Life is bigger than you, and you are not me; the lengths that I wll go to..
Bobby G was at 7-11 when I went in there with Gina and chAka. He was getting food from a recovering addict who knew to buy him the food and not hand him the money. He looked as bad as Tim did when I saw him about a month and a half ago. And he smelled awful. I ran up and hugged him and almost gagged on the smell of him. He's living on the beach. He was twitching while we talked. He struggled to form his words. His eyes were bloodshot, and they teared up while we talked. I almost cried. If he doesn't come back soon he'll die. Plain and simple. He looks like he's halfway there already.
You know, sometimes I feel almost guilty for having an easier time than so many of the drug addicts I know. I almost feel bad that I never went that far down, never lived on the streets and stank like asshole, never smoked crack or shot heroin. When I wonder why I've managed to stay clean and so many others I know haven't, often the thought creeps in that I was never "that bad" in my addiction. I mean, I had a drug problem and I damn well know it. I don't try to deny it on any level. I was going downhill. But I seemed to have gotten off the ride earlier than most of the others, and perhaps that's why it's easier for me to stay clean. Perhaps. Perhaps not. I don't know, and it really doesn't matter. The fact is I've worked hard over the last twenty months, and they haven't been easy months. Not in the least bit. I came from a different level of insanity, a different kind of hell. I was crazy, crazy even before I picked up the first drug. I medicated as much as I could, but the fact is I was sick as shit before drugs came into the picture. I wanted to kill myself before drugs came into the picture. Sometimes it's easier to explain to people how I came out of the depths of my own internal hell by explaining the process of recovery, and sometimes I almost feel like I have to exaggerate my drug use in order for them to understand. It wasn't easy for me either. It was just a different kind of hell. I identify with psychotic people who are locked up for the rest of their lives. Not everyone can. Not even everyone in the program. I identify with the woman crouched under a table scratching things into her flesh and pulling out clumps of her hair while she sobs and screams. But I don't do those things. And just as many people die from "the mark of Cain" as from drug addiction. So when I start to feel guilty because Bobby's on the street tonight and I'm safe in my apartment, I have to remember that I worked really hard to get where I am this evening. I came out of a hell every bit as deep as his.
You know, sometimes I feel almost guilty for having an easier time than so many of the drug addicts I know. I almost feel bad that I never went that far down, never lived on the streets and stank like asshole, never smoked crack or shot heroin. When I wonder why I've managed to stay clean and so many others I know haven't, often the thought creeps in that I was never "that bad" in my addiction. I mean, I had a drug problem and I damn well know it. I don't try to deny it on any level. I was going downhill. But I seemed to have gotten off the ride earlier than most of the others, and perhaps that's why it's easier for me to stay clean. Perhaps. Perhaps not. I don't know, and it really doesn't matter. The fact is I've worked hard over the last twenty months, and they haven't been easy months. Not in the least bit. I came from a different level of insanity, a different kind of hell. I was crazy, crazy even before I picked up the first drug. I medicated as much as I could, but the fact is I was sick as shit before drugs came into the picture. I wanted to kill myself before drugs came into the picture. Sometimes it's easier to explain to people how I came out of the depths of my own internal hell by explaining the process of recovery, and sometimes I almost feel like I have to exaggerate my drug use in order for them to understand. It wasn't easy for me either. It was just a different kind of hell. I identify with psychotic people who are locked up for the rest of their lives. Not everyone can. Not even everyone in the program. I identify with the woman crouched under a table scratching things into her flesh and pulling out clumps of her hair while she sobs and screams. But I don't do those things. And just as many people die from "the mark of Cain" as from drug addiction. So when I start to feel guilty because Bobby's on the street tonight and I'm safe in my apartment, I have to remember that I worked really hard to get where I am this evening. I came out of a hell every bit as deep as his.