Acrobaddict (50 page)

I climbed to the top of the rocks as an expansive feeling of power overcame me. The apparition continued on, out of my vision behind a rock, and then I couldn’t see where it went. I walked along the seawall looking for it, stepping over the “Danger: Keep Off Seawall” sign spray-painted on the rock.

I walked past the memorial of a teenage suicide, where I used to sit and contemplate my own, but the words in stone were difficult to see now, having been washed away by rain and wind, reminding me that everything changes. I saw the luminous ghost image of myself out of the corner of my eye, and I ran to the spot as it vanished. That was it. That was the place where I had buried him, my ghost, my warrior.

I stood for a moment and started choking up at the thought of what I had to do, but I knew it was time. Under the sun, I removed my addict, my dark self, whom I had loved so much—the shadow in me who had protected and fought for me. He was everything I had wanted to be, powerful, eternal, and dark, but it was time to let him go. I looked into his hateful eyes, and he looked away, still angry with all that wasn’t him. I went in to touch him, and gave him the strongest thrust, pushing him over the giant boulders off the seawall and into the blue ocean. The waves crashed over him, and I watched him fight to stay afloat, but the waves were too powerful and he began to sink.

I raised my sword to the sky, fully intact and forged by the many memories and pieces of my family’s history. Its ancient inscription gleamed in the sunlight, depicting the story of our lives. I raised my shield, our family crest, and stood with honor, as a giant glow emanated from under the water. It was an image of me rising out of the depths of the Atlantic. It was pure of heart, an image of heaven, and shining with a powerful light. I knew it was my childhood warrior, who had now grown up. It was strong, sincere, loyal, and honest—everything I wanted to be. The image rose up, dripping from
the waters as it reached me, eye to eye. For a moment I felt terrible for having drowned that most important part of myself, but in its gaze I saw it understood. As I let out a smile, the image—my former self, my warrior—merged with my bones and skin, fastening itself to my soul and wrapping around my spine. We had been reunited and become one. The sword and shield vanished from my hands and became fused into my skin. I stood tall, changed, confident, and sure. This battle was over.

EPILOGUE

Behind every fresh and gentle breeze there is a scent of burnt cinnamon and hot ash. The Devil is patient, waiting for me behind every opportunity to slip up and once again claim my former position in hell.

I can’t say with complete conviction that I will never drink or use other drugs again. But as I’m writing this, I can say that I won’t use just for today. My addiction is a representation of the universal
disease
in this world. Any form of self-hatred and self-sabotage, be it in the form of an eating disorder, sex addiction, gambling addiction, or alcohol or other drug abuse, is fundamentally the same; they just have different symptoms due to the side effects of our particular poisons. I use the word
addiction
to encompass all that ails our spirits as individuals, all that forms obsessions, envies, self-centered fears, self-destruction, traumas, discomfort, pain, and anything else that is the opposite of love, humility, serenity, and genuine peace. I once heard a man say, “Addiction is a death sentence, except that we aren’t given the exact date of death.”

For many years I was one of those people who could not quit using no matter what I tried. I attempted to stuff everything into the God-sized hole addiction created—relationships, exercise, vacations, self-help books, religion, voodoo, switching drugs—but nothing seemed to work. I couldn’t live with heroin and I couldn’t live without it, and I compromised everything in my life for my addiction: my friends, my family, my future, my dreams. I saw an opportunity to self-destruct and fell into the romance of oblivion. All manifestations of addiction have a romance or some type of reward at their center; otherwise we wouldn’t continue using. I became the exact thing I hungered to
become, the abandoned, angry boy on the street, unreachable and crazy, oddly falling in love with the promises of death.

I reached a level where I thought fear alone could keep me abstinent, but it was the opposite. I used in order to forget my past, while only creating more bad experiences to further escape from. One cannot stay abstinent for a lifetime based just on the memories of one’s painful past and traumas, because recovery, like life, is a daily reprieve. I’m not going to analyze the Twelve Steps or explain why I believe they worked for me, because the truth is that I really don’t know how I quit using in the end. There are many elements I’ve found that altered my spirit when I consciously made a decision to align myself with them. These concepts and words can be found in many spiritual teachings, books, and affirmations used today.

Even though I had been to hundreds of twelve-step meetings and rehabs, the information alone could not keep me in recovery. I had to experience the knowledge by absorbing it into my own being and my own life. We do not get nutrients by staring at an orange; we must take action and eat it in order to obtain its energizing qualities. Sitting and listening to the messages wasn’t enough—I had to become active. In the beginning I was an enraged demon, unaware that my emotional system was detoxing into its natural state of being. Anger is a bizarre emotion because it gives us the opposite of what we are truly seeking. When we are angry it makes people back away from us, resulting in more anger and isolation, which in turn feeds and fuels the emotion. I had to find the root of my anger and allow time to heal my spiritual state. It is not only our body and mind that get damaged by addiction—it is our spiritual being.

Over time I came to accept many things I could not change, and began to detach from my imperfections. This in no way released me from the emotion of anger, and if you saw me on a daily basis you would have been able to see a cloud of rage encircling me. I was no longer angry about the Olympics as I came to realize that many other gymnasts came far closer to that goal. It was only an unfulfilled dream. There were certain times I would get cross that I couldn’t do something perfectly, or that the outcome didn’t happen the way
I had imagined, but I’ve come to believe that life will always unfold the way it needs to. I think of this belief as true perfection because, once events happen, they are finished and perfect as designed. There are still days when I wish I wasn’t gay, but I do my best to try to function as a human being with a different sexual orientation than what sometimes feels socially acceptable. My sexual preference is not my defining characteristic, and I try to remember that I am Joe the human being before Joe the homosexual. I still hate aspects of myself, like my voice and my asthma in the winter—these things are still a battle, but I have uprooted the rage that allowed them to blossom into something unmanageable. I believe the poison guarding my anger was an absence of faith, humility, and self-love. I couldn’t transmit anything but darkness to others because we cannot give what we do not have.

In spiritual jargon, the words
surrender
and
acceptance
are common, but I had no actual knowledge of these words and would always place them in a negative context. My damaged ego in addiction became the controller, and the need to be right triumphed over the desire to be in recovery.

The self-destruction I experienced was a blessing wrapped in thorns. It destroyed, dismantled, and dehumanized my ego through catastrophe and suffering. The hell I experienced brought me to a state of complete and utter defeat, giving me humility once I was able to relinquish control. It was here that I processed my own interpretation of acceptance. Acceptance has a rule—if you truly accept something, you have to comply with the boundaries of that acceptance. If I accept that the speed limit is sixty-five miles per hour, then I don’t go seventy miles per hour; I accept that I cannot fly, so I don’t attempt to. If we apply this rule of acceptance to the realm of addiction, then we have to obey the definition of those terms, which is to surrender. These terms go hand in hand, because when you truly accept something, you surrender to it. Surrendering does not mean admitting defeat; it means joining the winning team. There is an infinite peace in surrendering. When we fight with something or someone, and agree to let it go, a substantial weight is lifted. Our body subconsciously takes a deep sigh of relief, because it feels good to surrender. When
we surrender to sleep, isn’t it peaceful and healing? When I live these two concepts completely, I surrender and accept that I will have the willingness to abstain from alcohol and other drugs.

In the beginning of my addiction I thought I was having the time of my life. I believed the only escape I could find was through substances that made me feel good. But in the end this escape became a destructive reality, and the only way out of it was recovery. I didn’t realize my drug use was stemming from a deep hunger for a spiritual solution. I remember a rehab exercise where we had to describe in detail what we believed drugs brought us: euphoria, love, happiness, comfort, peace, joy, safety, and confidence. Then we were asked to describe the characteristics of people seeking a spiritual life, and the two lists of words were identical. There is a definite connection between drug use and God, as they both give people hope. Per Eckhart Tolle’s definition, meditation is a way of becoming removed from thought, and one could say that alcohol and other drugs do the very same. But while both actions have similar results, the consequences and processes are different. In his book
The Power of Now
, Tolle explains it by saying that if we take drugs we go “under” the thought, and if we meditate we go “above” the thought. Meditation elevates the positive mental and physical being, while alcohol and other drugs do the opposite. It’s not about being “right” or “wrong,” because that concerns the ethics and morals of an individual, and I’m not the judge of “good” or “bad.” I don’t have a problem with others using drugs, as they can achieve the very aspects I am speaking of—transformation, escape, and euphoria. I believe it’s intelligent for a species to seek different levels of being, but a heavy price is paid for using the path of substances, while the path of spiritual solution pays the practitioner.

For many years I was angry with God, or the creator, for my having to live with this affliction. Would I be searching for an escape from my uncomfortable emotions forever? After knowing “heaven,” would I ever love life again on its own terms? Then I heard an amazing spiritual teacher explain that addiction or pain is a call from God. At first this idea seemed ridiculous. How and why would God or the universe “call” us? And if the calling came in the form of anything other than tragedy, would we humans listen or change? The message
tells us, “I’m here for you. I will hold you and love you. I’m calling because what you are doing isn’t working and you have to change.” This beautiful call that ultimately leads to our transformation is spiritual evolution. Those of us with addiction have been given the opportunity to spiritually evolve into better, more realized beings. I needed this evolution even before my addiction grew out of control because I was an arrogant asshole. And now that life has beaten the shit out of me and I have received the calling, I have compassion, understanding, humility, patience, willingness, and love.

But this spiritual evolution comes with a great responsibility for me to be a lighthouse for others who are still lost in the darkness. We must be a beacon of light so they can find their way back home. Our lighthouse isn’t built by spiritual arrogance, didactics, or leadership, but on pure humility and experience. I will constantly attempt to shine my light, because doing so gives me the ability to connect with others who are suffering. Every day my own light dims, so I go to twelve-step meetings to identify with others and rekindle the flame to spread it further in the world. I cannot keep the fires burning by myself. The fires of the world are our souls kept in the hearts of our bodies. I’ve come to believe that enlightenment is nothing but the kindling, keeping, and transferring of this fire.

Through the hell of growing pains I have finally gained the compassion and the recovery I have today. But I don’t take it for granted, and I know that I could lose it all in one quick decision, as I’ve done so many times in the past. I stay abstinent for many different reasons, but this is the main one: I actually feel better. Sometimes I think back to sniffing cocaine and watching the sun rise, or nodding out on a heroin cloud, and I cringe and smile at the same time. I dread those memories and know that it is nostalgia, believing the past was better than it actually was. My recovery is a living amends to all the angels I single-handedly destroyed. I stay in recovery as an example to those who aspire to be more, but who are pulled deeper into the addiction cycle, being taken ever further from their dreams and goals. We are all connected by years of “I could have been,” “Someday,” and “They don’t understand.” This book is for the sufferer who says, “Someday, I’m going to enter recovery and write a book.” Well, I’ve done that,
and he or she can, too. It was simple—incredibly difficult, but simple. I did it just like the program teaches us: by not using just for today and by writing one word at a time.