Like the car that started the whole thing, my life was an absolute wreck.
Chapter 7
Downhill Racing
C. S. Lewis once wrote that the surest road to hell is the gradual one, with a gentle slope you almost fail to notice—no sharp turns or signposts. It winds downward to its destination without your even noticing it.1
I know that road well. It’s just that I’ve never been a slow driver; when I head somewhere, I head there at full speed.
My descent into full-scale drug abuse was amazingly rapid. In November of 1999, before the accident, I was selling cars, training for the UFC, and thinking about business opportunities. By early the next year, I was looking for faster and better drug connections. I got in too deep for a number of reasons, all having to do with my wiring.
Addictive personalities are the ones at highest risk to be devastated by alcohol, drugs, sex, or almost anything else. I don’t possess every mark of the typical addictive personality, but I do have some key traits.
First, I was born with ADHD, so any kind of stimulation, any shiny thing dangled before me, was all but irresistible. ADHD people chase the dopamine surge nonstop.
Needless to say, life is full of highs and lows alike, but a chemical high is in a class by itself. There’s a parable in the Bible about a “pearl of great price.” A man searches everywhere for fine pearls, but when he finds the one that outshines them all, he’ll sell everything he has to possess it. My pearl, at this point, was the ultimate high; the day would come when I would find something greater than any riches found on earth; the true “precious pearl” that doesn’t enslave. In 2000, I only knew the thrills of the physical world.
Second, I was a fully functioning addict. Not everyone can live that way, but I did. It enabled me to lead a shadow life by compartmentalizing my drug abuse so that the people who loved me most knew nothing about it. It meant I could cut off my parents and my sister from getting me help. Other than God himself, the greatest resource available to us, in times of crisis, is the love of the people who care about us. But true love always demands full transparency—my family needed to know what was going on in order to help, but I covered it up so well, they had no idea.
During this period, I never hid away from my family. We had dinner, we went to the movies, we hung out together—but all the time my parents had no clue their son was a drug abuser and dealer. I also went to work every day, I did my job, and everything seemed normal.
But I was secretly continuing to destroy myself.
Third, and with tragic irony, I was a born networker, entrepreneurial to the core. I loved interacting with people and stepping up to lead them, empowering them to accomplish a greater purpose. Like every other skill I had, this one was made for greater things. I was just misusing my gifts.
Practically my first impulse on being introduced to drug use was to start building distribution networks. That meant I was good at making money on narcotics, which only meant more narcotics were at my disposal. I was simply too proficient and creative at feeding the beast.
A guy named Rocky worked for my dad. One day I was hanging out at the collision center, and we got into a conversation. We were close enough that I’d let him in on my secret. He’d told me in the past that he was prone to taking too many Somas, so he would “walk around in the Soma coma like a zombie.” He was a great body man for car repair, but of course my dad knew nothing about what he did in his spare time.
“My only problem,” I said, “is that I can’t get my meds fast enough. My new doctor writes pretty good prescriptions, but it’s still not as many as I can move or use. I could really make some money if I had a better source.”
“You need two doctors,” said Rocky.
“So how am I supposed to do that? Don’t they stop you from doing that stuff?”
“Not if they don’t know. You’ll have to fill the scripts at different pharmacies not to be detected. Also, always pay cash. I know a doctor who will write you up ninety of each prescription. I’ve done this for years.”
“Where do I find him, and how do I get in?”
“It’s a she. Dr. Casey is her name,2 and I’ll give you directions. She has a pain management clinic over in New Orleans east. It’s in kind of a rough area, but you just walk in, pay something like a hundred and fifty bucks, and she’ll pull out her pad without asking many questions. You’ll just have to wait a while. Remember, make sure you take it to a different drug store.”
I drove to the place he told me about on Chef Menteur Highway and walked in. I should have known—the waiting room was packed wall to wall. Most of the people I would have guessed were drug addicts, rather than the kind of uptown, “recreational” user I considered myself to be. Could I be staring at a possible future—the place where the road leveled out, at the very bottom of that road with no signposts?
The thought never crossed my mind. I was in full control. I could stop anytime I wanted, like all the other addicts.
This wasn’t your typical medical practice; it was open from late afternoon until very early in the morning. Off-duty cops stood at the door and in the waiting room. It was a
