By Max Oppen
Trust is fragile. Once broken, discarded, damaged, and disregarded, you lose a part of yourself—at least I have. When all you have left is your word, being trustworthy gives you a sense of self-worth and identity. Even when you're penniless or homeless, being honest feels better than being a destitute, homeless liar.
I've lied since I was very young. It's hard to admit. I guess we all lie at some point in our lives—those "innocent" white lies we tell others, like about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy. For some, that's where lying ends. For others, it's a training ground—a way of life to build upon and practice. Looking someone in the eye and making things up on the spot without blinking takes practice.
I was eight years old when I caught my mother carrying bags of wrapped presents downstairs to put under the Christmas tree. That was when I knew Santa wasn't real. I didn't immediately think my parents had been lying to me forever, but I did feel let down. A piece of my childhood magic had been erased, and the innocence of my youth began to chip away. That must be how my family feels about me now—let down.
When trust is lost in a relationship, I'm not sure it can ever be fully rebuilt. It's like a mudslide in Northern California that covers a road and suffocates people in their cars. The mess may be cleaned up, the road rebuilt, and the slope reinforced, but the event is never forgotten. Maybe it's different with immediate family. Maybe it's not. I don't know yet.
I became good at lying. I grew into a good manipulator - so good that I didn't always know I was doing it. After a boot camp of distrust, being a functional addict is where I ended up. Everything fell to pieces after that due to the progressive nature of addiction. It's a real war staged inside your head. I was constantly battling myself, trying to stay ahead of my own bullshit. It became a weight I carried - an invisible boulder weighing me down as I attempted to navigate the life I had built for myself with others.
When I was kicked out of my mother's house, I had been living there rent-free and spending my money on drugs. This was during COVID-19. It's painful to think about all the damage I caused. These were my people, my tribe. These people were always there for me, no matter what. But "no matter what" now mattered. When Bob Marley sang, "You can't run away from yourself," he was spot on. No amount of drugs I consumed could ever undo the mudslide I caused. I used drugs to shake reality. I wanted no part of it. It's a terrible Catch-22. Make mistakes, lie, do drugs to forget, mess up, get arrested, lose jobs, lose loved ones, burn bridges, and do more drugs to try and erase all the feelings of inadequacy, regret, and sorrow. Drugs are good for killing the pain, if only for just a moment.
Sometimes, people see you for who you are. And what they see isn't pretty. Some people I know think I'm crazy for writing these columns. And that's ok. I must live in the light, not behind a closed blind, peeking at imaginary shadows. I must open the doors and windows and bathe in the cool air and sunshine. I need to acknowledge what a terrible person I was and hold myself accountable for all my bad choices, one day at a time. I am a good person who made some genuinely awful mistakes over and over again.
This summer, I didn't want to live anymore, and I nearly accomplished my goal. Ironically, coming that close to removing myself from this planet gave me more insight into who I was and who I had become than anything any therapist ever said to me. Now, on Sunday, September 22, as I write this, I want to live. I have 56 days clean today. The sun is shining, my door is open, and my blinds are up. It's a gorgeous day.
I'm about to join my community and cover the 12th Annual Cruisin' on the Mountaintop Car Show in Tannersville. It's just steps away from where I live. Instead of hiding behind a curtain in a dark room with a crack pipe in my hand, I'm going to be a part of something. I want to be a responsible human being and a productive member of this mountaintop I call home.
Some may whisper, "Hey, there goes that drug addict reporter," and that's fine. Go crazy. You need to have thick skin to be a reporter anyway. Plus, manual labor and staying clean have helped me heal. I feel my body getting stronger, and the honesty and tears help me heal emotionally. This column isn't just about helping others, though. Step 12 of Narcotics Anonymous says, "Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to addicts, and to practice these principles in all our affairs." It asks you to apply these principles in every part of your life and to help others struggling with addiction. While I've only completed the first step "officially," which is admitting that I'm powerless over my addiction and that my life has become unmanageable, I know I can make a difference and help others.
It's not just in my head either. People pull me aside and say I'm brave for doing this. My editor and I get emails from people who have had people with an addiction in their lives or who have experienced what I've gone through, thanking us for sharing this message.
Being an addict and thinking you're only hurting yourself is a really selfish way of living. Through my drug use, I destroyed not only my life but others' lives, too. My addiction consumed me—nothing else mattered. But now, things are starting to matter. No matter what, I will not use drugs today. As the days pass, I feel more connected to myself. It's funny, even now I have to be a little selfish—I have to focus on myself because if I don't love myself, there's no way I can ever truly love anyone else or be loved by anyone. Building back trust is an uphill battle, and I want to be clear headed and present for the fight.
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