By An Unlikely Addict
As a society, we have an idea of what a drug addict is supposed to look like. But as my story demonstrates, no one is immune to this disease, regardless of your background, how much money you have, your intellectual ability, or how loving and caring a Jewish mother you have.
I’m twenty-eight years old as I write this, and I’m a recovering drug addict. As a child, I had everything I ever needed and pretty much everything I ever wanted. I have two loving parents who have been married for thirty years, an older brother, and a younger sister. I never experienced any significant trauma people sometimes think is a prerequisite to having substance abuse issues. I was a fairly outgoing and popular kid with lots of friends, and I played just about every sport growing up. I did well in classes; was student body president of my elementary, middle, and high schools; got a perfect score on the math portion of the SAT; was in the honors program at a top state university, where I graduated with honors; and eventually went on to law school, again graduating with honors.
I’ll skip elementary and middle school, because nothing too exciting happened, and fast forward to ninth grade. My parents sent me to a small, private Jewish high school, which was quite a change from the large public schools where I had been, but I liked it. I didn’t know anyone when I got there, but within two weeks, I was hanging out with the older kids and smoking weed. I went from trying it the first time to smoking every weekend to smoking every day, multiple times a day. I went from zero to smoking pot in people’s cars and thinking I was invincible pretty much overnight. And this is an important detail. Substance abuse is a progressive disease that, when active, always gets worse—and worsens more quickly—as time passes. Whenever I tried some new drug I liked, my use would escalate over time. And each time I got sober and then relapsed, I hit the ground harder and faster than ever before. The whole idea that taking a break for some period of time would “reset the clock,” so to speak, is just simply not the case.
Most of the rest of my high school years were seemingly “normal” when it came to my drug use—or so I thought. I tried cocaine a few times, had a handful of psychedelic mushroom trips with some friends, shared a couple of Percocets when my friends or I got our wisdom teeth out, and so forth. I think it’s safe to say that up to this point, I enjoyed getting drunk and high, but it in no way consumed me.
During my senior year, I became full-on hooked. I was introduced to OxyContin, which is basically the same chemical as oxycodone or Roxicodone. From that first time I tried a “roxy,” I wanted one badly every day. As was the case with my pot smoking, what started with one pill a day quickly turned into an expensive and potentially lethal daily habit. As my pill use increased and became more expensive, I did what pretty much every other prescription pain pill addict who lives long enough does. I turned to a cheaper and stronger alternative: heroin.
As I mentioned, I managed to make it through college with honors, and it was precisely at this time that I turned to heroin. So again, I’ll remind you to really reconsider what you think a drug addict is supposed to look like. Not many people think of heroin addicts as well-off suburban white kids who are on full rides to college and had just been offered a full ride to law school. Around the end of my junior year, my parents caught wind of what I was doing. My best friend had been caught by his parents doing the same stuff. Knowing he and I hung out all the time, his parents decided to call my parents and basically say, “Here’s what our son has been doing. We know he and your son hang out, so you may want to talk to him.”
By this point, getting high wasn’t even remotely fun anymore. I would wake up feeling like I had the flu every morning. I was constantly broke, no one trusted me, and I could be in a crowd full of people yet still feel alone.
Every night I would go to sleep promising myself I would never do this again, and every morning I would wake up feeling like getting out of bed was impossible without my fix. So even though I may have looked much different than that heroin addict living under some highway overpass downtown, I can assure you I felt every bit as bad inside. So when my parents sat me down, I decided to come clean.
After the initial relief I experienced from being honest wore off, I spent the next couple of months faking my way through therapy and cheating drug tests. That eventually caught up with me, and after my last exam of my first semester of senior year, I drove straight to a rehab center and checked myself in. I was twenty years old and gung-ho about turning my life around. But my story is not all rainbows and unicorns from here.
Following treatment, I moved into a sober living facility, and after about six months there, I relapsed. This started my tour of sober living facilities in the area, as I bounced from place to place: six months, relapse, nine months, relapse, one year, relapse, eighteen months, relapse. While that sounds like a pretty miserable existence, a lot of good came out of each of those experiences. First, I proved to myself I was much happier and more productive when I was sober. Second, I learned my loved ones only wanted what was best for me and would be there to support me no matter what. And most importantly, it proved that setbacks happen, and it’s okay as long as I get back up and keep trying.
The hardest part for me was asking for help. Each time I relapsed, I knew my friends and family would be eager to help me if they knew I was struggling. But I felt ashamed and embarrassed, saying to myself, “Look at all this stuff I have around me. I’m not supposed to feel this way.” Yet if there’s one thing that is perfectly normal for a drug addict to feel, it’s the feeling of wanting to get high.
This inability to ask for help kept me out there risking my life every day trying to get high. My best friend, the one I mentioned earlier, also struggled with asking for help, and that struggle cost him his life. We were at Gozapalooza, I think it’s called—the party on Christmas Eve that all the Jews go to, because we have nothing else to do. Instead of talking to some girls like we were hoping to, he and I spent most of the evening near one of the corners talking to each other. He was dealing with some stress at work, he had accepted a new job, and was worried about telling his current job he was leaving. Meanwhile, he had gotten another job offer he liked even more and was weighing how to tell the company with which he had just accepted a job that he had changed his mind. He didn’t tell me these decisions were starting to take a toll on him, and despite having been sober for quite a while, he wanted to quiet the noise in his head. He wanted to get high, and even though he knew I was sober and had been through many of the same struggles, he found himself unable to ask for help. He felt it was wrong that he was having these thoughts and was disappointed in himself for having them—even though he hadn’t acted on them. So he didn’t say anything.
Two days later, I got a call around eight o’clock in the morning from my roommate’s mom. All she said was “Go home.” And without her saying anything else, I knew he was dead.
I share my friend’s story for a few reasons: He was the only person I knew who used drugs the way I did, and his story is yet another reminder of how lucky I am to be alive. A lot of people say things like, “All it takes is that one time, and it could be too late,” but you never think it will happen to you. At least I didn’t. At his funeral, his family spoke openly about his struggles with addiction, which taught me how powerful just talking about our struggles can be. I can’t tell you how many people have opened up about their own battles after hearing his. They wanted to know what to do for their son, daughter, husband, wife, friend, whoever. I don’t necessarily have the magic answer, but what we can do is talk to the people around us. We need to normalize the idea that we all have challenges. I’m not knocking Facebook or Instagram or anything like that, but they definitely put pressure on all of us to portray this image that everything is great all the time. And, in today’s day and age, face-to-face conversations seem far less common. I’m guilty of it as much as the next guy; I’m always glued to my phone. We need to take the time to remind the people around us that we care and are there for them, whether they are struggling or not. Even though my best friend knew it, I wish I had reminded him when we last spoke that I would always be there for him, no matter what. That I cared.
As part of my recovery, I find it important to give back and help others struggling with alcoholism and addiction. Aside from the inherent difficulty of asking for help, a lot of people don’t, because they feel like they can’t afford it. And loved ones don’t offer the help, because they don’t know what to do. If you know someone who is struggling, reach out and help them. All you have to do is start the conversation.