Tag Archives: codependency

Doctor Wonderful

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ANNE

People have asked how Vince can write so well, considering he dropped out of school at 16. First, I read and talked to him from Day One. Second, I got a full scholarship to send him to a Montessori preschool. Then, even though I am such a city person that I break into hives when I pass outside the city limits, I moved to a suburb in order to send him to the highest-ranked public school system in Minnesota.

Vince was 10 when I finally finished my college degree. That enabled me to get a new job that paid $20,000 a year—$20,000!—that seemed like a fortune. I also loved the job, which was at a private university. Vince and I lived in a safe and clean—if vanilla—subsidized housing project. I had pulled myself up by the bootstraps, and the future looked like it would only get better.

Here is where I “mom up” to the episode that really blew us off course and (I think) screwed Vince up.

As I type the words, “And then I met a man…” I feel my palms start sweating and my stomach tighten.

—

Let’s just call the man Kermit, because he was about as short, slippery, and spineless as a frog.

Kermit was originally from California and was finishing his neurosurgery residency in Minnesota. He adored Vince, the poor fatherless boy with the big brown eyes and quick wit, and Vince adored him. Kermit adored me, too, the spunky single mother with blonde hair and great legs who read novels by the pile. He only read medical journals.

Looking back, I guess I fell in love with him because I felt sorry for him. He had been abused by his mother. He told me about it in great detail. I tried to empathize by telling him about my alcoholic father who had beaten my mother in front of me and then committed suicide. He said that wasn’t the same thing at all—since my dad had died so long ago I shouldn’t blame my problems on him. Besides, Kermit would say as he slugged down his fifth rum and coke, you can’t hold an alcoholic accountable for what they do when they’re drunk; they can’t help it. Now, his mother was really abusive, and she didn’t even drink! The Witch was still alive. Becoming a brain surgeon had been his plan to escape from her and never have to ask her or his dad, who was a saint, for anything ever again.

There were a few episodes of foreshadowing, like when he got jealous and hurled a can of Coke against my kitchen wall, and left me to wipe up the mess. Or when a cop pulled him over for erratic driving, and he flashed his hospital ID and told the cop, “You wouldn’t want to throw me in jail, would you officer? I might be the one you need to operate on you if you get shot.” He laughed about it when he told me later.

But then he moved back to California to join a practice there, and begged me to marry him and join him. I said yes.

He was living in a penthouse apartment overlooking the Pacific, but he hired a realtor who started sending me full-color glossy profiles of million-dollar houses. “Just get rid of all your furniture and move out there asap!” he’s say. “You can go shopping wherever you want and buy all new furniture!” He had bought a red Maserati, but he would buy me an SUV—a Mercedes, of course—not a Ford! Vince would go to a private boarding school, and wait—what? When I expressed hesitation, Kermit accused me of not wanting the best for my child.

Alarm bells were going off in my head but I ignored them. My friends and family were beside themselves that I had not only met a man, but a rich one—a doctor! And so I quit my new job, gave notice on the subsidized townhouse, and gave away most of my belongings. We were moving to California! What could possibly go wrong?

Thank You

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VINCE

My leg finally feels better. I haven’t done anything to risk re-injuring it and I kind of feel like a bum. Tomorrow I will go back to the gym and get back to my routine, although I won’t be playing any more competitive sports. Too risky for me at this point.

15 meals and a wake up. One of several ways we measure time here. Five days left of prison. Soon there will be no more bars, no more yelling (by prisoners), and no more sex offenders. There are no fences at boot camp. Of course there would still be escape charges if one were to leave without permission, but people seem to want to stay over there.

Sometime during our second week there, I’ve been told, we will be out in the community doing volunteer work. It’s going to be quite the change.

—

Ten meals and a wake up. I suppose the real wake up starts at boot camp. I have been in contact with a couple like-minded people who left one and two months before me. Both said they have really enjoyed the change. These two, like me, are going for the right reason: to positively change their lives. And they both live in St. Paul, so I will have some friends in recovery when I get out. Very important.

That’s what I lost when I left Florida. My group. My allies. The people I grew up with as an adult. I never got it back and I slowly let that become my excuse for using again.

—

Six meals and a wake up. It’s Sunday night and I’ve been having sort of a tough time coming up with things to write about. So I decided to take this time to thank all of you who have been following this journey and those who have commented on this blog. My mom and I knew from the get go that this was going to be powerful stuff, and it takes a fair amount of courage to write it down knowing it can be seen by the masses.

Thank you for letting me let it all out. It has helped me transform into a new man. Six months ago I really wasn’t too sure about this boot camp idea. Even after two months of sobriety I still wanted to be part of “the game.” I was still writing to and talking to all the old characters, setting myself up for disaster. Now I haven’t written or called anybody other than family and a couple guys that are in boot camp right now, for the right reason.

The Send Off

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VINCE

There are so many bad choices I’ve made in my life. But I am ready to break free of my old habits. Nine days until I commit myself to positive change, 189 days til freedom.

—

My second to last court appearance in June last year was a contested omnibus hearing where I finally decided to just make a deal. I was sick of my life and ready to go to prison. It happened a little faster than I thought it would, as I’ve written before.

I left the courtroom knowing that I had eight days left of freedom. Instead of using that time productively I went about my usual routine. Little did I know there was a plan in the works to leave me broke and broken.

Three days before my sentencing, I was robbed at knife point by three people that I thought I knew. They cornered me in a room and told me to empty my pockets, waving around a very short and wide knife.

You may not think of that as too much of a threat. But a person wielding a one-inch knife is ready to use it more quickly than a six-inch knife because it wouldn’t likely produce a fatal wound.

So I emptied my pockets and the one with the knife sucker punched me in the eye. As I turned around he punched me again, in the same spot. That really hurt.

They all called me some names and then left. Their goal was to steal my truck and leave me stranded but fortunately the ignition was broken, and they could not figure out my homemade tweaker [meth user] ignition featuring a light switch for toggle and a doorbell button for the starter switch.

I got up. In a daze I walked to the bathroom. I had a huge black eye. My nose was bleeding and my ego was shot.

They took about $1,000 combined money and drugs from me. It was all I had. But even that didn’t stop me. Nothing ever really did. I knew then that I needed to be locked up, in prison or chained to a radiator, it didn’t matter. I knew I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. My name is Vince and I’m an addict.

—

ANNE

I received a postcard from Vince. Between it and him writing, “I’m an addict,” I felt hope for him for the first time in 10 years.

Hola,

One week away! I’m looking forward to a new life. Again.

Thank you so much for all your support, and hard work. It must be tough at times. I love you very much and I’m happy we have become so close.

Love,

Vince

But was it real? There’s an old joke:

Q: How do you tell when an alcoholic is lying?

A: His lips are moving.

Vince writes about how many days til boot camp…how many days til he’s free…then he can start to change his life. I’m a firm believer that you can change your life now, regardless of whether your circumstances. That work can only be done inside your head, using cognitive behavior therapy, meditation, and other techniques. If you don’t know how to do it, as I didn’t for many years, you’re stuck. Physical fitness and self discipline are great, but I really hope this boot camp thing helps Vince figure out how to rewire his “stinking thinking”, as they call it in AA.

Pickled

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VINCE

Looking back I often wonder how my brain still functions.

I first smoked pot at a birthday party in middle school. , like many people their first time, I didn’t actually get high, so I faked it. Sitting in the back of a van at a drive-in movie, staring out at the big screen, pretending to be high like I had seen in the movies.

Just a couple short years later I had a huge tolerance and was trying out some different things.

I worked more than a few shifts at Burger King on heavy doses of Beavis and Butthead and Black Pyramid acid. Holy….shit. I was the drive-through order taker and I remember seeing the speaker melting off the wall as an order was being given to me. I was laughing hysterically and drooling but my boss wouldn’t fire me because he got his weed from me. I was always able to get through my shifts uninjured, which annoyed me and my friends.

During the last year that I attended high school, I put myself into sort of a last chance program called OJT (on the job training).

At 17 years old I was given a badge, a taser, and a billy club and became one of three security guards at Liberty State Bank.

During the first half of my shift, I sorted mail in the mailroom in the basement, then I would go upstairs and direct traffic in the parking lot if it was busy or sit in the guard shack and smoke cigarettes and weed and sell mushrooms and weed. I could monitor all radio traffic so I knew they never suspected a thing.

I lost that job when they found out I dropped out of school. They even offered to buy me a computer so I could get my diploma online. I said no.

—

It’s Monday morning. Last night I got my pass to take the fitness test, the last step in the process of being officially okayed for boot camp.

Unfortunately, on Saturday night I was injured while playing pickle ball.

I wasn’t even overdoing it. I actually thought somebody had hit me in the leg, but when I looked behind me, nobody was there, and I limped away.

When I got back to the unit, I asked the CO for a bag of ice. He asked why and I told him. And then he “pushed the button”, as we call it. Dee doo dee doo dee doo! People came running from every direction. And then came the wheel chair. Fuck! How embarrassing.

They wheeled me about ¼ mile to Health Services where they stood me up, felt my leg, and told me to walk back to the unit, on my bad leg. Fuck!

I iced it down, slept, then took a hot shower in the morning. I was in some pain, had a little trouble walking but I was pretty sure I could make it through the test.

And I did.

Here’s what I had to do: 20 pushups, 20 crunches, run a mile, do about 10 minutes of the tape, to show you’d been practicing, and some light weight lifting. Eight months ago, I would have dropped dead from that much physical activity. But I passed and I felt pretty good. Really good.

Eleven days until boot camp. I am no longer nervous. Only excited. Excited to change my life.

Free Will

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ANNE

Vince has written about how he doesn’t believe in any god. I used to. For 50 years I never doubted God’s existence; I guess that’s called faith.

I was a seeker. I didn’t assume that, because I was born into a Catholic family, attended Catholic schools, and lived in a Catholic neighborhood, I would always be Catholic.

I spent my teens investigating other faiths and converted to one when I was 18. I’m not trying to be coy by not naming it. Once Vince is out it’ll be no big deal. I belonged to a congregation, went to services every week, and put Vince through religious school, much to his displeasure. I wasn’t a happy clappy bible banger. My congregation is as liberal as they get. Yes, I’m still a member, even though I don’t believe in a god.

Since my dad had died young, I had no problem believing in an invisible father figure who would always be there for me.

Problem was, He wasn’t there for me. For 50 years, I prayed. I tried the begging, pleading prayers and the grateful, worshipping ones. I tried shutting up and listening, aka meditating. But I never heard anything. I never got any answers and never felt comforted. People said, “you have to be patient,” and “maybe God’s answer is ‘no’.” I was well aware of how we contort our logic to make sense of God. For instance, how athletes thank God when they win but blame themselves when they lose.

Then one day, when I was 50, my belief in God just went poof! and disappeared. It was like a light switch had been flipped off. What a relief! I no longer had to try to shake answers or love out of a being I couldn’t see or hear. I was free to pursue or not pursue whatever I wanted. I didn’t have to wait around for a sign from God. If it didn’t work out, I could analyze what went wrong, figure out my part, if any, and do it different next time.

Soon after my faith evaporated, I read the old classic novel Of Human Bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham, which is about an abusive relationship. This passage jumped out at me and summarized how I felt: “He was responsible only to himself for the things he did. Freedom! He was his own master at last. From old habit, unconsciously he thanked god he no longer believed in him.”

I wouldn’t go so far as to say everything is due to my effort, like in the old Rush song, Free Will. It’s easy to be smug when you’re a millionaire rock star. The fact is, we live in a world with constraints like race, class, intellectual and physical abilities, bad luck, good luck, etc.

Another great mind, former professional wrestler, Navy Seal, Minnesota Governor Jesse “The Body” Ventura, got into hot water for saying “Religion is a crutch for weak minded people.” I wasn’t weak minded all those years. I’m a very intelligent person. I just think I needed a father figure and I had been steeped in the Catholic life up until age 18, where questioning God’s existence just wasn’t done.

This new development did throw a wrench in the works for me in my Alanon meetings. Alanon is for families and friends of alcoholics and addicts. I attended weekly meetings and “worked the program”, as they say. Alanon, like AA and the other 12-step groups, uses the term higher power interchangeably with god—and everything depends on believing in one. In my group, people only used the word God, and spoke of God, personally, like he was kindly uncle. I kept going for a year but it finally bugged me so much that I quit.

I’ve written in previous posts about believing that human connections are the key to spiritual growth and inner peace and a feeling of belonging and all that jazz. Vince is counting on his sober friends to keep him sober, and I think he’s on the right track.

The Church of Freeman

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VINCE

27 days to go

What’s the difference between an epiphany and a revelation? Well I had one of them I think.

I was watching the movie Evan Almighty the other day, and during a speech by Morgan Freeman he explains how He (God) answers prayers not by giving people what they ask for, but by the opportunity to earn it. I personally don’t believe in any god, but every time Morgan Freeman speaks it’s like the first time I heard the Beatles: Magical.

Anywho, I got to thinking. I have changed a lot in many ways in the last 7½ months. As of now, I do not want to be part of the drug world anymore. I no longer have any contact with people who use meth. And the longer I have no contact with them, the closer I can get to repairing the relationships with my family, and starting new friendships in the sober community.

But what about a career? What about continuing education? I have a plan, I just don’t know how to implement it yet.

I have spent a lot of my years in kitchens of all shapes and sizes. I would really like to continue with that. Something that I’ve always wanted and would, quite frankly, look good on a resume, is a degree in culinary arts. I have a lot of college credit. I hated every class. But I love creating and learning about food. I have strong kitchen skills, but there is so much more to learn.

My only realistic option upon release from boot camp is to move in with a family member in The Cities. Option 2: a halfway house in Rochester. In Rochester, I know a hundred different ways to get meth in five minutes. Of course there is meth in The Cities but it will be farther from my mind if my family is around instead of druggies.

Unfortunately, I already owe so much on my defaulted student loans, there’s no way I could pay for more college. That, you see, is the problem. Rob a bank?

Maybe not an epiphany or a revelation, but knowing what I want to do is certainly a step in the right direction. And certainly a better idea than dealing meth!

—

I haven’t mentioned my ex co-defendant for some time. Well, that’s because she hasn’t been behaving herself. When I took the prison time it was in hope that she would use this chance to sober up. Tougher than it sounds. I know from experience.

Yesterday I found out that she’s in jail again on another drug charge. This time it’s only for hash, very minor in our state, but with her history, she may get a lengthy term.

I haven’t spoken to anybody on the bad side of the law for over a month. Nothing good can come of it.

For the second time in my life, I’m excited about sobriety. I find myself thinking about getting out and finding a couple people I know who are currently in boot camp and sitting around laughing about prison over coffee. They are both from St. Paul.

I’m setting myself up for success, and it’s going to be a lot of work. The second hardest part starts in 18 days. Six months after that, the real test: freedom.

Focus Schmocus

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VINCE

I’m sitting in my room, watching but not listening to the football game. I don’t have a TV so I get to read subtitles because we don’t share ear buds.

I’ve been in a funk since Friday, when my Mother was denied a visit to me because of the outfit she was wearing. This blog is a bit delayed so you may have read about the ordeal already. In fact I can’t really write too much about it because there isn’t much to write about. She came wearing a shirt they deemed too low cut. I think she could have gone to Walmart to get a shirt but she may have called the CO a pervert (smile) at which point they probably told her to leave.

She left the country a few days later so I may not get to see her for a while. No visits are allowed the first two months in boot camp.

—

Oddities:

On more than one occasion, I have seen people reaching into toilets between their legs…I really have no idea why.

There are no doors on the stalls for the toilets out where I work, so when I walk by there’s a chance I will get to see something strange—to wit, yesterday I saw a man without pants or underpants on (not uncommon for men, apparently) standing up to wipe his behind. But then…he sat back down, smelled the TP, then put it in the toilet from the front, definitely completing the link of genitals and feces. And that’s not even the strangest thing I saw yesterday. Ugh.

—

33 days to go.

Nothing new has happened in the last week.

Three days from now, two of my very few friends are heading to boot camp themselves. As I’ve said before, I don’t associate with too many people in here. And after Wednesday, my small group will be down to two, including me.

In my last month here I need to focus on training anyhow. I’m really good at the tape now, but I still have no desire, ever to run. Unfortunately for me, they don’t take excuses like that at boot camp. So I need to figure that out quickly.

The Buzz

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VINCE

Drugs are my drug of choice. My most recent favorite was meth. And since most of you have never used it, I will try my best to describe what it does.

Meth is unique in that it can be ingested several ways, each giving a different sensation, along with the standard benefit of increased brain activity and being able to stay up for days at a time.

You can put it in your veins, in your lungs, up your ass, in your nose, in your stomach, and…well that about covers it.

I’ve never used needles; personal phobia. The rest I’ve done at least once.

When you snort it, it takes a few minutes to kick in, but it lasts a while. I preferred smoking it over a glass bubble. At head shops they call them incense burners, but I’ve never seen one used for that purpose. A bubble is a short (4-11”) hollow glass tube with a globe at one end, with a small hole in it. It is lit from the bottom, not through the hole (meth is explosive) and when it melts it produces sort of a steam-smoke which is of course inhaled.

The high is almost immediate. Sadly, toward the end of my run, I pretty much had to have the bubble in my hand if I was awake.

My favorite part was when the effects of sleep deprivation kicked in. Some people couldn’t handle it and they went crazy. I enjoyed the hallucinations and irrational thoughts. They would start at around Day Five.

Of course, after some time, your brain would sort of shut down and sleep would become necessary. More than a few times this happened while I was driving.

I have woken up airborne, backwards, and upside down while crashing four different cars, none of which I owned. Fortunately, I never injured anybody other than myself.

Looking back, they should have been some of the scariest moments of my life, but I was in such a daze at the time I just played it cool and worked with what I could. Three of the four cars were just fine. I returned them to their owners, gave them some “payment,” and went about my business.

Yes, I should have been injured. One time I woke up going backward at 70 miles per hour in the oncoming lane on a corner of Highway 52 during a snowstorm. Somehow, all I hit was snow, which slowed me down much slower than…say, a car. I had to come back the next day and I noticed the car was about three feet up in the air, snow packed in and around it. It took six people shoveling and two sets of chains but I drove it out.

Kermit the Rapist

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VINCE

Other than running and doing the tape and playing various indoor competitive sports, I haven’t done any real workout in a month. I went to the gym today with no real intention of doing anything at all, but the weight room was nearly empty so a friend and I went in.

Much to my surprise, my stamina had increased tenfold. I was like the Energizer Bunny. And when I was done, I felt…high. It was an adrenaline rush I think. I probably could have kept going but I didn’t want to burn myself out.

By the time I get to boot camp I have to be able to routinely do sets of 20 pushups. Good ones. Every time we fall out of line, do something out of formation, or screw up in any way, including talking back, we get dropped down. I plan on behaving myself, but it’s good to be prepared.

I may have mentioned before that we have dogs in our unit. The Ruff Start program allows offenders to train rescue dogs for service as companions to the elderly and disabled out in the community.

Last week two of the dog trainers were taken to the hole for blowing each other in their room. I find it odd that they would let sex offenders keep a living animal in a room overnight with them. I’m not implying that there’s any dog fucking going on here…but they sure are given the opportunity.

One of the new dog trainers, I call him Kermit the rapist, has a first degree Criminal Sexual Assault. But just like the rest of the sex offenders, he says it was all just a misunderstanding. Oh, I gave him that name because he has a really high throaty voice, and much like a puppet, his lips never stop flapping. And also he’s a convicted rapist.

[ANNE: In the international development world, we don’t use the word “rape” even though it is used systematically to terrorize and intimidate entire communities. We call it Sexual and Gender-Based Violence, or SGBV. I realize that people are subjected to other acts of sexual violence, like having their breasts cut off. I realize men and boys are violated as well as women and girls. I know that various genders are violated in various ways by various other genders for gender-based motivations. But wasn’t that a boring sentence you just read? I think that by trying to cover all possible bases by using the term SGBV, the whole issue becomes meaningless. The word rape gives me chills. SGBV? Yawn. But maybe that’s just me.]

Fear of Freedom

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VINCE

For the third time since my imprisonment—just in Moose Lake—I am trying out a new medication as per doctor’s orders. This time it’s Artane, and so far so good. Better than Sinamet. I still miss Mirapex. I am sleeping soundly through the night which is the desired outcome.

Today I ran a mile in 9m 17s. I can’t seem to get over a mile though. Every time I’m done running, I know that I’m going to die. I don’t actually die, but I do feel completely exhausted.

But…something happened today that is a first. I actually wanted to run. I looked forward to it. I knew in advance that I could do better than I had. And I know…that I can, and will, do better tomorrow.

My strategy is actually to run at a slower pace, and go 1½ miles. And alternate daily between going for distance and going for time.

OK it’s not actually my strategy. The athletic trainer for boot camp told me it was a good way to build stamina. I’ll take his advice.

One of my few good friends here left for boot camp three days ago. He was nervous.   Not because he couldn’t handle getting yelled at, or couldn’t handle the physical training, but because he was a step closer to freedom.

A lot of guys are afraid of their release date because they’ve spent their whole lives screwing up and don’t think much will change.

In my experience, prison is a horrible place. People talk a lot about repeating mistakes they made out there because it’s all they know. I know how to make meth. I learned how, here in Moose Lake. I probably will not do it, although now it’s an option. I have phone numbers of people that will be doing what I used to do when they get out. So I have those options too. Actually I threw those numbers away today.

The longer I stay in prison, the more I’m going to want to go back to the shit life. That’s why I really want to get to boot camp, so I can be surrounded by people looking for a positive change. I haven’t made too many good decisions in my life time, I need all the help I can get.