English
1A
Instructor: Mr.
Palsgaard
I Could Quit, If I Wanted To
Within our society there exist many types of addicts. The poisons of our addictions may vary, yet we all share common threads in our sufferings. For me, alcohol was the leader in my tale of woe. Quiet and subtle was the whisper in my ear at first, “Just have one drink—it will be fine…” What a lie that always turned out to be! Once that first sip crossed my lips, many more were sure to follow. It was a cycle of sorts, you could say. I never intended to cause any pain, suffering, or destruction for others. My goal was only to drown my demons. Unfortunately, they knew how to swim. In order for any addict to successfully liberate himself from the beast of burden, he must have desire. The more people throw guilt in the face of an addict, the more the addict turns to his vice. It is only when the suffering with outweighs the suffering without that change can occur. Many are the stones which laid the foundation of my sobriety. Today, I will focus on only one. My hope is to possibly spread strength from my weakness.
The morning began just as every one prior to it. There was no message, no clue, and no sign this would be a pivotal moment in my life. My head was pounding like a thousand drummers who were all just a little off beat. Last night was a late one, most of which was a blur. Mornings were the worst part of the day for me. The fun was gone, buzz wore off, and only the nauseous migraine would remain. I had gone outside to warm up the car and smoke the day’s first cigarette. Nothing else was quite as calming after a long night of drinking than that first smoke of the day. Flicking the butt to the ground, I got into my car and headed to the liquor store. “Good morning, Brandon,” was what the man in the store would say. He knew my name as I was a regular; funny how I never did remember his. I ordered a pint of vodka and two fruit juice Rockstars—the breakfast of a drunk.
Halfway through my morning drink, I reached that last smoke in my Newport pack. Back to the liquor store I went. This time I ran into some “friends,” more like fellow addicts I partied with. “Hey my dude, what’s good with you? You busy today?” they asked me. They wanted to get drunk and go off-roading; this was a fairly regular thing. We would go to the flats, a place where anyone with off-road vehicles in my town would go. Many crazy nights ended up at the flats. “Yeah, man. Follow me to my house, and I’ll drop off my car.” My buddy had a lifted Chevy pickup, and five of us piled in. We would need to get some drinks before heading out, though, as that was always a must.
From what I can remember, the day was completely normal. We had a barbeque up at the flats, drank heavily, and someone suggested we should get a blunt. Back down the hill we headed to locate some marijuana to fill a swisher cigar or three. We called every dealer we could think of, striking out each time. Seemed like the whole town was dry, nobody had any pot. Then my phone rings. Fate had smiled on our endeavor. A guy I knew called and said he has some fire, really good weed. Only thing about this particular guy was he shot up methamphetamine and heroin. It should go without saying; he could be a little off at times. We took around an hour or two getting to his house. That must have been enough time for him to shoot up because he was out of his mind when we pulled up.
Looking back now, I should have known better than to stop at his house. We could have gone to somebody else. However, poor decisions and drinking go hand and hand. All the lights were off on his property, and it was oddly silent. His truck was there, and he knew we were coming. Yet it seemed like he had left. Considering the types of hard drugs he abused, this should have been a huge red flag. We should have turned around and left immediately! However, like I said, we were all drunk and wanted to get high, so I got out of the truck. Walking up to knock on his door, I was startled when he jumped out of the bushes. He was pouring sweat on a brisk evening, so it was clear to me he was under the influence of his vices. I was staring down the end of a 9mm pistol. He didn’t recognize me. Click went the trigger, and I laughed and told him to stop messing around. It didn’t occur to me that he might be serious. He cocked the gun and pointed it at my face again. Click, the trigger went a second time. Still, I thought he was going to say, “Just messing with you, bro.” He never did say that, though. It wasn’t until the third time he cocked the pistol, and I saw a shell eject, that I took him seriously. I realized I was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun held by a spun out junkie. Somehow, I managed to talk sense enough into him to put the gun down and recognize me.
We got the bag of weed, laughed off the event, went to our homes, and passed out. None of us spoke of, or even thought about, how different that night could have been. Was it fate, the Lord, or just dumb luck that saved me that night? Wow, it’s crazy to think how close my demons had brought me to my demise. Finally, my eyes had begun to open. My desire for liberation was gaining new ground. My beast of burden was losing grasp around my throat. Finally, the suffering of being drunk was stronger than that of sobriety. I could stop trying to drown my demons. The strength to face that which bound me began to form. Like I said in the beginning, this is just one of many stones in my foundation of sobriety….