This inspirational memoir shares one man's journey through addiction, recovery, and the eventual realization that God is his savior. Mitchell Green has been to hell and back. For more than thirty years, demonic forces intertwined within him, tearing his life apart, testing his sanity, and destroying every good thing he ever found, created, or was given. In his moving testimony, Green shares his inspiring life story of addiction and of the glorious heights to which a soul has the potential to rise-even after its descent into darkness. In his candid portrayal of life before, during, and after addiction, Green recalls sitting in drug dens, his face sunken, skin ashen, eyes wild, and pumping cocaine into his system-all while wondering where he would find the money for his next hit. Most of all, Green remembers running. But when he was charged with assault during a robbery, the running stopped-at least for the next eleven years. As Green shares the challenging journey of his recovery, he describes the joyless process that it became until the voice of a loving God spoke to his suffering soul and revealed his true identity. The Gods of Addiction is an inspirational story about the power of the gods of addiction to destroy lives and the power of God to save them.
THE GODS OF ADDICTION
A TestimonyBy Chaplain Mitchell GreeniUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Chaplain Mitchell Green
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-4853-0 Chapter One
I was feeling pretty secure in my sobriety by the time I attended my first recovery meeting outside the Pit Stop. I'd been drug-and-alcohol free for three months after completing the twenty-one-day recovery program and had almost immediately found a job at a company that manufactured zinc dust in East Trenton. It was a tough job. I always came back to my boarding-house room exhausted, filthy, and sore. Despite the paper surgical mask I was required to wear, the gray dust from the ores the company pulverized clung to the hairs in my nostrils. I had to blow until my nose was sore in order to clear out all the debris. But the job paid well, and there was room for advancement. I was already sighting in on a machine or fork-lift operator's position. As I said, I was feeling pretty good. Unless you knew me, you could not have guessed that only a few months prior I had been a cocaine addict for five years—deceitful, desperate, and ready and willing to do whatever it took to feed a habit I had no hope of satisfying.
The program I signed up for was recommended (ordered, actually) by my probation officer. I was twenty-seven and had compiled a fairly extensive criminal record for such crimes as shoplifting, burglary, and possession of controlled substances. The absence of violent offenses in my file had been my only saving grace in terms of avoiding a lengthy prison bid. I once spent forty-five days in the Mercer County Detention Center (in those days known as the "work house") but hadn't come close to doing serious jail time. My probation officer—a smallish, soft-spoken man in his thirties—insisted I go into rehab after I got popped for shoplifting while still on probation, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I would do either the twenty-one-day program or six to nine months in the county lockup for the latest charge.
Richard had been my PO for nearly a year, and this was the first time he ever expressed any real impatience with me. I think he genuinely cared for me, and truthfully I liked him. He always treated me decently, never lording his state-vested authority over me. He was one of those religious types and offered no apologies for it. He was always saying things like "I'm praying for you, Mitch," but he never targeted me with his faith-based rhetoric, and for that I was most appreciative. Not that I was against religion—I practically grew up in church. It's just that religion never got me anywhere. My life remained the same throughout adolescence and into adulthood, so when I was old enough to decide for myself, I decided there were things I'd rather do with my Sunday mornings—like sleep.
But as I said, I liked Richard. He was a good man, so I didn't mind agreeing to the program if it made him happy. Besides, the math—twenty-one days as opposed to six to nine months—pretty much made the decision a no-brainer. On top of that, I reasoned, I needed a little time out of circulation, time to rest and recoup. Cocaine addiction is a rugged life. It revs you full-throttle until you're running out of control. That's why I managed to get myself in trouble while on probation in the first place.
The program was called Project Pit Stop, a name I found ironic for several reasons: (1) the state-run rehab was housed in what was once an auto parts warehouse near a long-abandoned racetrack just outside West Trenton; (2) I was sure the name held biblical applications for Richard, as in stopping me from falling into the pit; and (3) for me this was only a brief respite from the hassle of the hustle—time to recharge my batteries, get a few meals under my belt, clock a few nights' sleep, and lose the ashen pallor my lifestyle had visited upon my complexion. In twenty-two days it would be off to the races again. For me the Pit Stop really was just a pit stop.
There were about twelve staff members at Project Pit Stop, all recovering addicts except for Dr. Berman, the resident psychologist, and Carol, a pretty, light-skinned woman with a really nasty attitude who drove clients (or "inpatients," as we were called) to and from whatever medical or legal appointments were pending. There were forty inpatients, nearly all of us on probation or parole, so someone had to be in one courthouse or another almost every day.
The day started at 6:00. Showers and dorm clean-up until 7:00, and then breakfast until 8:00. Facility chores: cleaning or maintaining offices, meeting rooms, hallways, kitchen, public bathrooms, and grounds until 9:30, and then a short break, after which group meetings were held. To my surprise, I enjoyed the meetings. I found them mildly entertaining at first and then immensely so, and quite moving as well, especially the "sharing," or one person revealing the misadventures of his or her life to a roomful of strangers, speaking to the problems at the heart of one's addiction and then the "feedback" as the sharer's peers offered their opinions or advice about what was shared. It fascinated me to watch people expose themselves so unabashedly, withholding not one sordid detail of their junkie lives. We held two such meetings a day. The sharing got to be pretty emotional and the hour almost always ended with at least a portion of the room in tears. As it turns out, though, melancholy is a contagious mood. Midway through the second week I found myself sharing ... and crying. I didn't know I was carrying so much emotional baggage until I started talking about it. It felt good to unload, and amazingly the twenty-one-day "sentence" ended sooner than I wanted. On a bright and breezy Tuesday morning in mid-April I was discharged from Project Pit Stop with a certificate of completion to prove I was recovered from drug addiction.
Upon learning I had completed rehab my mother took me right in. I hadn't seen her during the last few months prior to my most recent arrest. It broke her heart to see me strung out and hustling; overcome with shame, I avoided North Trenton and her house as best I could. Now, however, I was feeling spectacular. Project Pit Stop had proved a more effective experience than I'd anticipated, and I felt as though I really had put down drugs for good. I hadn't even smoked a cigarette in eight days. Truly I was in recovery.
I promised Mom I'd look for a job right away. Two days later I was hired at Federated Metals, and six weeks after that I moved into the boardinghouse in South Trenton. Mom was reluctant to see me go; we'd been sharing some really good times since I got clean, and my sister Brenda didn't care for the area I was moving into. I assured them both I'd be fine. For the first time in more than five years I was thinking about a life that didn't include drugs and alcohol.
Both Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous meetings were now a condition of my probation, which had been extended another year due to the charge that landed me at Project Pit Stop. The staff at the rehab recommended that I attend a meeting a day for ninety days. I thought that was a bit excessive, and fortunately Richard was willing to settle for three a week. Frankly I wouldn't have been terribly upset if he'd wanted one or two more. Hanging around my room watching television after work had become almost unbearably dull, and there wasn't much else to do since all my former haunts were drug involved. Anyway, I was familiar with meeting protocol because the Pit Stop hosted an AA meeting on Tuesday nights and an NA meeting on Thursday afternoons.
The dining hall in the basement of St. Thomas Church on Chambers Street hosted that night's meeting. There must have been more than three hundred in attendance—easily four times larger than any meeting held at the Pit Stop. I remember wondering if the entire world was in recovery from substance abuse. The atmosphere was light, the general mood cordial. Almost everyone was holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and the air was heavy with cigarette breath. I scanned the crowd, guessing every face my gaze fell upon belonged to a smoker. A ticklish surge of superiority swept through me with the thought: I'd beaten drugs and cigarettes.
Presently the chairperson called the meeting to order. Everyone rose to recite the Serenity Prayer:
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, The courage to change the things I can, And the wisdom to know the difference.
Preliminary announcements were made regarding designated smoking areas, restroom locations in the building, and future meeting locations. There was mention of an upcoming AA/NA banquet (much anticipated according to the respondent ovation), and a request was made for volunteers to clean up after the meeting adjourned. More than two dozen people, including me, raised our hands, offering service.
Finally the guest speaker was introduced. A bearded and balding bear of a man in his sixties approached the microphone-mounted dais to a round of obligatory applause. Then the room fell silent as the bear tested the working condition of both his vocal cords and the sound system by clearing his throat into the mic. Several people chuckled. I winced.
"Hi, my name is Louis and I'm an addict," he began with the customary pretestimony greeting.
"Hi, Louis!" the room responded cheerily.
"It's been twenty-three years since I last used," he announced to thunderous applause, but even as the audience roared their appreciation for Louis's most impressive achievement, a sudden, inexplicable fear came over me—a cold and nameless dread that spiraled up from the small of my back along my spine to impale my brain like an icy harpoon. I couldn't understand it. Something in Louis's words filled me with an oppressive sense of hopelessness. At first I thought that with more than two decades of sobriety to boast, the bear was far and away out of my league in terms of recovery time. Twenty-three years, after all, is a long time—almost as long as I'd been alive. I was outclassed, awed, jealous.
No, that wasn't it. It was ... something else.
Louis's testimony—much like any other you hear at these meetings—went on to describe his life "lived on life's terms," a life slowly but steadily rebounding from the ravages of the disease of his addiction to painkillers. Having had the misfortune of inheriting a rare form of arthritis that attacked his knees when he was just twenty-two, Louis began to abuse prescription Percocet until DEA restrictions forced him to acquire that and related drugs by any means he could. The addiction lingered ten years after the surgeries that all but eliminated his arthritis, making him just another junkie. Louis talked about the loss of his job and then his fiancée, and the ultimatum imposed by his dad and siblings to get help or be disowned. For Louis the "bottom" came in the form of a mild stroke one day after his thirty-seventh birthday. Louis went almost directly from the hospital to a rehab facility in Newark. Today, the dock manager for an import/export company, Louis thanked his "higher power" for giving him the strength to get clean and stay clean while enjoying restored relationships and regained trust with family and friends. And while the urge to relapse was always there and "dogging" him, Louis said in conclusion, "I take life one day at a time, which, after all, is all any blessed addict can do, am I right?"
With that the room erupted in applause and cheers (Louis was a hit), but above the din I could hear my own heartbeat, a distressed thumping in my ears. The heavyset lady in the seat next to me said something—something meant to gain a reply from me, I think—but I barely heard.
I hadn't been Louis' most attentive listener since he started his testimony. My mind kept winding back to his opening statement as I struggled to determine what it was in those first words that troubled me.
Then it came to me: Louis had not abused drugs in twenty-three years, yet the first thing he did was introduce himself as an addict.
And there was more: his testimony was that of a man who had overcome, yet there was no ring of victory in his words, not a hint of joy about him. Louis didn't speak as someone who had triumphed in a great personal struggle. He sounded like someone too busy staying clean to be happy.
As the applause subsided, I looked around, searching for what I was thinking and feeling on another face—any other face. But as I said, Louis was a smash; his story of recovery was apparently a success.
Forgetting I had volunteered to stay and help clean up, I went home in a daze, my mind a dank and dismal fog. I showered and lay in my clean bed in my clean bedroom in that clean-if-slightly-rundown boardinghouse and wrestled with the dread and confusion that refused to let me sleep. I had accumulated three whole months of sobriety. I thought to myself, If I continue as recovery practices dictate, apply all the steps and principles to my life, if all goes well and I don't screw it up, if I'm lucky, in another thirty-two years and nine months I can be Louis.
Two weeks later I was sitting in that clean bedroom jabbing a cocaine-loaded syringe into my arm.
Two years after that, I was sentenced to twenty years at Rahway State Prison for armed robbery and atrocious assault. I had at last managed to add the violence to my record that I'd avoided in previous years, giving the state the leverage it needed to hit me with real time. I also had the dubious honor of being the last person in the state of New Jersey to be sentenced for a violent crime legally termed "atrocious." I would walk into that prison at age twenty-nine and then out at forty-one, having served almost twelve of those twenty years. I would not enjoy a single day of my thirties as a free man. Not a single day.
But that night as I lay in my room replaying Louis's appallingly disheartening testimony in my mind and listening for answers to questions I whispered in the dark and getting none ... somewhere inside me, something not of me smiled.
Chapter Two
Those two years prior to my incarceration at East Jersey State Prison (Rahway) are a vague memory. I remember running—lots of running. I remember graduating from shoplifting and burglary to robbery and still more running. I remember hearing from my brother Michael that Richard had come to Mom's house in search of me when I had stopped reporting to probation. A warrant had been issued for my arrest, and Mike warned me that I should avoid visiting Mom's unless I was looking to get popped. I remember lying to Mike that I'd see Richard and get the matter straightened out, and I remember Mike telling me what he thought I was full of.
I remember sitting in one drug den or another, face sunken, skin ashen, wild-eyed, and pumping cocaine into my system like there was no tomorrow. I remember, each time I withdrew the spent syringe from my arm, that rush of panic as I wondered how I'd acquire the finances for my next hit. And again I remember running.
I don't recall eating much and of course it showed. I won't even venture to guess how much I weighed when the law finally collared me. Before then I slept about as often as I ate. The boarding-house room was long gone, replaced by any abandoned property I could break and enter for a few hours' rest. I remember wearing the same clothes for weeks on end and I remember bathing even less often than I changed.
I remember more running.
And I remember them. Inside me.
Then again, maybe "remember" isn't the right word, since remembering suggests prior knowledge as gained from information or acquaintance—neither of which I ever had. There were no moving images or shapes to perceive, no voices or sounds of any kind to alert me to their existence. I was merely aware they were there. That night after the meeting—before my sobriety lay slaughtered on the floor of a shooting gallery on Walnut Avenue—as I lay in the darkness with Louis' depressingly dismal testimony echoing in my head, suddenly and with dark certainty I just knew. I was not alone in the room ...
I was not alone in me.
I don't remember wondering who or what they were; nor do I clearly recall where they came from. I was just overcome with the sensation of their malignant and malevolent presence. They were real and alive and ... inside me.
I remember suddenly feeling terrified and then just as suddenly dismissing it all as imagination. I attended two more meetings the next week, hearing not so much as a word spoken at either, and then shooting cocaine the week after. As my condition deteriorated, I remember the smug, self-righteous looks I got from neighbors and other acquaintances who had predicted my relapse.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from THE GODS OF ADDICTIONby Chaplain Mitchell Green Copyright © 2012 by Chaplain Mitchell Green. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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