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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Abuse and Addiction: A Tale Of Dale - 11. Chapter 11
Detective Finch was true to his word. On Friday, December 24th I stood in front of the judge in the county courthouse. Papa Doc had been picked up the day after I had given Detective Finch the information. They hadn’t wasted any time. Hadn’t thought they would. His operation had turned out to be a nice juicy one. And they had found more than enough evidence at his house to be pretty sure of a good solid conviction—without the need for any testimony from me. The judge had everything in front of him. My statement. The reports on the subsequent arrest and expected conviction of Papa Doc.
My dad was there. Hadn’t expected him to be. Hadn’t wanted him to be. My mom was there also. That was hard. My mom and I have always been close. Never had a time when we were not. I didn’t want her to see me in that place. Though, I suppose it could have been worse. Would have been a hell of a lot worse if she had seen me when they had first brought me in. And, of course, Mark was there. Mark and his brother Aaron. Mark’s cousin Roger was there—in the official guise as the “arresting officer.” My good friend Kyle was there also. Linda wasn’t there—though she told me afterwards she wanted to be. But it was Christmas Eve and Sam was 4 and there were preparations for Santa to be made. Detective Finch was also not there. He had family also, and it was, after all, Christmas Eve.
My lawyer made the formal motion to have the charges dismissed. The District Attorney, in accordance with the “deal” made by Detective Finch, agreed with my lawyer. Of course, the judge could do as he pleased. It was his call. I remember my heart racing. I knew this was the moment of truth one way or another. They had me dead to rights on the assault and escape charges. They could choose to pursue them. And there would be no point pleading not guilty to them. My lawyer had told me as much. A conviction on those two charges would get me jail time of some form.
Of all the things that have stuck in my mind all these years, you would think I would remember every detail of that moment. The judge was about to decide my fate, alter the course of my life. You would think I would remember what he said. But I don’t. Not the details. All I heard was “I am going to allow the dismissal of all charges…” I know he said more. He said a lot more. There were conditions to the dismissal. But I honestly don’t remember one word after that. I just felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. I remember turning around and looking for Mark. Guess that was always my instinct, to turn to Mark. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. But he was smiling. And that was good. My mom was crying. Of course. Happy, sad, in the middle—my mom would always cry. My dad…he looked relieved. And even though I was drowning in relief myself, that one part of me figured he was relieved he wouldn’t have a jailbird for a son. As that thought hit my head, I remembered that I really had no reason to be so relieved. The People were about to set me free—but Papa Doc’s “people” would no doubt find me soon enough. And then I would be in that tinker’s dam position again.
My attorney nudged me sharply and I looked up at the judge. “Do you understand these conditions, Mr. Williams?”
What conditions? I hadn’t heard anything he had said. But I wasn’t stupid enough to say that. “Yes, your honor.” I knew my lawyer would tell me what they were. And whatever they were, I really had no choice but to comply with them.
He looked long and hard at me. Then he nodded and it was over.
**
It was Monday before I was actually released. I had missed Christmas with my son. It was the first one I had missed. Even the last Christmas, when I had been with Dale, I had still managed to be there for Christmas morning and the opening of the presents from Santa. I knew he was young, just 4, but he was old enough to know that Daddy wasn’t there on Christmas morning. That bothered me. More than it might normally have bothered me—because a very big part of me didn’t expect to be around for any more Christmas mornings. That thought didn’t have me in the greatest of moods when I listened to my lawyer run through the conditions of the dismissal.
“It’s not that bad, really, Lucas.” He seemed cheerful as hell. But then, he hadn’t missed his son’s Christmas. “You just have to participate in a Substance Abuse program. I have a list of the ones that the court considers acceptable. There is an employment condition in here as well. You have 60 days to find a job of some form, or be able to show proof that you have been making a serious effort to find one. You know there is an agency right here in town that can help you with that. I would suggest you make an appointment with them right away.” He looked at me. “You do know that any one of the programs approved by the court provide for random drug testing. Is that going to be a problem for you?”
I didn’t know. I was over the physical effects of withdrawal from heroin. Technically my body was “clean.” But my head was the problem. I didn’t know where it was, didn’t know where it would go. I answered him honestly. No point in lying to your lawyer. “Not sure.”
“Lucas, you got really lucky here. Honestly, you had a couple of people go to bat for you.”
I assumed he meant Mark’s cousin Roger. And I thought maybe he might have meant Detective Finch also.
“The DA here tends to be tough on drug offenders. Same with judges. I’ll be blunt, Lucas. You fuck up, you fail any one of the random drug tests and you will be back in.”
“Just for failing a drug test?” That didn’t sound right to me.
He shook his head. “I knew you weren’t paying attention to the judge. He dismissed the charges conditionally, Lucas. If you violate any of the conditions of dismissal, you will be brought back in and will charged with possession and the original assault and escape charges will be brought against you.”
“But wouldn’t they have to actually find something on me?” I saw TV. I thought I knew the rules.
He just smiled. “You test positive for heroin, of course they will find something on you. Wouldn’t that be reasonable to expect? Either on your person or in your premises.”
I understood. “How long do these conditions apply?” I was wondering how long I would HAVE to toe the line. I didn’t want to go back to jail.
He smiled again. “Thinking that far, are you?” He shook his head. “Again, you were lucky as hell. The Substance Abuse programs mentioned are 6-month programs. If you test clean throughout, that’s it.”
I thought about that. Six months was a long time to live with all this shit in my head. But then, it wasn’t that long really. And very likely Papa Doc’s boys would cut that time down a bit.
“Ok, then. You just sign these papers and you can go home.”
I signed the papers. But I was thinking about what he said. I could go “home.” Where was my home? I had told Mark I wanted him out of my life. I had hurt him deeply even before I had said that. He had told me he would always be there for me and I had thrown that back in his face. Yet he had been there in the courtroom. But if Mark didn’t want me to share the apartment with him any longer, where would I go? I couldn’t go home. Home hadn’t been “home” for me for 3 years. Oh well, maybe I could stay with Kyle for a bit. Though I knew that would be the worst possible thing for me to do. Kyle used and Kyle would share.
I sighed, and I saw my lawyer look at me curiously. “Just thinking. There’s just a lot in my head.”
He nodded and I could see understanding and maybe a little sympathy, even, in his eyes. “Just stick with the Program, Lucas. Worse addicts than you make it through. And maybe while you are there you should look into getting a little counseling for some other things.”
I knew what he meant. Of course, I had no intention of doing anything like that. But there was no point in going through that. I just nodded.
**
It was snowing when I stepped outside. My lawyer had told me that Mark had said he was going to drop off my car so it would be there when I got out. But instead, Mark was there.
“Hey, Luc.”
“Thought you were going to drop off my car,” I replied stupidly. I didn’t know what to say to him. I didn’t even want to meet his eyes.
“Figured it was easier to just pick you up.” He started walking towards the parking lot. I followed. There had never been an awkward silence between us. Never. Not once since that first day in the school cafeteria. We had always talked—or yelled—or fought. But we were never silent.
“How’s Chop?” Chop was his dog Chopper. The damned dog thought I was god. Could picture him pining away for me all this time.
Mark grinned. “Wasting away.” Chopper could go a couple of months without eating and would still be fat. He was the biggest, fattest beagle I had ever seen.
I grinned, too. “As if!”
We reached Mark’s truck. I got in.
“Brought you some Mickey D’s. Figured you’d be hungry. Doubt they fed you anything good in there.”
I had to grin. Mark was obsessed with eating. Did it pretty much 24/7. Was the farm boy in him. Used to eating good solid meals. If left to his own devices, a double cheeseburger, fries, a vanilla shake and a couple of apple pies was a good solid meal. That was what he had brought me.
“Actually the food was ok. Didn’t much feel like eating it. But it was ok.”
I looked over at him. I could see his brows knitting together. Knew he was struggling with what to say. I figured I would say it first. “I’m sorry, Mark.”
He looked at me quickly, and I could see something almost like shock in his baby blue eyes—which were NOTHING like Dale’s turquoise ones. “What for?”
I stared at him. “What for? You want a list? Let me see, for—“
“I don’t want a fucking list, Luc.” He interrupted me. “Just shut up and eat, will you? You look like shit.”
I smirked. “Love you, too.”
He glanced at me, a big dumb farm boy jock grin on his face, and he spent the rest of the ride back to our apartment telling me about Christmas dinner at his parents’ house.
I just grinned as I ate. Guess I still had a home to go to.
**
I did find out from Roger that Papa Doc had been convicted of drug trafficking and had been sent to a state prison downstate. I suppose it must have made the papers, but it didn’t make the local paper so I didn’t see it. None of his “boys” ever came after me. I expected them to. It hung over my head like the Sword of Damocles—even a while after Roger told me of Papa Doc’s conviction. But I suppose Dale’s ability to protect himself inadvertently protected me as well.
Papa Doc couldn’t give any more information on Dale than I had—and he had no reason NOT to give whatever information he had. He had no reason to want to protect Dale. Actually had a LOT of reasons to want to take him down with him. But apparently Papa Doc never actually knew where Dale was—so he had no starting point if he had wanted to look for me. He had never actually met Dale. And Dale always called Papa Doc—or Papa Doc called him--on his cell phone—which I knew didn’t actually belong to Dale anyway. Dale was very good at covering his ass—and ended up covering mine, as well.
So I gradually did lose the conviction that my life wasn’t worth that tinker’s dam. But even without that, I was still a serious mess. My head was in a bad place. Without the heroin to neatly pack away everything that bothered me, I found myself plagued by the same things that had haunted me when Paul had left—and then there were the things that Dale had added. Had a real hard time sleeping. Nightmares weren’t always the problem. Sometimes—most of the time, really, I just couldn’t shut my head down. When it got really bad, I would risk some Benedryl and some scotch. Never did that on days I worked or on days I had counseling though. I wasn’t sure whether an antihistamine would qualify as a “drug” that would violate the conditions of dismissal. I knew one drink wouldn’t show up, though. And I did stick to just one.
My shoulder also took a while to heal. I hadn’t done it any favors when I was banging against the walls and the bars. I was in a lot of pain from that. I saw a doctor. But given my history of drug addiction (medical records transferred from the county jail—those papers you sign at the doctor’s office give them a right to those records), he was reluctant to prescribe anything that was a “controlled substance.” So, no codeine, no hydrocodone, no Darvocet, nothing good. Got mega doses of ibuprophen and a prescription for physical therapy. That didn’t help my sleeping. And it made me irritable as hell. Well, that was what I blamed that irritability on. I’m sure it was related to the heroin—or lack of it.
But I stuck to the conditions of the dismissal. The Substance Abuse Program I got into was operated out of the same site as the unemployment office. That was a good tie in actually, since they had contacts with companies that would give opportunities to people who have fucked up. I did manage to find a job. Despite Dale’s dark prognostications that no one would hire a “two-time loser with no fucking skills,” I got a job working in the local office of the weekly My Shopper paper. Actually did have a few skills. Could type. Could read. Could actually recognize language—which was more than their previous proofreader could do. It was only a part-time job, but it was my first job in an office and I was just anal-retentive enough by nature to do it rather well.
And the counseling I got in the Substance Abuse Program actually did help. I went in with the attitude that I would just pretend to listen, do my time and get out of there. But I actually found myself listening. It got me to think—which is what I really needed to do. It helped me to reason myself into a different frame of mind. And I have to say that it is probably the only reason I did manage to stay off the heroin. I also managed to repress a lot of things. I didn’t realize it at the time—but I did. And it was probably a good thing. It is hard enough dealing with those things now. I wouldn’t have been able to deal with them then.
And I managed to convince myself that I needed to get my life back together. My son was 4, and while I had never lost contact with him during that time with Dale, I had not spent as much time with him as I had previously. He felt that and so did I. Paul had been right not to ask me to go with him. I started to actually see that a little. Still felt the loss, the abandonment, but could see why it wouldn’t have been right for me to go with him anyway. My son needed me. I was his dad—not just his biological father. I had been in his life from the moment of his birth. And honestly, I needed him. He gave me a reason to focus on tomorrow. And there were times when he gave me a reason to actually want a tomorrow.
Mark was there for me also. He had always been my best friend. He was still my best friend. And I couldn’t envision a time when he wouldn’t be my best friend. He was there for me when the nightmares came, just as he had been there before. He was there for me when I had a bad day—and there were many of them—and really wanted a fix badly. He never asked me about anything, but I told him some things. I told him about Dale, about how he hit me. I told him that because he pretty much knew that. But I didn’t tell him about Papa Doc or Tyrell or Ramon. Somehow I knew I just would never be able to look him in the face and tell him the things I had done—or that they had done.
But the six months of conditions were over much more quickly than I had expected. I had to reappear in court, before that same judge, so that my compliance with the conditions could be reviewed. Seemed to me that a court appearance was a bit unnecessary. But I suspected that they wanted to put the fear of jail in me at least one last time. And they did. I knew I hadn’t violated any of the conditions, but standing in front of that judge my heart was pounding just as it had been when I had last stood there.
“Well, Mr. Williams, it appears that you have managed to comply with the conditions imposed by this court.” This time, I heard and remembered every word. “I see you have completed the Substance Abuse Program. The counselor had some good things to say about your cooperation, as well. And I see also that you have managed to obtain and maintain a job, where you are doing quite well according to your employer. I trust you have learned some valuable lessons from this experience. I am dismissing all charges without conditions. Good luck to you, Mr. Williams, and it is my sincere hope that you never have occasion to come before me again.”
**
I won’t say that my life was sunshine and roses after that. It wasn’t. But it wasn’t Hell either. I had good days and bad days. But there were mostly good days.
The funny thing is that you are never free of things like this. Once you are addicted to heroin, it is always with you. It is an old friend that you know you can always run to if you need to. And I’ve run there from time to time. I did that not too long ago, actually. And I won’t lie—it helped. And I enjoyed it. Every minute of it. And the 2 days of sick after the 3 days of using didn’t make me vow to never to do it again.
I’ve learned that promises like always, forever and never are very hard to keep. I like to reserve them for things that I truly believe will be always, forever and never. I don’t believe that about heroin. Hell, I don’t even believe that about Dale. Part of me would still go to him if he were around. That self-destructive part of me that still exists would seek him out. It’s that part of me that still believes that my only worth to someone is in the sex I can give them, the pleasures I can give them. It is that part of me that still hears the words “Who the fuck do you think you are?” But fortunately that is only part of me now, part of who I am—but not all of who I am.
I make no promises to myself or to anyone else of never with the heroin. I won’t put that pressure on myself. I promise myself only that I will never yield to addiction again. That I know I have put behind me. That is a promise I am comfortable with. That will not happen again. But I allow myself to know that I can always use if I need to. And that takes away the pressure of having to live up to expectations, of having to keep a promise that I can’t be sure I can keep. Instead, it gives me the freedom to make a choice. And having a choice places all the power in my hands.
Copyright © 2011 Luc; All Rights Reserved.
My dad was there. Hadn’t expected him to be. Hadn’t wanted him to be. My mom was there also. That was hard. My mom and I have always been close. Never had a time when we were not. I didn’t want her to see me in that place. Though, I suppose it could have been worse. Would have been a hell of a lot worse if she had seen me when they had first brought me in. And, of course, Mark was there. Mark and his brother Aaron. Mark’s cousin Roger was there—in the official guise as the “arresting officer.” My good friend Kyle was there also. Linda wasn’t there—though she told me afterwards she wanted to be. But it was Christmas Eve and Sam was 4 and there were preparations for Santa to be made. Detective Finch was also not there. He had family also, and it was, after all, Christmas Eve.
My lawyer made the formal motion to have the charges dismissed. The District Attorney, in accordance with the “deal” made by Detective Finch, agreed with my lawyer. Of course, the judge could do as he pleased. It was his call. I remember my heart racing. I knew this was the moment of truth one way or another. They had me dead to rights on the assault and escape charges. They could choose to pursue them. And there would be no point pleading not guilty to them. My lawyer had told me as much. A conviction on those two charges would get me jail time of some form.
Of all the things that have stuck in my mind all these years, you would think I would remember every detail of that moment. The judge was about to decide my fate, alter the course of my life. You would think I would remember what he said. But I don’t. Not the details. All I heard was “I am going to allow the dismissal of all charges…” I know he said more. He said a lot more. There were conditions to the dismissal. But I honestly don’t remember one word after that. I just felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. I remember turning around and looking for Mark. Guess that was always my instinct, to turn to Mark. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. But he was smiling. And that was good. My mom was crying. Of course. Happy, sad, in the middle—my mom would always cry. My dad…he looked relieved. And even though I was drowning in relief myself, that one part of me figured he was relieved he wouldn’t have a jailbird for a son. As that thought hit my head, I remembered that I really had no reason to be so relieved. The People were about to set me free—but Papa Doc’s “people” would no doubt find me soon enough. And then I would be in that tinker’s dam position again.
My attorney nudged me sharply and I looked up at the judge. “Do you understand these conditions, Mr. Williams?”
What conditions? I hadn’t heard anything he had said. But I wasn’t stupid enough to say that. “Yes, your honor.” I knew my lawyer would tell me what they were. And whatever they were, I really had no choice but to comply with them.
He looked long and hard at me. Then he nodded and it was over.
**
It was Monday before I was actually released. I had missed Christmas with my son. It was the first one I had missed. Even the last Christmas, when I had been with Dale, I had still managed to be there for Christmas morning and the opening of the presents from Santa. I knew he was young, just 4, but he was old enough to know that Daddy wasn’t there on Christmas morning. That bothered me. More than it might normally have bothered me—because a very big part of me didn’t expect to be around for any more Christmas mornings. That thought didn’t have me in the greatest of moods when I listened to my lawyer run through the conditions of the dismissal.
“It’s not that bad, really, Lucas.” He seemed cheerful as hell. But then, he hadn’t missed his son’s Christmas. “You just have to participate in a Substance Abuse program. I have a list of the ones that the court considers acceptable. There is an employment condition in here as well. You have 60 days to find a job of some form, or be able to show proof that you have been making a serious effort to find one. You know there is an agency right here in town that can help you with that. I would suggest you make an appointment with them right away.” He looked at me. “You do know that any one of the programs approved by the court provide for random drug testing. Is that going to be a problem for you?”
I didn’t know. I was over the physical effects of withdrawal from heroin. Technically my body was “clean.” But my head was the problem. I didn’t know where it was, didn’t know where it would go. I answered him honestly. No point in lying to your lawyer. “Not sure.”
“Lucas, you got really lucky here. Honestly, you had a couple of people go to bat for you.”
I assumed he meant Mark’s cousin Roger. And I thought maybe he might have meant Detective Finch also.
“The DA here tends to be tough on drug offenders. Same with judges. I’ll be blunt, Lucas. You fuck up, you fail any one of the random drug tests and you will be back in.”
“Just for failing a drug test?” That didn’t sound right to me.
He shook his head. “I knew you weren’t paying attention to the judge. He dismissed the charges conditionally, Lucas. If you violate any of the conditions of dismissal, you will be brought back in and will charged with possession and the original assault and escape charges will be brought against you.”
“But wouldn’t they have to actually find something on me?” I saw TV. I thought I knew the rules.
He just smiled. “You test positive for heroin, of course they will find something on you. Wouldn’t that be reasonable to expect? Either on your person or in your premises.”
I understood. “How long do these conditions apply?” I was wondering how long I would HAVE to toe the line. I didn’t want to go back to jail.
He smiled again. “Thinking that far, are you?” He shook his head. “Again, you were lucky as hell. The Substance Abuse programs mentioned are 6-month programs. If you test clean throughout, that’s it.”
I thought about that. Six months was a long time to live with all this shit in my head. But then, it wasn’t that long really. And very likely Papa Doc’s boys would cut that time down a bit.
“Ok, then. You just sign these papers and you can go home.”
I signed the papers. But I was thinking about what he said. I could go “home.” Where was my home? I had told Mark I wanted him out of my life. I had hurt him deeply even before I had said that. He had told me he would always be there for me and I had thrown that back in his face. Yet he had been there in the courtroom. But if Mark didn’t want me to share the apartment with him any longer, where would I go? I couldn’t go home. Home hadn’t been “home” for me for 3 years. Oh well, maybe I could stay with Kyle for a bit. Though I knew that would be the worst possible thing for me to do. Kyle used and Kyle would share.
I sighed, and I saw my lawyer look at me curiously. “Just thinking. There’s just a lot in my head.”
He nodded and I could see understanding and maybe a little sympathy, even, in his eyes. “Just stick with the Program, Lucas. Worse addicts than you make it through. And maybe while you are there you should look into getting a little counseling for some other things.”
I knew what he meant. Of course, I had no intention of doing anything like that. But there was no point in going through that. I just nodded.
**
It was snowing when I stepped outside. My lawyer had told me that Mark had said he was going to drop off my car so it would be there when I got out. But instead, Mark was there.
“Hey, Luc.”
“Thought you were going to drop off my car,” I replied stupidly. I didn’t know what to say to him. I didn’t even want to meet his eyes.
“Figured it was easier to just pick you up.” He started walking towards the parking lot. I followed. There had never been an awkward silence between us. Never. Not once since that first day in the school cafeteria. We had always talked—or yelled—or fought. But we were never silent.
“How’s Chop?” Chop was his dog Chopper. The damned dog thought I was god. Could picture him pining away for me all this time.
Mark grinned. “Wasting away.” Chopper could go a couple of months without eating and would still be fat. He was the biggest, fattest beagle I had ever seen.
I grinned, too. “As if!”
We reached Mark’s truck. I got in.
“Brought you some Mickey D’s. Figured you’d be hungry. Doubt they fed you anything good in there.”
I had to grin. Mark was obsessed with eating. Did it pretty much 24/7. Was the farm boy in him. Used to eating good solid meals. If left to his own devices, a double cheeseburger, fries, a vanilla shake and a couple of apple pies was a good solid meal. That was what he had brought me.
“Actually the food was ok. Didn’t much feel like eating it. But it was ok.”
I looked over at him. I could see his brows knitting together. Knew he was struggling with what to say. I figured I would say it first. “I’m sorry, Mark.”
He looked at me quickly, and I could see something almost like shock in his baby blue eyes—which were NOTHING like Dale’s turquoise ones. “What for?”
I stared at him. “What for? You want a list? Let me see, for—“
“I don’t want a fucking list, Luc.” He interrupted me. “Just shut up and eat, will you? You look like shit.”
I smirked. “Love you, too.”
He glanced at me, a big dumb farm boy jock grin on his face, and he spent the rest of the ride back to our apartment telling me about Christmas dinner at his parents’ house.
I just grinned as I ate. Guess I still had a home to go to.
**
I did find out from Roger that Papa Doc had been convicted of drug trafficking and had been sent to a state prison downstate. I suppose it must have made the papers, but it didn’t make the local paper so I didn’t see it. None of his “boys” ever came after me. I expected them to. It hung over my head like the Sword of Damocles—even a while after Roger told me of Papa Doc’s conviction. But I suppose Dale’s ability to protect himself inadvertently protected me as well.
Papa Doc couldn’t give any more information on Dale than I had—and he had no reason NOT to give whatever information he had. He had no reason to want to protect Dale. Actually had a LOT of reasons to want to take him down with him. But apparently Papa Doc never actually knew where Dale was—so he had no starting point if he had wanted to look for me. He had never actually met Dale. And Dale always called Papa Doc—or Papa Doc called him--on his cell phone—which I knew didn’t actually belong to Dale anyway. Dale was very good at covering his ass—and ended up covering mine, as well.
So I gradually did lose the conviction that my life wasn’t worth that tinker’s dam. But even without that, I was still a serious mess. My head was in a bad place. Without the heroin to neatly pack away everything that bothered me, I found myself plagued by the same things that had haunted me when Paul had left—and then there were the things that Dale had added. Had a real hard time sleeping. Nightmares weren’t always the problem. Sometimes—most of the time, really, I just couldn’t shut my head down. When it got really bad, I would risk some Benedryl and some scotch. Never did that on days I worked or on days I had counseling though. I wasn’t sure whether an antihistamine would qualify as a “drug” that would violate the conditions of dismissal. I knew one drink wouldn’t show up, though. And I did stick to just one.
My shoulder also took a while to heal. I hadn’t done it any favors when I was banging against the walls and the bars. I was in a lot of pain from that. I saw a doctor. But given my history of drug addiction (medical records transferred from the county jail—those papers you sign at the doctor’s office give them a right to those records), he was reluctant to prescribe anything that was a “controlled substance.” So, no codeine, no hydrocodone, no Darvocet, nothing good. Got mega doses of ibuprophen and a prescription for physical therapy. That didn’t help my sleeping. And it made me irritable as hell. Well, that was what I blamed that irritability on. I’m sure it was related to the heroin—or lack of it.
But I stuck to the conditions of the dismissal. The Substance Abuse Program I got into was operated out of the same site as the unemployment office. That was a good tie in actually, since they had contacts with companies that would give opportunities to people who have fucked up. I did manage to find a job. Despite Dale’s dark prognostications that no one would hire a “two-time loser with no fucking skills,” I got a job working in the local office of the weekly My Shopper paper. Actually did have a few skills. Could type. Could read. Could actually recognize language—which was more than their previous proofreader could do. It was only a part-time job, but it was my first job in an office and I was just anal-retentive enough by nature to do it rather well.
And the counseling I got in the Substance Abuse Program actually did help. I went in with the attitude that I would just pretend to listen, do my time and get out of there. But I actually found myself listening. It got me to think—which is what I really needed to do. It helped me to reason myself into a different frame of mind. And I have to say that it is probably the only reason I did manage to stay off the heroin. I also managed to repress a lot of things. I didn’t realize it at the time—but I did. And it was probably a good thing. It is hard enough dealing with those things now. I wouldn’t have been able to deal with them then.
And I managed to convince myself that I needed to get my life back together. My son was 4, and while I had never lost contact with him during that time with Dale, I had not spent as much time with him as I had previously. He felt that and so did I. Paul had been right not to ask me to go with him. I started to actually see that a little. Still felt the loss, the abandonment, but could see why it wouldn’t have been right for me to go with him anyway. My son needed me. I was his dad—not just his biological father. I had been in his life from the moment of his birth. And honestly, I needed him. He gave me a reason to focus on tomorrow. And there were times when he gave me a reason to actually want a tomorrow.
Mark was there for me also. He had always been my best friend. He was still my best friend. And I couldn’t envision a time when he wouldn’t be my best friend. He was there for me when the nightmares came, just as he had been there before. He was there for me when I had a bad day—and there were many of them—and really wanted a fix badly. He never asked me about anything, but I told him some things. I told him about Dale, about how he hit me. I told him that because he pretty much knew that. But I didn’t tell him about Papa Doc or Tyrell or Ramon. Somehow I knew I just would never be able to look him in the face and tell him the things I had done—or that they had done.
But the six months of conditions were over much more quickly than I had expected. I had to reappear in court, before that same judge, so that my compliance with the conditions could be reviewed. Seemed to me that a court appearance was a bit unnecessary. But I suspected that they wanted to put the fear of jail in me at least one last time. And they did. I knew I hadn’t violated any of the conditions, but standing in front of that judge my heart was pounding just as it had been when I had last stood there.
“Well, Mr. Williams, it appears that you have managed to comply with the conditions imposed by this court.” This time, I heard and remembered every word. “I see you have completed the Substance Abuse Program. The counselor had some good things to say about your cooperation, as well. And I see also that you have managed to obtain and maintain a job, where you are doing quite well according to your employer. I trust you have learned some valuable lessons from this experience. I am dismissing all charges without conditions. Good luck to you, Mr. Williams, and it is my sincere hope that you never have occasion to come before me again.”
**
I won’t say that my life was sunshine and roses after that. It wasn’t. But it wasn’t Hell either. I had good days and bad days. But there were mostly good days.
The funny thing is that you are never free of things like this. Once you are addicted to heroin, it is always with you. It is an old friend that you know you can always run to if you need to. And I’ve run there from time to time. I did that not too long ago, actually. And I won’t lie—it helped. And I enjoyed it. Every minute of it. And the 2 days of sick after the 3 days of using didn’t make me vow to never to do it again.
I’ve learned that promises like always, forever and never are very hard to keep. I like to reserve them for things that I truly believe will be always, forever and never. I don’t believe that about heroin. Hell, I don’t even believe that about Dale. Part of me would still go to him if he were around. That self-destructive part of me that still exists would seek him out. It’s that part of me that still believes that my only worth to someone is in the sex I can give them, the pleasures I can give them. It is that part of me that still hears the words “Who the fuck do you think you are?” But fortunately that is only part of me now, part of who I am—but not all of who I am.
I make no promises to myself or to anyone else of never with the heroin. I won’t put that pressure on myself. I promise myself only that I will never yield to addiction again. That I know I have put behind me. That is a promise I am comfortable with. That will not happen again. But I allow myself to know that I can always use if I need to. And that takes away the pressure of having to live up to expectations, of having to keep a promise that I can’t be sure I can keep. Instead, it gives me the freedom to make a choice. And having a choice places all the power in my hands.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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