By Max Oppen
TANNERSVILLE – Sobriety is so simple—yet so difficult. You have to be willing to reach out for help. Narcotics Anonymous (NA) is one method that works for many. For those who don't know, these meetings are a gathering spot, often in churches, where the only requirement for membership is the desire to get clean and stay clean. The emotional turmoil that results from using drugs for decades is overwhelming, and it's easy to feel crushed under the weight of it. Hence the well-worn NA saying, "One day at a time." For me, it's often one hour at a time.
The first step of the Twelve Steps states, "We admitted that we were powerless over our addiction, that our lives had become unmanageable." In other words, you have to be humble enough to admit you aren't in control when you pick up a drug or a drink. I thought I was in control for decades but couldn't have been further from the truth. It took me many years to finally realize this. Even as a "functioning addict," I thought I had control. I didn't. It took hitting rock bottom repeatedly to understand the drugs were controlling me.
There's something powerful about sitting in a group with others who have gone through the same horrors. At my last meeting, I shared where I was, and people listened. Some, with years of sobriety, cried. Some approached me afterward, thanking me for "keeping it green" for them. In NA, you're encouraged to collect phone numbers from other addicts and check in with people. You're also encouraged to get a sponsor to guide you through the Twelve Steps as soon as possible. That's something I've been avoiding. I've been avoiding meetings, too.
It's strange—I would drive five hours to score drugs, but I struggle to find two hours for a meeting after work. I went to my third meeting since my overdose on July 28 tonight (last Saturday) in Saugerties. There's always hesitation before I go, but I always leave those meetings feeling better. I procrastinate with most things—except when it comes to drugs—getting clean means building new routines, making new friends, and forming healthier habits. One of my therapists once told me that after a relapse, it's like I'm standing on top of a derailed train, surveying the wreckage.
Getting sober is an emotional rollercoaster. I cry over everything I've lost, sometimes triggered by the slightest thought. But after the tears, there's hope for the future. It's so healthy to cry. In early sobriety, recovering people with an addiction and drug counselors often talk about the "pink cloud" phase—a feeling of euphoria, or what I'd call feeling manic. But that feeling doesn't last long, and then the thoughts of using start to push their way in. Along with those thoughts comes a deep regret for all the bad choices I've made. We addicts tend to forget the hell we created for ourselves and our loved ones. Instead, we romanticize drug use—the ritual, the danger, the excitement. But that mindset is dangerous.
I've relapsed so many times that I'm scared of myself. Why would this time be any different? The truth is, it's about taking it one day at a time. I haven't used today, and tomorrow is another day with its own challenges, highs, and lows. I've failed to stay sober many times, but I've never quit trying. Even if I relapse again, I'll keep fighting.
Relapse doesn't just happen when you pick up a drug. It starts days before, in your mind. One minute, I'm going about my life, taking care of my responsibilities, and the next, I find myself in a trap house, surrounded by strangers. These places are dangerous. I remember one in Greenport, Hudson, where two men were cooking crack on the stove, wearing full face masks and all-black clothing. I've smoked crack in houses littered with guns and super paranoid people. I've done drugs at the homes of couples with young children, hiding in tiny, windowless rooms.
Looking back, I can't believe the risks I took to get high. And much of this happened in the last three years. When COVID hit, I went on a two-year binge that ended with me getting kicked out of my mom's house because my behavior was so erratic. I had totaled my car driving up Route 23A after an all-night binge of smoking crack and taking Xanax. I fell asleep at the wheel, hit a boulder, went airborne, and crashed into a tree at 50 mph. Miraculously, I walked away with a slight friction burn on my hand from the airbag. Some say drunk or high drivers don't tense up in a crash, which is why we sometimes walk away with fewer injuries than sober folks. I don't know if that's true, but surviving that crash feels like a miracle. Unfortunately, even that didn't snap me out of my addiction.
That's about the time when my family and friends saw what was going on with me. And it wasn't pretty. I would stay up for days, hallucinate, and experience delusions. I would see little cameras attached to cable cords snaking down from my drop ceiling. It was so real. I remember asking a friend to record what I saw - tiny mechanical cameras that looked like insects. I watched the video with a clearer head and realized I was losing my mind.
As I write this, it's Monday evening, and a friend just texted to ask if I wanted to attend an NA meeting. I told him I couldn't because I had deadlines and a ton of articles to write, including this column. Some might say that's an excuse, that sobriety should be my only focus. But I disagree. Yes, sobriety is critical, but so is paying my bills. I've been working manual labor jobs for the past two weeks, making it challenging to get my articles in. Last week, I only had two published in the paper. Freelance reporting pays little, and we certainly don't earn a living wage for the effort we put into informing the community. This isn't a swipe at my employer - it's simply a fact.
Too few businesses in Hunter and Tannersville advertise with us, limiting our article output. It's strange—many businesses love being profiled, but when I reach out asking for support through ads, I'm often ignored. This isn't a criticism of the businesses, just the reality of the industry. It's like that everywhere.
As of Monday, September 16, I've got 50 days of sobriety—one day at a time. If you're looking for help, there's an app called Meeting Guide that can help you find NA or AA meetings near you. Here are the links:
For iPhone users: https://apple.co/4dbpZNo
For Android users: www.bit.ly/AndroidMeetingGuideApp
During the pandemic, NA and AA meetings went virtual, and 24/7 Marathon Meetings were a lifesaver for many, including me. They are still around, so if you're interested, here are the links:
AA 24/7 Marathon Meetings on Zoom: https://us02web.zoom.us/j/2923712604
NA 24/7 Marathon Meetings on Zoom: www.nana247.org
There are also international versions of these 24/7 meetings, which are incredible. You can hear stories from addicts in India, the UK, Australia, or Brooklyn all around the clock. The stories remind me I'm not alone. Many people have been where I am, and some have decades of sobriety, while others, like me, are just getting back on track. Just Google it - they're easy to find. If you've never tried these virtual meetings, I highly recommend giving them a shot. Be willing to try new things, make yourself uncomfortable, and take advice from those who've climbed out of addiction and become sober, contributing members of society.
This is just the third Bruised Fruit column—there are many more to come - I'm just getting started. My editor has been forwarding me emails from readers praising my "brutal honesty." This is a beautiful feeling because it's actual proof that I'm making a difference. So stick with me, share these columns with those in similar situations, and please support local journalism. Shoot me an email if you want - oppenmax@gmail.com. Till next time.
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