuesday and no-one would be the wiser. But I would still know. And it defeats the purpose of recovery to load yourself up on guilt about using.

Notice I’m not calling this a relapse? It’s not. All along I’ve intended to use one last time. Get a major bell-ringer, then that’s it. I accomplished that on Friday. Excellent dope, huge bell-ringer. Then I gave all my paraphernalia to Jeff and Debbie, and sent them on their way.

Actually, there was a bit more to it than that. Jeff was actually dumbfounded when I told him to take everything away. He stood there looking at me, absolutely speechless.

"You’re kidding", he said. Uh-uh. "You can’t be serious."

"I am. I didn’t enter a program that costs me six hours salary plus $45 in co-pays every week just so I can keep using."

He just stood there.

"Listen", I said, "I thought you’d be happy. It’s made you feel terribly guilty that I started smoking the shit. We planned recovery together. You’ve postponed yours. I can’t postpone mine. I like the shit much too much, and that frightens me. Remember what I've said all along? One last blast. That was it."

Like any good addict, he grabbed my stems, pushers and Chore-Boy and they went home. Sorry, but I’m not giving up my lighters. Not with all the candles around here. I don’t remember exactly how he put it, (I was still buzzed at the time,) but I got the distinct impression that our relationship was about to change profoundly.

He surprised me at the door Saturday night. Usually he phones first. He’s the type of person who can’t be by himself for very long. He needs other people around, even when he needs "space", (which usually means "stay in the room, but don’t talk to me.") But Debbie wasn’t with him.

Anyhow, something was troubling him, and as usual, he didn’t want to talk about it. We were silent for quite some time, easily twenty minutes. And he didn’t complain about the dance music playing on Music Choice. He was even tapping his feet to it. And this was to trance, which is out there even for most dance music fans.

After a while, Debbie called. They’d been hoping I’d go over the their place to get high. Although less comfortable, it’s closer to the crackhouse with that really good shit. I politely declined. He promised to respect my decision and never bring the topic up again. I thanked him for that, Debbie arrived, and they left together.