Maybe I didn’t deserve a break.
I couldn’t see any way out. The NAD treatment was expensive, and I couldn’t stand the shame of asking for help. Not a second time.
One of the problems with nearly any kind of addiction is that your needs escalate. In the case of drugs, your system builds up a tolerance to the old dosage; it calls for a larger amount. In my case, I was supplementing drugs with alcohol, almost a fifth of Jack Daniels a day. The rest of the time I was going through one cigarette after another. At one point, I was smoking two and a half packs a day. My system was demanding any little spike it could get, and I was slave to those demands.
My parents kept alcohol in their closet, and during those two months at home, I’d go in, drink the bottle, and replace the whiskey with water, so it wouldn’t look empty. Obviously this wasn’t going to work forever, but addicts never worry about tomorrow. They don’t have that luxury.
During the summer, Dad surprised Mom and took her on a trip to Europe. Talk about a well-deserved break. He left me in charge of the shop, and I continued to drink, take drugs, and wonder how low I could sink.
The day came when my parents returned. Not long afterward, Mom went into the closet, reached for a bottle, and found it filled with water. Then another bottle. Then another. Once again, the whole truth dawned on her. She was furious with me and dumbfounded that she and my dad had been fooled again. Knowing I was back on drugs, they were both furious and heartbroken, and I was even more furious and more heartbroken with myself.
Like I said, 2002 wasn’t a happy year for anybody.
Once I got to the middle of October, I realized I was at the breaking point. Fed up. No longer willing to put up with another day of this misery. The confrontation with my parents, whom I’ve always loved so deeply, broke through the haze of drugs and alcohol and made me face the truth. I was broken. I had failed, been rescued, then failed again. The shame was unbearable.
Frankly I wasn’t sure whether my life was worth continuing. I thought about suicide. As I lay awake, I would think about the eight friends who had already died to alcohol- or drug-related deaths. Some died by car accidents, others by overdoses, and one by suicide. Any night could have been my last, given the amount of drugs I was consuming. I was one bad batch away from a grave myself.
I thought about all of this and came to the decision that life would go on, but I had to detox myself. I knew that a trip to Tijuana was no longer necessary for the amino acid treatment. I could have it done at Paula’s clinic in Slidell, not far from home—it was now approved for the United States. And Paula said I didn’t need the full ten days of treatments. A three-day tweak, she believed, would get it done, and I’d be free again.
I told Paula I was going to get that tweak soon; then I went home with a plan of my own. No way I was going to let myself off cheaply. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. The NAD treatment wasn’t punishing enough. The way I saw it, I’d done something terrible, I’d hurt my family, and I needed to pay.
If there was one thing I could understand, it was that sin demanded payment. That’s why I was going to detox myself and take the full burden of my wrongdoing.
I spent a week starving my system of those spikes it demanded. No drugs. No alcohol. No matter what. It was just as terrible as I knew it would be, and then some. This was the only way I felt I could really get clean—making it hurt.
I realize now there was an element of self-loathing and masochism, but that’s where my head was in those days. There were about ten days of projectile vomiting and diarrhea; I was sick to my stomach and in despair of life. The human body wasn’t meant to endure that kind of pain.
Worst of all, my parents had to watch. What could they do? I told them they couldn’t interfere—I’d brought this on myself and I shouldn’t be let off the hook. Today, as a parent myself, I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to watch one of your own children suffer like this.
Finally the symptoms began to subside, my body got the message that no more drugs were coming, and the cravings leveled off. I felt the peace that comes after the storm, but no real sense of joy or fulfillment. Just emptiness.
My body may have been free, but I still had no identity. Who was Robby Gallaty?
On November 11, I drove to Slidell to receive treatment from Paula’s clinic, just to finish off the job and restore my system. I went again for the second of three days and reflected on the fact that I wasn’t feeling any better about any of it. I’d gritted out a detox, all by myself, and I should have felt the taste of victory, or even just a powerful sense of relief. I should have felt hopeful, if humbled.
But all I felt was desolation.
I had to admit it wasn’t just about drugs. Paula had been talking to me about all those roles I’d played, all those fake identities: Robby the basketball player, Robby the stockbroker, Robby the entertainer, Robby the magician. I was still looking in the mirror and seeing . . . nothing.
I walked into our home that evening, had dinner with my parents, and went quietly to my room. At bedtime I couldn’t sleep, as usual. I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for at least ten days. Something was getting under my skin, and at some point, I
