Young Patrick, 1965, before it all went south
Today, I have twenty-five years off drugs and alcohol and I’m having a huge “who’d-a-thought?” moment. Definitely not me. I was a career heroin addict. I didn’t see a future where I wasn’t getting loaded. Life just wasn’t worth living if I couldn’t be sedated. And by “sedated” I mean nodding out into oblivion. None of this “getting a buzz,” or “taking the edge off,” or any of the other quaint euphemisms that romanticize being high.
Milestone years like this always give me pause. Five years was unfathomable at the time (hell, just 24 hours was amazing). Ten was ridiculous, in a “this shouldn’t be happening” kind of way. Fifteen was a weird year of discovery. Twenty was tough. And I don’t even know how to categorize twenty-five. A quarter of a century. Not quite the amount of time I used drugs (I started somewhere around age 11, two years after the above school photo was taken, and used solidly into my 41st year—a good 29 to 30 years) but pretty damn close.
There’s that myth that our cells completely regenerate every seven to ten years (although recently debunked), “a more accurate view is a constant, varied turnover, with billions of cells replaced daily, achieving a near-complete cellular renewal over roughly 10-15 years for many tissues, while some never fully turn over.” I’d still like to think that my body’s current make-up has never experienced addiction and my copious lil’ fat cells aren’t storing decades old opiate residue waiting to pop into my system and create havoc. My brain, however, is a different matter. Gray and white matter, to be exact. A recent episode with cravings brought the old addiction beast to the surface and scared the hell out of me. Perhaps that was for the better, not letting me get complacent, like I’m all cured and everything.
And really, is it too much to ask, when does someone stop being an addict? One would think that after twenty-five years of not picking up a drug or alcohol that it just wouldn’t be a concern anymore. But unfortunately, that’s just not the case. The DSM-5 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—the standard for classification of mental disorders used by mental health professionals in the United States) defines addiction as a substance use disorder. In other words, a mental disorder. That like depression, bi-polar, anxiety and schizophrenia, don’t just go away on their own. Yet, with medication, treatment, environmental changes, and therapy, they can be stabilized and manageable—and for me, at least, this holds true. I rely on therapy, 12 Step meetings, antidepressants, meditation, being of service to others, and following the principles of recovery in all my affairs—as preferred methods keeping me from slipping back into active addiction.
Over the years I’ve tried various combinations, more of some, less of others, and have come to accept what works for me. I can still act out “addictively.” Just ask the dude that delivers copious amounts of Amazon packages to my front door. The addict’s refrain, “more is better,” never seems to go away. But what has gone away is the conniving self-centeredness, the lying, cheating, manipulating, and dishonesty. I no longer leave a trail of destruction in my wake. I no longer have to make empty excuses, apologies I don’t mean, or promises I won’t keep—and that alone, is worth the price of admission.
June 26th, 1997 – 12:33am, after 12 hours of interrogation, and totally dope sick – my booking mugshot; arrested for three counts of armed robbery.
Still, I can lose sight of all this. Sometimes the mundane day-to-day life grinds me down and I have a hard time seeing the good in any of it. There are days I think of my friends that overdosed and died at too early an age and consider that maybe they got the golden ticket out of here. They didn’t have to struggle to get their lives back together. None of them are working until their shelf-date is way past expired, getting old as the body revolts and stops working.
Truth is I just miss them.
2025 was a bit of a motherfucker. Too much to go into, but suffice it to say, I’m happy to see it in the rearview. Although what lies ahead, I have no idea. But I’m not going to waste my time bitching about the state of the world. It is going to do what it is going to do, and my part in it is to do what I can do to make a difference—however small (in the scheme of things) that may be.
I work in recovery and do what I can to help other addicts and alcoholics. I strive to be the best version of a husband, friend, brother, uncle, and in-law that I can. I may not always succeed, but I don’t run away or give up. I try to help other writers, through teaching and mentoring. I attempt to give back in ways that may not be the “accepted” norms, but make sense to me. I work hard to give you the authentic me, not the “me” I so desperately want you to see me as. I accept that I am flawed, occasionally a mess, and can be an opinionated asshole. But I will always make amends, clean up my side of the street, and try to learn from my mistakes, so I don’t have to do it again.
I’m grateful for my life and the people in it. Even the difficult parts and problematic souls. They teach me tolerance, acceptance, and forgiveness. In turn, the supportive loving people in my life utilize the same for me. I’m humbled and in awe of the amazing people I know and love—without you I wouldn’t have twenty-five years today.
Entering my final rehab as a client, January 8th, 2001. The last day I put a needle in my arm.