I had no experience in this world of serious pain narcotics. I’d never heard anything about an opioid crisis, and I didn’t know how addiction worked. None of that ever crossed my mind, and nobody warned me.
I wish they had.
This new doctor, who clearly had a referral relationship with the attorney, sent me home with a whole arsenal of addictive pain drugs: Oxycontins, Somas, Percocets, and Valiums. All of these could be dangerous—especially mixed together.
I quickly discovered these pills worked just like magic. I might be lying in bed, unable to sleep because of the pain. Or I might be invited to go clubbing with friends, but I’d be aching. As long as I had my pills, everything was good. My choice was between pain that kept me from living a normal life and a high that felt better than normal life. At first, it’s about pain; later, it’s about the high. I began by taking pills only when necessary; then, I actually looked for excuses to take the pills more and more.
But it was all very discreet. I could get through a workday, sell a couple of Hondas, visit my parents, and go to a bar. My life seemed absolutely normal to everyone else, all while using my meds. As a matter of fact, I had Herculean energy.
I’d climb into my car and store my pain meds right there in the center console of my car without thinking twice—that’s how new at this stuff I was.
I told a buddy about this, and his eyes got wide as he heard about where I kept my stuff. “Dude,” he said. “Never, ever leave your drugs in the car! That’s like leaving money in plain sight on the dashboard. Same thing.”
“Really? Who would steal somebody’s pain pills?”
“Robby. Are you clueless? Do you know how much those things sell for on the street? Five bucks a pop for a Percocet. Twenty bucks for Oxys.”
“People sell these on the street?”
“Every day. It would take you less than five minutes to walk downtown and buy some.”
I’d never heard of anything like that. I assumed drug dealers trafficked in cocaine or Meth, not the little pills your druggist gave you at the pharmacy. I looked at my pain meds and saw them in a whole new light. These thoughts rolled around in my brain and attached themselves to my interest in network marketing. What if . . .
Suddenly I had a new idea for making a little extra money. As long as I could get prescriptions for the drugs, I could sell what I had and generate enough income to cover replacements—plus extra cash, of course.
I was capable of thinking like that in those days, though I rationalized it to some extent. I saw myself as distributing “harmless” muscle relaxants and pain relievers—not heroin or crystal meth. It was just a little casual profit-making among friends. At least that’s what I told myself, and that’s how it began.
I asked my buddy a few more questions, and he confirmed that he had friends who knew where to buy and sell these pills. “Can you introduce me to them?” I asked him. “I have an idea for us to make serious money.”
I’d been able to sell phone service, and even video technology that was not yet released to the public; how much more successful could I be with pills that could be popped right there on the spot? I knew I could move them like candy.
My friend started introducing me to others, and I explained how we could set up a network, create our own downlines—all the basics. At the same time, I tapped into old friends from the past who dealt drugs under the radar—all the while we had been friends, and I had no clue.
As for business-building, some of them looked at me like I was crazy. “I just like getting high, man,” they said. “What you’re talking about sounds like work!” I eventually connected with two guys: Rick, who would be my roommate, and Rodney. Both had aspirations of making money to support our lifestyle.
I pushed on with the idea. I could still go to the second doctor, and he had no problem sending me home with fresh supplies of narcotics. But if I ran out, it was a lot easier to find a friend on the street and buy from him than to wait for an upcoming doctor’s appointment.
There were guys who looked at the pills just the way they thought of alcohol—they came to it to get high. But there were many others like me—people who had started off with a genuine need to relieve the pain but had gotten hooked. Eventually they found themselves on the street feeding their addiction. Wherever the starting point, we all ended up in the same place—buying and using in parking lots and dark corners of bars.
That’s how a national health crisis begins.
As I checked in with my attorney, eager to find out about getting paid for the repairs to my car, I found he was very interested in my pain and my use of prescription narcotics. “Car payment?” he asked. “They owe you much more than that, son! Look at what they’ve done to you. They’ve made you dependent on pain medication. The truck hit you, and his company refused to do anything about it. They’ve ruined your life, and they owe you hundreds of thousands of dollars at least!”
I thought about the way he had pushed me toward a doctor he worked with, one who was eager to get me taking more of the drugs. The second doctor had vastly improved the odds I’d become addicted by sending me home with four kinds of drugs. I had to wonder
