My first night back in Ohio I slept on a love seat.
Nate picked me up from the airport. It was late and he was one of the only people who knew where I’d been. Actually, if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be coming back at all.
I’d been living in exile in Arizona. Only half a year since I checked myself out of the mental institution, I spent the first few months going through step-down detox at my grandparents’ place outside Sedona. After that I tried, and failed, to establish myself alone in Phoenix, so I agreed to move in with Nate in Dayton. His mom had recently been diagnosed with cancer, and they needed someone to step in at their coffee shop. It was the sort of win-win deal that was truly a loss for everyone involved. So it made sense. And while I wasn’t really in a good place, I think taking me to the party was his idea of a soft landing.
Before getting sent away I’d been really into drugs and the party scene. But as I sat and smoked a joint, in a room full of people I didn’t know, I felt adrift, like something had broken loose and taken me with it and the best I could do was hold on and hope I floated back some day. Eventually, as parties do it, it started to wind down. But Nate was drunk so he told me we were going to crash; we’d go see our new apartment the next day.
That night I didn’t sleep. I lay curled on this love seat, just too tall to be comfortable, just too short to be able to dangle my legs over the end. The house was sparse so my options were few. Who owned it, or rented it, or squatted there I had no idea. But it was a place of convenience and free use. It wasn’t loved. There were no throw pillows or curtains. Hardwood floors, easy to clean, weren’t covered with pesky rugs. The beige walls held nothing that could remind someone of the outside world. It stunk of loneliness.
I don’t know why I’m remembering this so clearly. I normally struggle with details around that era. Addiction will do that to you. But I haven’t written anything in a while and it feels good. Like when a muscle has shriveled and simple moving it without pain is a celebration. I wouldn’t even be writing this now if an old friend hadn’t text me to do so. She saw this contest and told me she thought I’d win. Which is foolish. Guys like me only win writing contests when they’re put on by AA. Good job little junkie, here’s your blue ribbon and all that. But she and I don’t talk that much and if seeing this was enough to get her to think of me, well then why the hell not.
Coming back was hard. I was sort of checked out from it all and that kept me going. In my mind it was like it was no big thing. Attempting suicide twice in two days, torturing my friends, overdosing, being assaulted by a cop, spending three weeks in lockdown, three months in a mental institution, going through withdrawal and living in exile. All in a year! I’m laughing as I write this. Holy shit. No big thing. I thought that was no big thing. At twenty-three. I struggled with addiction for almost half a decade and then did all that in a year. But no big thing. What a schmuck I was.
It took me entering recovery to know I’d been an asshole. Not the find big G God, get sober with three cups of coffee and a five pack a day habit kind of recovery. No offense to those white knucklers who can hold on by the skin of their teeth. Do your thing. Life’s really goddamn hard. But that’s not sustainable. I mean actually clearing the hurdles recovery. Taking a deep breath and letting it out recovery. Can have a drink, smoke a joint, eat some shrooms and do it all mindfully and in control kind of recovery. Yeah, that’s the good stuff.
I know how lucky I am. Really. Privledged. Blessed for the Sunday morning crowd and Chance the Rapper. I live in a house. I have food on my table and a wife I love and who loves me. Honestly. I know I’m so unbelievably, don’t tell me the odds level lucky.
I got angels all around me they keep me surrounded
But coming back was hard.
It took me five years to catch up to myself. Because when you take a break from life, a piece of you keeps going. Physically you may be spending time in a mental institution at twenty-three, but your expectations keep living. Go to school, get your degree and a house with a white picket fence son. It’s how we measure you in this world and if you have nothing you are nothing.
“How do you explain this gap on your resumé Jay?”
“Well, have you seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? It’s a bit like that, Chief.”
It took me five years to be proud of myself again. From that first night spent scrunched on a love seat to November 2015, I hid a piece of myself every day. I prayed no one would find out my secret, my true identity. I lived a lie. For five years. Until election night when I told my story on stage. Because when you don’t know how to swim, the only way to learn is to dive.
Because stigma is real and the way we talk about people who use drugs, and especially those who struggle with misuse, screams like a hailstorm. Junkies. Addicts. Clean and sober. Forced acceptance of God and oh no did we say GOD we meant YOUR higher power. It can be anything. But you have to find it and admit you’re powerless so hey maybe just try Jesus and see how it feels? How does it feel? Hm? You just don’t want it bad enough. It’s for your own good, damnit. You have to work the steps!
Recovery is a maze full of minotaurs.
But I got there. And now I’m here. Proud of myself. Proud of my life. Working to be the string that helps guide others pasts the pits of despair and the sirens with their songs of ignorance. It’s hard to know who to trust in this world. But for the first time in my life, I trust me.
