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Like one that on a lonesome road,
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round, walks on
And turns no more his head,
. . . because he knows a frightful fiend,
Doth close behind him tread . . .
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
. .
.I was 124 pounds, down from 160, hallucinating, and scared. A month
and a half of the four I was to spend incarcerated had passed before my
sensorium returned to anything approaching normal. Despite the gross
accumulation of evidence to the contrary, I still did not want to accept
the idea that I was an addict. By such an admission, it seemed that
all of the hard-won respect of self that had accrued as a result of my
accomplishments would be lost and I would, once again, feel small and unimportant.
A part of me, however, knew that I had been playing a sort of final solitaire
with myself. The few friends which I had been able to retain could
not ignore the pyrotechnics of my self-destruction and even they were being
alienated one by one.
Determined
not to let this time go completely to waste, I read incessantly, taught
myself to draw, and began to search for the lost thread of meaning in my
life. . .
. . . One unequivocal benefit of my education was that I had become an
atheist and, therefore, wasted no time in pursuit of magical solutions.
I read Sartre's book: Existentialism and Human Emotions (an essay
taken mostly from his 1943 work: Being and Nothingness), hoping that existentialist
philosophy (This is a more specialized use
of the term existential than is otherwise used throughout this book, where
it simply means: "pertaining to existence." Here I am speaking of
the associated systems of thought, popularized by Sartre, Kierkegaard,
and Heidegger, that concern the relation of the individual to the universe
or to God. Existence is generally regarded as unexplainable and freedom
of choice, along with responsibility for the consequences of one's actions
is stressed.) might provide me with
some idea of where to begin. Sartre saw that, since there is no God
and no fixed "human nature," the individual must be totally free and entirely
responsible -- a lonely being adrift in a meaningless universe with a terrifying
freedom to choose that, he maintains, accounts for the emotions of dread
and anguish. I was profoundly appalled by the stark and desolate
scope of his vision. It seemed there must be some middle path that
he had failed to recognize, one allowing humankind its spiritual
nature and the possibility of purpose without resorting to mythology and
superstition, yet retaining the essential freedom and self-determination
of the atheist. From my study of the writings of several philosophers
and psychologists, a vague outline of some of the processes at work in
my life began gradually to emerge. . .
. .
.On the fourteenth of August 1989, I agreed to plead guilty to the possession
of two grams of amphetamine in return for a guarantee of probation and
free chemical dependency treatment. The judge gave me a two-year
sentence, suspended to probation, and ordered me to report to the state
mental hospital at Fergus Falls to begin their drug program forthwith.
I hadn't any idea what this might entail, but assumed that it must be some
combination of medical and psychological therapies. Given my intense
respect for, and faith in, the miracles of modern science and medicine,
the prospect a undergoing some mysterious scientific cure for the extreme
difficulties I had been experiencing was somewhat intriguing, at least
initially. Then, certain oblique references to things like "AA" filtering
out of conversations began to arouse a disturbing glimmer of apprehension
-- subtle alarms, sounding on an almost subliminal level. I would
truly have been terrified, and utterly dismayed, however, if I'd had the
slightest inkling that the accepted standard of CD treatment that I was
about to encounter involved what amounted to witch doctors and religious
cults. (In order to avoid spooking neophytes
and potential new prospects before they are fully indoctrinated into the
cult, twelve-step organizations (AA/NA) have traditionally denied their
religious nature and sought to discourage members from recognizing this
fact by camouflaging it behind cleverly defined terminology and misleading
aphorisms. Over the past decade, this strategy has successfully prevented
the ideological monopoly of 12-step philosophy in addiction therapy from
being dislodged in favor of alternative approaches by avoiding legal challenges
to the religious coercion aspect. Recently, state and federal (7th
circuit) courts have officially ruled such organization as religious in
nature, making coerced attendance tantamount to illegal religious oppression
and creating a need for the development of alternatives.)
Despite misgivings, I vigorously applied myself to the therapy program
which did, in fact, turn out to be of a type based upon the "Hazelden"
(12-step) approach and the so-called "Minnesota Model" (disease concept)
for chemical dependency. I experienced some difficulty accepting
the notion that I had an "incurable disease" and the idea of pan-addiction,
but was mollified somewhat after hearing several speakers parrot aphorisms
to the effect of: "take what you need from what is presented in these groups
and leave the rest." It certainly seemed ludicrous to suggest that
a person who developed a dependency on one substance was automatically
addicted to all others -- that, in my case, I would spontaneously, involuntarily,
and inexorably be driven to return to injecting crank if I was to have
a beer or even an antihistamine again in the future. . .
. . . Refusing to allow myself to be brainwashed into accepting another
faulty belief system to replace the one that I was discarding, I proved
to be quite capable and articulate in defending my opinions, to the considerable
consternation of my counselors. By the end of October, my resolve
had gotten me labled as "untreatable," and I was given a bus ticket back
to Minneapolis. Early on the afternoon of Halloween 1989, surrounded
by staff members as I prepared to leave for the bus station, I was told
that my case was what they called a worse-case-scenario and given
a prognosis of less than a year to live. They presented me with the
bronze medallion which is usually given to signify successful completion
of treatment though, in my case, it could have been intended as a sort
of consolation prize, I suppose.
I became angry over this and decided that, above all else, I would prove
these self-righteous, narrow-minded, self-appointed oracles wrong.
With nothing but a change of clothes, I was initially forced to live in
the infamous Drake Hotel, a shelter for the homeless in downtown Minneapolis,
. . .
. . . I was continued on the dextroamphetamine that I had received in the past and the prescription was made permanent for the rest of my life. Over the three years that followed, I eschewed drug abuse and finished my probation early, and without incident. This only served to convince me, beyond any doubt, that my treatment counselors had, in fact, erred grievously in their assessment of me. Unfortunately, it also left me believing that I had nothing to fear in the future . . .
. . . Through a succession of jobs, I gradually shifted my place of employment
closer to home, ultimately securing a position at the Sheraton Inn, three
blocks away. This pleased me no end, since, without a vehicle of
my own, I was loathe to have to rely upon public transportation during
the bitter Minnesota winter. It was a very low stress lifestyle that
I had cultivated for myself as the last months of 1990 marched toward spring
. . .
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