The Long Road Home from Relapse

By: Mark S. King

Florida highways have lovely rest stops.

I think this while sitting on a cement bench in a concession area, chomping down corn chips and a Mountain Dew, away from the dog walkers and the families gathered at picnic tables. That’s when I notice my jeans gathered sloppily around my waistline, cinched so much tighter than before. How much smaller has my waist become in such short a time? I wonder. One inch? Two?

People stroll near me on their way to the restroom and I keep my eyes down, afraid I might look too disheveled for their comfort. Or worse, that my shame might be clearly written across my face. That they might see what I’ve done, and return a glance of judgment or pull their children closer…

No. This self-pitying tone doesn’t suit me. Pity is such a useless emotion at a time like this. Let me start again.

The drug relapse came over me like a sickness, as if I was coming down with something, slowly, over weeks. The breakup with my former partner last month in Ft Lauderdale had been cordial, and he and I continued living together while I made plans to relocate back to Atlanta. But my disease of addiction had already begun rearranging my thoughts, shuffling priorities in a bid for dominance over the vigilant recovery I had practiced, proudly and successfully, for nearly three years.

Small changes crept into my behavior, not about drugs precisely, but other habits that had once accompanied my drug use. A return to the gym brought a shallow fixation on my body. Smoking, a habit broken for two years, returned in secretive fits and starts. A feeling of entitlement — to do as I pleased, to eat junk or get laid — swept over me like a declaration of freedom that hid its true intentions in the fine print.

And then the clarion call became more explicit, as involuntary images of using drugs bombarded me, plaguing my sleep and daydreams. While memories of life as an active addict had previously been reduced to dark and sinister snapshots of a pitiful existence, these new images were more seductive, promising euphoria, fast sex and a lurid escape. So when my former partner left town on business the week before Thanksgiving, the drug addict inside me made a break for it. It’s startling, really, the speed at which a recovered crystal meth addict, filled with a sense of purpose and a devotion to helping others dealing with this disease, can be transformed into a selfish liar; about as long as it takes the first, transformative rush of the drug to enter your body.

But the images that promised everything delivered nothing. Or, that is, they delivered the usual package of misery I should have expected from my own past experiences and the many, many stories I’ve heard from other addicts. Those images — the real ones I witnessed during my relapse rather than the counterfeit promises with which my disease had baited me — haunt me now. I don’t want to conjure them, the lesson has been received, but they roll on. Images of desperation, of blood and jeopardy and strangers with my fate in their hands.

The street crack dealer, with whom I am pleading to please return the keys he has taken from my pocket, who tells me he’s going to “rent” my car for errands, who threatens me through a manic grin and all the while I am trying to convince him to please, please just give back the...

No. You don’t need to hear this. This is mine to endure and overcome. Let me start again.

This long drive was unplanned, the consequence of my relapse. After days of not being where I was supposed to be and phone calls piled high with deceit, my former partner pegged my insanity and sent me a text from his business trip, asking me to leave before he returned. My disregard for our home, the dogs, and my personal safety was simply too much. A mutual friend arrived to care for the house. I would pack and leave within a day, to sit out the holidays with family in Shreveport, Louisiana, a thousand miles from Fort Lauderdale.

Even before his discovery, the awful realization of what I had done, how I had taken our gracious final days together and twisted them into something horrific, had actually spurred my relapse further as I sought escape from my own wreckage. By the time his text appeared on my phone, the smoke was clearing, the fever had broken, but it was far too late.

The comfortable highways of Florida eventually gives way to the ruined roads of Alabama and Mississippi, badly spackled with tar, and my car rumbles with the thumpa-THUMPA-thumpa of their scarred surfaces. I had turned back once already, when I had first driven onto the freeway and realized I had his watch on my wrist, a watch I had always worn but wasn’t mine. It set off another round of worry, and I wondered if a new label might be added to my sadly recycled identity—Drug addict. Liar. Thief.—so I drove back to return it. In the hour I’d been gone the quiet house had abandoned any welcome for me. I placed the watch on a table and locked up again. It felt like trespassing.

Explaining my relapse is beyond me, beyond logic. It maddens me, the choices I have made, and reminds me that the disease most capable of killing me isn’t HIV, it is drug addiction.

But this chronicle reeks of defeat, and I am not feeling defeated today. Let me start again.

My tired car pulls into Mom’s driveway, and my brother — also gay and also an addict in recovery for more than a decade — greets me with an extended hug. We begin immediately unloading the car, as if to shoo away the evidence of my drive and the depressing reason for it. A guest room has been prepared, a closet cleared. For the next month, as I deal honestly with my tender wounds, this will be home.

Mother arrives from the hair salon, and her cheerful And how is my favorite redhead doing..? tells me that everything is going to be fine. She knows why I’ve come home, and she doesn’t require a single detail.

I’ve already begun the business of rededicating myself to my program of recovery, and there is pride in that. There is joy, in fact, once the truth has been told and the work to rebuild can begin. Not regretting the past, even the recent past, is a difficult job, but too much time spent looking in the rear view mirror hardly bolsters me for the road ahead.

I am grateful, to have regained my footing after a few terrible days, to have survived it, to have my freedom to make better choices. And I am filled with gratitude for the friends and family who have given me a precious gift.

They let me start again.


You can read more by Mark S. King (pictured here) and watch his videos at My Fabulous Disease.

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