prayer

For the first time in my life, I am crying out for help.

The help I need is in the form of a prayer (or prayers).

I am asking everyone who reads this blog to say a prayer for me. I am hitting a new low in the trajectory of my life and I feel helpless and powerless, unable (or perhaps unwilling) to do anything about it.

Even if you are an atheist or doubt the existence of God or pray to some other deity or don't pray at all, please say one for me.

At this point, I'll take all the help I can get.


*/*


The cocaine problem never went away.

Instead, it took a hiatus. After the new year began I did go sober, and it lasted for quite a while. I went a whole month without buying anything. I was still using occasionally, especially when friends came over and wanted to get their fix of whatever in my apartment. But I was not spending money on it, and that was good.

I was done with the cocaine, and one of the things that kept me away was knowing that the stuff I'd been doing was total crap: cut beyond belief, to the extent that I could no longer bear the symptoms of the "comedown". My nose would burn as if on fire; my teeth and gums would ache and keep me awake when I was trying to sleep; my sinuses were blown out, and I kept blowing weird-looking pink mucus out of my nose for days after each coke binge.

Not wanting to feel so crappy made my decision much easier. I felt my sanity returning and my body was rejuvenating itself. I didn't need pot to fill the void, which was the one thing about sniffing coke that made me somewhat happy.

Then, I met Gerald.


*/*


That last sentence was a bit misleading.

I'd met Gerald years ago, when I was playing in Holly Golightly's band. Gerald was a friend of Ben, aka "Snake", the rhythm guitarist for the group.

Don't let the nickname "Snake" fool you-- Ben is a great guy and an honest man, and the "Snake" handle came about as a joke in a pool hall one night while hanging out with some friends. A stranger who wanted to shoot pool with Ben and his buddy asked if they were sharks, and Ben's friend made-up the name Snake for him, as if to imply that a guy named Snake should not be trusted when it came to playing billiards for money.

Anyway, Gerald came by Snake's house one day a few years ago. The band rehearsed at Snake's spacious mansion in the Santa Susana Pass slightly west of Topanga Canyon because no one ever complained about the noise and there was so much room for us to jam out and store our gear.

Gerald is in his mid-fifties, originally from Boston. He could be someone's dad or uncle if you didn't know him already. He likes to drink but on the surface you'd never know that not only does he like to get high but that he grows his own weed and sells it for relatively cheap.

The day he came over to watch us rehearse, Evan the drummer was late. There was always an excuse or crazy story with Evan, so we were not surprised at all by his tardiness. However, we were getting less and less tolerant of his flaky ways with each passing week.

Out of frustration and boredom, I announced that I would play on the drums until Evan showed up. I already knew my bass lines and didn't need to practice them right then and there. I'm not a very good drummer but I can keep time, and we'd already tried to practice without Evan but the lack of a backbeat made it difficult. Actually, to be honest, the members of the band just couldn't get into it without the drums providing the pulse.

So I sat down on the drum stool and ran through three songs to the best of my limited ability. It wasn't a great practice, but at least the others felt more comfortable with something as opposed to nothing. I was having fun trying to duplicate some of Evan's fills and drum parts, curious to see how long I could hold on before giving up out of exhaustion.

Afterwards, when Evan showed up and we ran through the entire set list, all of us went outside to relax and smoke and drink. Gerald came up to me, his breath reeking of beer, and patted me on the back, his salt-and-pepper mustache bouncing up and down as he complimented my drumming.

"You, kid..." he said, his Bostonian accent cutting sharp edges into his words, "You're a fuckin' genius! You drum better than the other guy! Seriously, no shit. I was totally floored by what you did in there. You just got up, grabbed the sticks, and bashed those fuckers in. You're the soul of this group, I'll tell ya!"

Of course, I was humble... at first. But the accolades kept coming, and I gradually let them sit with me inside my head.

"I try," I said after some time had passed and Gerald's praise had not relented in the slightest. "I'm not the best, but I'm not gonna let things like our drummer being late get in the way of..."

"Fuck that guy! You're the one who's going to go places! Everyone else in this group... they're good, don't get me wrong. But they don't got what you got-- even Ben, bless his soul. I bet you could outplay Ben on the axe any day."

"Well, I wouldn't say that..."

"I know you wouldn't. You're modest, that's why! You don't think you're the shit, but you are. You're the shit. Accept it already!"

Gerald pulled out a joint and gave it to me to light up. "I grew this myself, you know."

I took a pull off of it. "Damn," I coughed, "this is some good shit!"

"Hey, you deserve it, kid. You've got what it takes, I can feel it."

And that's how I met Gerald.


*/*


After that day I saw Gerald whenever he'd come to our shows. But that was near the end of our run as a band, and even though I kept in touch with everyone post-breakup I didn't see Gerald for years.

Then around the end of January I gave Snake a ride out to meet one of his friends in the West Valley. Snake was without a car and had to pay back some money he owed, and he asked me if I could help him.

I picked Snake up and asked if I could use his cel phone to call a friend who asked me to call him later in the evening. The friend told me that he had called the coke dealer we'd been scoring from but he wasn't going to be around until well after midnight. It was five after eight, and he wanted to know if I could go out and meet the guy where he was hanging out since I was already on the road.

"I don't know, man," I said over the phone. "I'm trying not to do it, and that's a long way to drive just for some yay." I used the slang abbreviation for llello, which is Spanish for cocaine.

Snake looked at me and motioned for me to hold the phone. "You're looking for some C?" Another slang term for the white stuff.

"I'm not-- this guy is," I said to Snake, pointing to the cel.

"Gerald's got some."

"Gerald? You mean East Coast Gerald?"

"Yeah. Let me call him. How much does he want?"

"Uh, I dunno... how much will Gerald sell?"

"$60 increments."

"Well, we already pay $40 for the other stuff, but that's because he won't do twenties anymore. How cut is Gerald's stuff?"

"Very pure. Not really cut. It's always the same, it never varies. Mild high, but it won't make you wanna rip your hair out."

I discussed the situation with my friend in the vaguest possible manner, and he agreed to give it a try. if it wasn't good stuff, he reasoned, then he could always call the other guy later on.

"OK, Snake," I said as I hung up the cel and gave it back to him. "Should we hit Gerald up before or after we make this errand?"

Snake laughed. "Actually, he's the one I'm going to see. You're taking me right to him."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Will he be cool with me asking?"

"Dude, he loves you. Remember?"

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Well, call him now and ask him if he can have it ready."

That night, I had a taste of Gerald's product, and it was amazing how different his stuff was compared to the other stuff: not hard on the nose, relatively pure, didn't smell like ether or gasoline, wasn't in rock form (it was granulated powder), and when it was all gone I was able to go to sleep!

And the next morning, it was as if I didn't do any at all. No aches and pains, no corroded pink earthworms lodged in my nose, and no burn.

I started buying it again, but from Gerald. I swore off the other shit, the cut shit. There were so many advantages to getting it from Gerald-- no more trips to the 'hood because Gerald lived in a nice suburban part of the Valley; no more long waits because Gerald was on time whenever I called him for an order; no more delays and being put off until the next day either.

I told myself I would only buy on the weekends, and I've pretty much kept up that end of my bargain with myself. But I also told myself that buying from Gerald would help me to wean off of the stuff. I reasoned that since it was the kind of high that I could walk away from and not think about until the weekend came, I could eventually learn to do without it at all.

On that point, I'm beginning to see that I was wrong.


*/*


The coke high, for me, is all about pure ego gratification.

Unlike other drugs, the pleasure comes not from reveling in the side effects. Rather, the pleasure comes from the sense of well-being that overcomes me when I do it. It's as if someone is patting me on the back and commending me for a job well done for a good half an hour. When the drug's effects start to wane, it's as simple as cutting up another line and inhaling it, and voila! I'm back to pretending that my ass is being kissed non-stop.

Other drugs seem to disable the ego, and therein lies their appeal. Marijuana causes euphoria and a sense of well-being, but not to the extent of cocaine. The pot high is more of an id gratification-- you do it because it feels good, not because you feel like you've accomplished anything. The ego is muted when I'm stoned, whereas the ego is overstimulated when I'm tweaking.

Acid, mushrooms, peyote-- those drugs are total ego destroyers. You have to let go of your self-esteem and all of its attachments in order to enjoy them. On the other hand, MDMA (Ecstasy) is like a mix of coke and pot in that it massages the ego but also causes you to surrender to your pleasure principle.

Adding to cocaine's insidious nature is the fact that (now that I am doing cleaner coke) I have more than doubled my intake. Although I can make it through the week and through a work shift without buying or doing any, I overcompensate on the weekends. Many friends and acquaintances have remarked on the amounts I snort when we are all together partying. These people have been doing it for much longer than me, and yet their eyes bulge out and their jaws drop when they see the gaggers I cut for them and myself. They take a look at the size of the lines I have prepared for them and insist on doing only half or a mere fraction. When they are done, I swoop down and finish off what they left on their plate, minutes after sniffing rails the size of my pinkie finger.

One night I did $100 worth straight to my head. By the end of my stash I could no longer get high-- if anything it was making me more tired instead of pepping me up. I told my guests that I was going to go to sleep and that they could stay for as long as they wanted just as long as they locked my door when they left.

I received a phone call less than an hour later from one of the guests, who left shortly after I retired for the night. He wanted to make sure that I was OK and that I hadn't died or gotten sick or choked on my own vomit or something horrible like that. I laughed and reassured them that I was fine, but when I hung up I took a look at myself in the mirror and saw that my face was fatigued and beaten. I looked old, weathered, like I'd aged ten years overnight.

On top of all of that, the shit's expensive. I am not in terrible financial trouble yet, but if I continue down this road I will be. Even at the height of my pot use I was not spending $100 in one sitting. And if I did ever spend $100 on weed, it lasted me for more than just a few hours-- $100 worth of grass could last me for a month if I was frugal with it.

Last week I was so happy because I'd been propositioned by a fellow cokehead and turned him down flat. He wanted to know if I wanted to split some with him and I refused, saying that if I was going to buy any it would be on the weekend. I felt good about not giving in, especially since Valentine's Day was coming and I was being inundated on all sides by love propaganda that usually makes me feel lonely and unwanted.

I held out until Saturday, and then I dropped close to $200 on the clean stuff. It was gone by Sunday morning, and I spent the rest of the day catching up on sleep and wondering how I could just waste my money like that when I have bills to pay, things to take care of and a life to live.

Even though it wasn't the cut stuff that had me using on a daily basis and even though I didn't have a hangover the next day, I still felt like utter shit.


*/*


And that's why I am pleading for your prayers, kind people.

I have not hit rock bottom yet, but I would like to spare myself the pain and embarrassment of losing everything I've worked so hard for over a drug habit.

I now fully understand the plight of every person I've ever met or known who found themselves in my shoes. I must admit, I could never comprehend why coke addicts couldn't exhibit any will power. And now, I cannot even understand my own lack of will power.

I am above this. I know better. I am not stupid. But yet I'm doing stupid things, and I cannot seem to make it stick whenever I tell myself to kick.

It's not over for me, so please keep me in your thoughts and root for me. I may not be able to hear your prayers, but they will reach me somehow.

I can't do it alone. I need to get away from the people who use it, from the people who sell it, from the people who are afraid to lecture me because they don't want to anger me.

I have to stop using it.

I have to.