The Guilt of a Junkie

For five strenuous minutes, I sat alone in my room. The silence that brought me sanctuary the days before
pounded at my ear drums as I waited. I was thinking of my childhood friend Jesse, the kindest person I've ever known. Since we were in the first grade he swore he was going to be an F-16 pilot when he grew up. From elementary, through high school almost everything he did was in pursuit of that one goal. He was incredibly athletic, but only played one sport per school year because he was afraid it would interfere with his studies. He spent his summers studying and exercising, and never once touched, drugs, alcohol, or tobacco. The only high he fiend for was the feeling of mach three forces pinning him into his cockpit. He graduated top of the class, and liked by everyone. To fulfill his dreams, he also sacrificed his religious principals. You see he was a devote Mormon, and Mormons go on mission when they're nineteen but the chances of being accepted into the F-16 program after taking three years off to spread the good word, were slim to none.He made a hard decision, enlisted into the Air Force, and was one of the elite few accepted into the program. I can only imagine the excitement he felt walking into the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs that day. so many long years sacrificing the immaturity we all embraced as teenagers had finally paid off. Unfortunately Jesse never saw the cockpit of his beloved F-16. Three months after being accepted to pilot one of the worlds most powerful weapons, he was diagnosed with a blood disease that seemed to deteriorate his health almost overnight. I can't imagine the devastation he felt after spending his entire life becoming as physically
fit as possible, only to be bedridden at nineteen. I thought of his cheesy jokes, and always smiling face, until
there was a knock at the door.

Twelve days earlier I arrived at The Canyon at Peace Park, a dual diagnosis drug and alcohol treatment facility
in Malibu. One of the best rehabs in the country. Most could never afford it, but by a string of luck, all the other
rehabs that worked with my insurance in the area were full. They were forced to shell out tens of thousands of dollars to send me to the Ritz Carlton of rehabs.It's located on 100 ares in Malibu, with a max capacity of only 16 people. Needless to say, I was the only patient you would consider "middle class". gourmet food, massages, and tons of recreational activities. Everything needed to be comfortable while detoxing and recovering. None of these luxuries could overshadow the amazing people, and life changing program they offer. Most addicts will never have access to such treatment and support.

I was high for the previous ten years of my life. Heroin was my drug of choice, but on any given day
I would inject, or ingest 2-4 different drugs. I pounded my body with anything and everything I could find.
I spent my weekdays slamming heroin and meth in my arm, and my weekends were parting with molly, coke,
or any hallucinogen I could get my hands on. Appearing sober was an art form I had perfected. I held down
a couple part time jobs, but most of my income came from selling drugs making decent money at times. This
is why it took my friends and family so long to catch on. I never stole from them, and paid my bills. I had no
respect for my mind, body, or spirit, and like most addicts, I didn't care if my next shot would kill me.I overdosed twice within three weeks. the second time at my mothers house. With the help of my mothers love(and a shot of NARCAN) I evaded the reaper once more. After that night, I went to rehab.

The day after I arrived, they sucked out half my blood that was sent to a lab in order to asses the damage of
such extreme drug use. It would take a week or two to get the results. The next twelve days were just one long
panic attack waiting for the news that I have some irreparable brain damage, or that my organs have burned
up, I knew i wouldn't have hepatitis, or HIV because I never shared a needle, but that knowledge brought no
peace of mind. I was convinced I was dying.

The knock at the door was my doctor with the results. He seemed overly friendly, which was just a confirmation in my head that I was doomed. I started shaking when he spoke, but what he said couldn't have shocked me more. "Well, you're a little low on vitamin D, but other than that there's no damage that can't be fixed with a couple years of sobriety". He wrote me a prescription for vitamin D, and took his leave.

Is this just luck? Divine intervention? Most junkies don't make it out alive. i'm alive, healthy, and in a five star
facility. But the doctors words somehow made me feel worse. My thoughts drifted back to Jesse, who treated his body like a temple. Why can't he be okay? Why can't he fly? I don't deserve this. I don't deserve to be alive. I thought of sick friends. I Thought of the brave, balding little kids receiving chemo in St. Jude's who should be enjoying summer. I thought of my brother who we had to bury when he was just twelve, and my niece that was taken at eleven. I thought of everyone still out on the street with no access to the help and love I had. So many dead addicts, people better than me, and I get the five star treatment. Faces flash through my head for days. Two weeks into rehab and I was becoming even depressed. Is this my disease? I lifetime of guilt?

The next week or so I wished that i had never woke up from that last overdose. I wasn't eating or talking much. I was making little progress, and just felt like a waste. Thankfully some poetic words from my incredibly wise therapist hit me like a tidal wave, and dragged me away from my self loathing. After carefully listening to my pitiful ranting for thirty minutes, she calmly said "maybe you're not here because you deserve to be, maybe you're here because those who love you don't deserve to lose you". I was at a loss for words. It rang so true. My mother already suffered her own trauma, and buried one child, she doesn't to lose another. She deserves to sleep sound at night knowing her son will be alive in the morning. She deserves the peace of mind knowing her son is happy. I may be a worthless junkie, but i'm her worthless junkie. From that moment I decided my mother was enough to get sober for. I was gonna be successful at something, so my mom could feel successful at parenting. I couldn't live for myself at the time, but I could for my loved ones. Eventually I realized, service to others, and service to yourself, are one in the same. Every success I've had since beginning my sober journey, I can easily trace to an act of service I did for someone else. This is how I live my life now, and I'm never in need of anything. Blessings have poured upon me since I abandoned my selfish pity. I will never erase the guilt I feel knowing how many of our brothers, and sisters are still suffering while I had the love of my family, and a great treatment team holding my hand through my darkest days, but maybe I can be an inspiration to someone else. I feel blessed. I feel happy. A year and a half ago those feelings were foreign to me. It is possible to chase the hungry ghosts from your mind. It is possible to process your emotions naturally again. It is possible to be happy again.

Love ya.
-Daniel