Confessions of an Addict
by
Ray D. Gragg, C.A.T.C.
in loving memory of Scott Braley
© 2001 Ray D. Gragg
Published by Ray D. Gragg at Smashwords
List of Writings
I Cursed God
I Have a Disease
The Hunted
The Infamous Chews Incident
Whispered Lies
Handicapped
The Principles of Lying
The Light
Running on Empty
Precious Things
Lessons
Gratitude List
The Swim
The Crippled Children's Society
You May Be an Addict If…
Miracles
My Second Family
The DARK WAR
********
I Cursed God
I cursed God for making me a mistake
I cursed God for making me a coward
I cursed God for making me do horrible things
I cursed God for my wife leaving me
I cursed God for my children fearing me
I cursed God for putting me behind bars
I cursed God for not giving me happiness
I cursed God for giving me this disease
I cursed God for giving me a counselor who made me face myself
Then, I praised God for all these things
*******
I Have a Disease
I have a disease. Like HIV, my disease is incurable; like cancer, it is often deadly; like diabetes, it requires constant monitoring. Each year, my disease kills more people than all three of these other diseases combined. It kills slowly, and it kills quickly. It's an equal opportunity killer with no discrimination toward race, religion, sex, age, ethnicity, background, etc. Tragically, the victims of this disease are not just those inflicted with it but very often extend to most who come into contact with him.
Unlike cancer, you can't cut it out and radiate it; unlike HIV there are no "wonder drugs" to ease the symptoms; and unlike diabetes, there is no insulin to stave off the effects. Like HIV, cancer, and diabetes it can't be cured but can be kept in remission. But unlike them, I was born with mine, a genetic malady which prevents my body's natural systems to balance its chemical functions properly. This disease I have is called Addiction.
Misunderstood by an uninformed populace, Addiction is considered a moral defect--an excuse to flagrantly disregard the parameters established for accepted behavior. This is a disease, for which, society has neither understanding nor tolerance. Our mental asylums are full of the inflicted, and they make up a majority of our jail and prison populations. For unless detected and treated competently, the only possible end for the individual is prison, an institution, or death.
Few mature people today view someone infected with a debilitating disease as less than human. Responsible, informed women with a family history of breast cancer routinely schedule mammograms to monitor any possible early signs of the disease. Patients diagnosed with diabetes constantly monitor blood sugar levels and diet, administering medication when appropriate. Aids patients, today, can prolong their lives significantly by proper maintenance and continue to be productive members of their community.
Society's understanding of these diseases has dispelled the myths and prejudice with which they were once viewed. Oddly, society refuses to accept the concept that someone afflicted with addiction is not suffering willingly. It seems, on the surface, to just be "common sense" to stop a behavior that is proving to be detrimental to an individual. Why would any sane individual knowingly jeopardize his family, his home, career, his mental and physical health, his freedom, his life, and the lives of those he loves?
The fact a person is incapable of stopping a behavior even when they are aware of the inevitable results should testify that something more than just "will power" is at play here. It's time for the moral stigma and superstition associated with addiction to evolve from the medieval mentality surrounding it and is recognized for the medical infirmity that it is.
One major misconception is that drugs cause addiction. Drugs are only one symptom of addiction. The desire to self-medicate suggests a much deeper, more complex problem. Few people sympathize with a junkie shaking on a street corner but show them the matronly, little grandmother going through withdrawals in a hospital bed because her doctors had prescribed her too many pills for too long, and their hearts break. Most drug addicts are functioning adults, living secret lives. You pass them on the street every day and never know. They perform your surgery, serve you your food, protect your streets, deliver your mail, fill your prescriptions, lead your church service, do your taxes, teach your children, fly you around the world, and even hug you when you come home at the end of a long day. Some are able to go on this way for years. But eventually, unless help is actively sought, the ravages of this disease will always take its toll. The insidious thing about drugs is that they greatly accelerate the disease.
As mentioned, drugs are but one symptom of addiction--the desire to self-medicate. But the disease manifests itself in many different ways. From anorexia and bulimia to overeating, from working to shopping, caffeine and nicotine to heroin and cocaine, gambling to sex--anything an individual obsessively does that has a detrimental effect on his family life, social life, finances, physical health, mental health, or job, can be symptoms of addiction.
Addiction's devious nature is undetectable, hiding for years sometimes, while it slowly erodes the mind, the spirit, and the character of the individual. It is sinister in the sense that it causes the inflicted to commit suicide, but usually not without first committing spiritual and then mental suicide. It is sadistic in the sense that it not only destroys the life of the inflicted but also the innocent lives of everyone around him.
Sadly, youths are the most susceptible to its ravages because of the body's resiliency, its ability to withstand deterioration, and the mind's constant state of development.
Symptoms are so subtle; develop so gradually, that by the time the problem is diagnosed, the disease has often already caused irreparable damage. Symptoms first appear as low self-esteem hidden by outward displays of confidence. If this condition persists, it usually creates an obsession with perfectionism. Pride in what the individual perceives as exceptional personal traits or accomplishments, traits he aspires too, begins to build an inflated ego based on an idealistic belief that he is unique in the world. He comes to believe that his emotions and thoughts are different and of a higher caliber than any other's, making him feel totally alone. Because he is so unique and his ideals are so high, he is unable to live up to his own expectations. Thus, he sets his sights even higher and a vicious cycle ensues. Low self-esteem remains a constant impetus to achieve even more while he jealously conceals the secret that he believes himself to be of lesser value than his peers. Since he is "less than," he must find some way to be "more than" in order to be "equal." All he wants...is to be accepted. The only way he feels he can be loved is to be perfect, and he desperately wants to be loved for he is so very lonely.
Denial becomes an invaluable tool in keeping this most important secret, enabling him to concentrate on goals, values, and ideals--all outward evidence of greatness. It allows him to rationalize failures and justify indiscretions. Denial also becomes a tool to outwardly exhibit modesty and humility concerning his great achievements, thus creating an illusion of nobility and sacrifice. To him, no achievement is worth anything unless it is known to others, so he becomes proficient at proclaiming his achievements while disclaiming his abilities. Because he must be convincing, he unwittingly begins to believe his own lies. Tasks aren't undertaken for their merit but for their ability to impress, to solicit acceptance. But, because he still secretly believes he is inferior, any praise he receives is empty. He views his achievements as being praised, but not himself. The one thing he longs for most is the one thing he begins to believe he will never receive or deserve...simple validation.
At first, he informs others of his great feats, but, when he doesn't receive the degree of recognition he is seeking, he begins to embellish. Ironically, the more praise he receives, the more he needs. Because of his low self-esteem, he requires a greater magnitude of approval each time until, eventually, no amount of praise will suffice. Eventually, when embellishing no longer produces the desired effect, he starts lying. But, lying is in direct conflict with the elevated moral and character standard he has set for himself. Remember, his standards are the only thing supporting his ego which, in turn, compensates for his lack of self-esteem. So, in order to defend his ideals, he learns to view his lies not as lies but as prorated achievements. Becoming even more proficient at denial, he starts to believe his own lies.
Pride becomes not satisfaction in an accomplishment, but rather a defense mechanism allowing him to believe he is capable of accomplishing things he has only imagined. At times when people are alone with themselves, looking at the reflection staring back at them from the mirror, most get honest and come to terms with what they see. But our individual sees only the illusion he has created--"his" illusion of himself, society, his ability to control events and others, in other words, of reality itself.
But somewhere deep inside, in a place he tries to keep hidden--a place he tries not to look at--he knows that his lies are indeed...lies. To him, his accomplishments are meaningless because of motive and because his standards are false. This contributes to an even greater level of self-effacement. He has always chastised himself for his perceived failures but now he begins to condemn himself for his inability to live up to his ideals. Now, he is truly alone. Before, he at least had his ideals. Now, he doesn't even have them.
He longs for happiness but has no understanding of what it is or how it is achieved. He mistakes pleasure for happiness for it is the closest sensation to happiness he has experienced. He becomes obsessed, pursuing with abandon anything which gives him even a small amount of pleasure. He searches for contentment externally, unaware his real problem is inside. Everything he finds pleasurable is done to excess, searching for satiation. But at most, each attempt satisfies only momentarily, leaving him more wanting shortly afterward. Like his achievements, the more he has of something he desires, the less it satisfies.
Addiction is a tamed tiger chained to you. You must keep a constant vigil on it or it will devour you. But the terrifying thing about addiction is it's not a man-eater, it's a soul-eater.
*******
The Hunted
I am the hunted. I have been my whole life. To be one of the hunted means to be alone, always on guard, always ready to fight or flee. You can never relax. The hunters are always right on your heels. To be both prey and alive, you must always be hyper-vigilant. You must study the hunters. You must be aware of every word, every phrase, every mannerism, every nuance, and every trick the hunters have to lure you into their traps.
In this fight for survival, there are no mentors, no teachers to impart skills or to nurture growth in ways to adapt or dangers to avoid. Each of us must develop our own defenses and strategies, and we must become proficient quickly if we are to keep from being eaten. We must become more clever and more ruthless than even the hunters themselves.
I say each of us because, as I've come to learn, I'm not the only one. There are many of us out there--hiding out in the open, moving among the hunters, blending in, guarding ourselves the only way we know how. The ironic thing is; none of us know whom the other hunted are. Nor does it matter, for in this fight of spiritual life or death, everyone else, everyone, is to be held in suspicion. Everyone, even the other hunted, is out to trap you into revealing your great secret, your under belly, your real self.
Each of us must develop our own defenses. We must learn how to lie convincingly, how to cheat without being caught, and, most importantly, how to attack without appearing to attack. We must become masters of manipulation. We must become experts at gaining trust in an instant without ourselves ever trusting. We become supreme storytellers and know how to become your best friend for life in less than five minutes.
My training started, as early as I can remember, at the age of four. I pretended a pair of new shoes didn't hurt my feet so my mother wouldn't yell at me. This worked so well that I pretended to watch a football game with my dad so he would be proud of me. With these two experiences, I learned to give people what they want, or at least let them think they're getting what they want. To be loved--all I had to do was to play the part any person needed at the time. This is when I realized my parents where also hunters. I slowly began to understand that there were only two types of people in the world--those that defined you (the hunters) and....Me.
In a matter of seconds, I can become the father you never had, your most trusted friend, the brother you always wanted, the brother who loves and protects, your lover, your priest, your mentor, your pupil, your master, your slave. I'll convince you that I understand, and I'll agree with your side, whatever it may be. You'll find yourself confiding your deepest, darkest secrets to me, and I'll comfort you and convince you I care. But I don't. I can't. I'm too busy standing guard--protecting myself. I'll love you, abuse you, adore you and demean you. I'll praise you, degrade you, caress you and neglect you and ultimately discard you. And all this time I'll make you thank me. I'll do this and more just to make you believe that I am at least as good as you--that I'm worth something--that I do have value.
And I'm justified because you're one of them--one of the hunters. Your one of those wanting to expose me to the world for the disgusting wretch I am. No one hurts as badly as I. There is no one more lost, no one more pained, no other soul so tortured that even the pits of hell would be a welcomed relief. I'll never let you know that I'm frightened, and so unbelievably lonely--desperately seeking, but afraid of...love.
And who wouldn't be justified when you're a child of a lesser God. Not the one that made everyone and everything else, but a God that birthed you defective, a God who rules a world in which saints go mad, babies are born with crooked backs, and innocence is shamed. A world in which everyone else is blessed, and your grandest wish is just to be accepted. How can you not be justified when this lesser God made you with a monster inside you? Yes, there's a grotesque, festering demon living inside me who controls my thoughts and actions. It's grown in strength over the years, usurping my will. I'm not sure when I lost control to it. I'm not even sure if I ever had control. But one thing I do know is that it keeps me both hostage and slave to its malevolent desires. It distorts my dreams and makes consciousness a living nightmare. This monster, I've learned, is actually an inherited, genetic malady called "Addiction."
I know its ultimate goal is to destroy me and, this it plans to accomplish in the most sinister way--it wants me to commit suicide. But its perverted nature is such that it prevents me from committing physical suicide until I first suffer the ravages of mental and then spiritual suicide. Only after every remnant of soul has been sacrificed will it allow my body to die.
I'm writing this is because I'm tired--bone weary, beaten down tired. I just have no fight left in me any longer. There are so many stories, so many lies, that I just can't keep them all straight any longer. Nor, do I care.
I'm the master gamesman, the champion of the hunt. But it's because I'm the champion that I am also the ultimate loser. You see, I've discovered one startling fact. All my stories, all my lies, have achieved their purpose--or have they? You see, everyone likes me. Or do they? Ironically, everyone likes the me I've portrayed--the me I became for each of you (the hunters). Everyone likes only the persona, the actor, the character they needed me to be at that particular moment. Sadly enough, no one cares or knows the real me--they can't. Because the most tragic thing of all is...neither do I.
But it seems the other God, your God, has taken mercy on me. I've been led to others like me--prey who are learning how to no longer be prey. They are a fellowship of misfits and losers who are learning to bind their birthed demons. They are the lost; the emotionally wounded -- the spiritually crippled. They no longer live in fear of the hunters. And it doesn't matter how sick or flawed I am. They accept me, warts and all, for they themselves were once prey too.
They are no longer slaves to their secrets. They have found a blessed restoration which nourishes a newfound appreciation of beauty, humility and love. For them, life is no longer a task which has to be gotten through but is an adventure to be savored. They are imaginative, sensitive, and possess a sense of humor and an awareness of universal truth. They live anonymously among the hunters and thrive. They're anywhere and everywhere. But, unlike the hunters, they're grateful for every little miracle with which each day is filled. They've been to hell and understand it's closer than anyone realizes. They are recovering addicts. Unlike the hunters, they're grateful to have been blessed with a second chance.
*******
The Infamous Chews Incident
Looking back, I can now see that I have been an addict all my life. From my earliest memories, when something was good – when I liked it – I couldn't get enough of it. The more I liked it; the more I wanted it--the more I wanted it; the more I got—the more I got; the less it satisfied—the less it satisfied, the more I wanted it. And so began a cycle of obsession which has haunted me my whole life—a cycle which has shaped my goals, defined my behavior, molded my character, and determined my destiny.
My earliest memory of addictive behavior was the infamous "Chews Incident." My third grade class (I was eight years old) decided to have a party. The teacher announced one morning that we, the students, would plan what kind of party we wanted to have and would also organize the whole event.
When it came time for the refreshments, I suggested that someone should go to Dewar's and buy chews for everyone. Now, for those of you who are not familiar with "chews" you are in for a real treat. In my home town, there was a small mom & pop ice cream parlor named Dewar's. Their specialty was homemade ice cream—malts, black & whites, banana splits, sundaes, and chews. A chew is a taffy-like candy which comes in peppermint, peanut butter, plain, and caramel. Now, you may say to yourself that you know what taffy is like; but these were chews. These were different; these were melt-in-your-mouth-to-die-for "chews."
Everyone were I lived knew Dewar's and everyone, especially if you were a kid, knew what chews were. Suddenly, I was a hero. The kids who were normally making fun of and picking on me thought I was insightful and smart. There was a resounding second to my suggestion and considerable cheers. The teacher agreed. After careful consultation, everyone agreed that I (because Dewar's was across the street from my grandmother's house) would be the one in charge of the chews. Everyone looked at me as if to say, "Right-on, Dude." Even Gina Bearman, the secret love of my life, looked at me and smiled. For the first time, I was a hero. Other plans where completed.
The following day, everyone brought their money which was then collected and given to the kids responsible for bringing supplies. I was given the "Chews" share of the funds, instructed to buy two pounds worth, and carefully crammed the money into my pocket. Throughout the day I would periodically pull it out and count it—just to make sure it was all still there and nothing had magically happened to it.
My grandmother picked me up after school to watch me until mom got off work. On the way to the house, I bragged to grandma about my idea and how everyone thought it was the best idea ever and how this was going to be the best party ever and all because I thought of buying chews and how everyone voted to give me the money to get the chews.
Grandma agreed that I had taken on a lot of responsibility and should be proud of myself. She was proud of her little boy (no matter how big I got she always thought of me as her little boy).
I helped grandma carry in the groceries, and then I was off on my quest to pick out the plumpest chews ever. I must have stood in front of the glass case for an hour deciding on just the right combination to get—equal parts peppermint, peanut butter, caramel, and plain? No, wait. Why plain when you could have peppermint and caramel. Though I was inclined to go with just peppermint and caramel, I grudgingly considered the possibility that some kids might want peanut butter; some might even want plain. After careful debate, I decided to go with a small handful of plain, a small handful of peanut butter, and the rest an equal mix of peppermint and caramel.
The lady behind the counter was patient; I realized I was taking a long time but this was important—the success of the party depended on it. I explained the seriousness of the duty assigned to me and she asked how much I wanted. I laid the money on the counter; she counted it and informed me it was enough to buy three pounds.
I pondered for a moment. Somewhere in my memory I seemed to recall something about two pounds—but why buy two pounds when you can buy three? The more chews; the better the party—right?
"Three pounds," I announced, having made an executive decision.
The lady began filing three one pound bags, putting so much of this or that as per my instruction. Finally, I was handed the bags and proudly walked out of the store.
Eyeing the bulging bags, it suddenly occurred to me how much responsibility I had undertaken; an eight-year-old boy, still a child really, given the task to purchase supplies for the entire class party. No other student had to go through so much trouble. Considering the job at hand and the efficient way it had been carried out, it seemed to me I deserved at least some compensation for all my efforts.
The aroma of fresh sweets overwhelmed my senses as I thought, I deserve at least one. After all, I had to walk all the way over here; I had to be responsible for, and handle, the money; and now I'll have to carry these bags all the way back home and then to school tomorrow.