I sat in a church yesterday.
I was reminded of a day that happened years ago. Or in fairness, this was decades ago and somehow, I must have blinked or turned around or missed something.
Decades flew by.
Age crept in and I’m not sure how this came to pass.
I understand this intellectually, of course.
But lifetimes have gone by and years are gone.
I am closing in on the age of my Old Man when he passed away.
What the hell is that, by the way?
Why am I older than my doctors now?
When did this happen?
But let me stop before I digress even more.
I sat in Church.
This led me to think about where I was as a boy and how I was about to become a young man.
This caused me to think about my first realization of mortality.
Lie is life. Death is death.
And I shake my head.
I shake my head because I remember when I believed in the predictions against me.
I remember when it was said that I would be dead or how I would not live past the age of 19.
And again, I shake my head.
I shake my head at the fact that I had surrendered to this.
I had accepted the coins it took to pay the toll and cross that bridge.
All of my sources of self-destruction had been bought and paid for.
I remember the reckless endangerment and the near misses that almost killed me.
I remember waking up in the ravine next to a local sump in the middle of winter, 1989
I remember the slow descend or the gradual submission that came over me.
Some people all this addiction. Some call this depression.
Some call this other things. And me? I called this King, because this is what was printed on the bag of heroin
And I was fine with this.
I was fine to fulfill the prediction and fine to resign my position as a person in this world.
Why not?
it must have been true, right?
If I were worth or good, then why would anyone sell me short or tell me that at best, why would anyone tell me that I would be begging for change or digging ditches, or half-dead and be homeless, living in a dumpster?
Do worthy people hear predictions like this?
What about beautiful people?
Are they told this too?
Or is this for the stupid and the weak, or just the stuttering and the ugly ones?
No one knew what went on inside of me.
No one helped me, least of all the so-called professionals who tried to reach me.
And if I reflect, some of them contributed to the prediction. Some of the said things like, “You will be dead in a year.”
Some even told me they would laugh at my grave.
This is true.
And after the years of contempt, after the resentful or the misfit beliefs and the arguments that raged in my head, and after the failed attempts to die, or the pains it took to live, or to be a person, good or loved or worthy; I was fine to agree with the predictions against me.
I was fine with this because why fight it?
Why would I be worth anything if these predictions were true?
And if none of this were true, then why were so many against me or predicting the worst?
I remember a night when I was dangling in a local park.
I had vomit on my chin.
Summertime, July 1989.
The demons had found a different entryway, to which I forfeited and allowed them to come in.
Everything around me was falling apart.
I was losing more and more of myself each day, and worse, I saw this.
I saw myself spiraling down.
I viewed myself, almost in an out-of-body form. I watched this as if I were falling hard in slow motion and at best, all I could do was watch myself fall deeper until eventually, there would be nothing left of me to fall.
Someone approached me i the park.
he told me that God loves me.
he gave me a book about salvation . . .
It was not long after this that my life was changed in an involuntary way. Yet, I say involuntary but I volunteered for all of my own tragedies. I did.
I cannot claim ignorance anymore.
I singed up for this prophecy and the self-inflicted battles.
I did.
I had no choice as to what was about to happen.
And no, I was not asking for what happened, per se, —however, there are rules of engagement and risks, outcomes, and not to mention there is a simple math which takes place when we gamble.
I was a kid. Painful and sad and dying in the worst way possible.
I was hiding in pain sight and withering away.
My skin was palish blue. My eyes were sunk in my head with dark rings beneath them.
My Old Man used to complain that I could hardly walk, and he’d be mad. My Father said that I dragged my feet because it looked like I didn’t have the strength to lift my legs when I’d walk.
“I can’t stand watching you kill yourself,” he told me.
“Sometimes, I think it would be easier if you died because at least then I could mourn and I wouldn’t have to watch you kill yourself anymore.”
I never assumed that I signed up for what happened to me. Yet, I succumbed to what was on the way. I took the ride in the paddy wagon. I cuffed up and went before the judge.
I submitted myself through a means of contributory negligence, to which I argue that everything I did was contributory.
But none of what happened was a result of negligence.
My substance abuse and addiction was both intentional and unintentional.
I did not want to be who I was.
But what other choices did I have?
There are times when our subconscious steps in.
Our cries out loud are voiced with painful actions or reckless episodes of disgust or violence.
And ah, violence, she understood me well.
And pain?
The cuts meant nothing to me because at least my cuts make sense.
At least physical pai could be materialized to a physical description.
But sadness?
Depression?
The sinking feeling of despair and emotional quicksand makes us drown alive.
And then what?
I was not shaken when the gun was in my face.
Seeing a man gunned down by 134th street seemed like part of the life.
This was nothing more than “matter of fact,” and all degrees of murder or manslaughter appeared simple because to me, these were the rules of engagement.
I assumed this was the prophecy.
This made sense to me.
I was not moved or bothered when I saw horrible and terrible things.
Why would I be?
I was made for this life.
I deserved this the same as I deserved my abuse.
I deserved this the same as I deserved the unwanted memories that refused to go away.
The prophecy needed to be complete, and so, these were the predictions of who I was.
It was predicted that this was me and more, this was the only person I could ever be.
How could I be anything better if I was told otherwise?
These were the predictions that matched my emotional content, —and so, if that was to be it and I was to die, then that was to be it. And so, why bother?
I would have satisfied the predictions and hence, the prophecy would have been fulfilled.
End of summer, September 1989.
I refused to submit. But I accepted the plea agreement the courts offered me.
I plead guilty to lesser charges.
I did not give anyone up or “rat on my friends.”
Yet the funny part is the detectives knew everything about me.
I suppose the honor amongst thieves is true because there is no honor amongst thieves.
Or more, the tale that says, “never rat on your friends,” is simply a tale at that.
And I found that out the hard way.
I struggled.
I was placed away in different treatment facilities as a means of a mandatory service.
It was either that or jail for one year, plus 90 days.
I was removed from my places of so-called worship and pulled away from the demigods of the drug culture. This was all part of the plan, I suppose.
They placed in faraway centers.
They shipped me off to Kerhonkson, New York.
Then to Liberty, New York.
Then I wound up on a farm, far from my lifestyle and further form my comfort in a town known as Hancock, New York.
I laugh now because I consider some of my mental health presentations or how I often allow for a contrast between my former life and life on a far by explaining “and for the record this is NOT a farming accent.”
I had no idea what it was like to wake before dawn, clean pig shit, feed cows and scoop up their shit while the milkers milk them. I was up in the middle of the night do fire-watches, dead-of-winter, and freezing my balls of while chasing the sheep to get them in the barn.
The worst of this all –
They wanted me to tell on myself.
They wanted me to give me up and give in.
Understand?
The wanted me to reveal my truths and open up to this new way of life.
They wanted me to open up to this idea that something about me is both fixable and unfixable at the same time.
“You have a disease,” they told me.
“The disease is incurable but there is hope,” the said.
“and there is a God—may you find him now,” they told me.
I was told to surrender to win.
I was told that I was as sick as my secrets.
And what would I tell them?
What would I say?
Would I confess? And if I did, would I be absolved?
Would I tell them about the time I swiped purses?
Would I fess-up?
No.
Would I come clean about my crimes of both the heart and soul?
Or would I spill the beans and tell them about my breaking and entering or sneakthief moments?
No.
Is that what they wanted?
Would I tell them about my unseeable wounds or the deeply rooted hatred or the lies?
If I got rid of my hate, then what would I have left to protect me?
Fuck that.
kill me first . . .
Could I tell them about the secrets, or the unwanted touch which came when I was small?
What did they want from me?
Would I confess or disclose my weaknesses?|
Would I tell them about my pain?
No.
No one could ever know these things
Did they want to know about my place on the food chain?
Was that it?
Or would they want to hear about how I was only a predator to those who weaker than myself?
I was as sick as my secrets.
I was as sick as my lies.
I was as hurt as my truths, and yes, I had a plethora of all the above.
Did they want to know about my hate?
Did they want to know about the faces I saw in my nightmares?
What did they want from me?
Or how about the violence of what it feels like to sink a blade into someone’s stomach just to grab a wallet with only five bucks?
Or did they want to know the truth?
Did they want to know that I was puny?
Or that I could not defend myself or fight my way out of a wet, paper bag?
Is this what they wanted.
And if this was it, no.
Or did they want to know the truth, that I was always a question mark?
I was unstable.
I was weak and afraid.
As I saw it, “they” wanted to take away my only source of relief.
They wanted to rob me of my safeties or protection, —and I emphasize the word “they” when I explain “they” or “them” because to me, “they” represented everything that was against me, —or in other words, they were the enemy.
They. Them.
The opposition.
The world around me.
No one knew me.
And I would never dare to show myself or reveal me to anyone.
Why?
What for?
To be hurt or butchered socially in front of the world?
Even those who loved me were on the opposite side because to me, “they” did not understand how it was to live in my head.
No one knew what it was like to feel what I felt.
No one else thought as I thought.
November 1989
I was fine to die or skip to the end of the line or submit and rearrange my posture. I did what I had to so that I could be seen in my chameleon-like approach.
My plan to escape:
Be the room.
Lie.
Play the game
Say what you need to say.
Do what you have to do.
But above all: protect yourself at all times.
Do not let go of your secrets,.
Keep your hate, kid.
“They’re trying to take everything away from you!”
This is what I thought.
Thanksgiving . . .
there will be times you have a holiday meal with someone and you do not know this was the last Thanksgiving that you spend with that person
December 1989
The Old Man went down, two weeks before Christmas. He had a heart attack.
He was the strongest man alive, yet he was and gray, and yes, above all; regardless of our battles and bouts, this man was my father and my very first hero.
I said goodbye to that man when they put him on a machine.
He died shortly after, December 29, 1989
The day my life changed.
I had heard about this word called death.
I had heard the word mortality or about the words called primal fear.
I had heard about these things.
But I had no substance or reference for them until, unfortunately, I had more skin in the fight.
February 1990
I sat in the back pew of an old, Upstate Church.
I was alone on a Saturday morning.
I was sent by my treatment to clean the place before Sunday’s mass..
My facility volunteered us to clean the Church as means of “service and charity.”
I was told that service and charity was part of this thing they called sobriety.
I say “They” because I had no idea what sobriety meant to me.
And I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to be sober.
The winter was cold.
The sky was clear and blue and the sun was bright and as big as it comes.
But this was winter.
Our side of the hemisphere was tilted away and too far for the sun to offer any warmth for my bones.
The Old Church was built long before my oldest relatives were here in this country.
The building itself was simple.
There was an old-world feeling, almost like a Civil-War appeal.
There was a large Crucifix with Jesus, nailed to the cross, above the altar
He was pinned to the cross.
One foot over the other, a spear wound in His side, head slumped down, and there He was, dying for the pain and the sake of all man’s sins.
I could hear the wind as it whistled and whipped through the brittleness of the tree branches outside.
I could here one of the empty trees hitting against the sained glass windows.
The walls were tall and white.
The old Berber carpet was green and tired.
I felt the cold in my bones.
I felt the severity of my sadness. And more, I felt the presence of something pure and good, —and yet, my inner demon opposed this to no end.
I boiled and burned like the finger of Satan when touching the Holy water.
“Don’t let them see you!”
“Don’t let go!”
I swore to these things.
But –
How long could I hold the daggers that sunk in my soul?
How long could my hate survive?
How long could I die for my secrets?
And how long could the light from my burning bridges guide me or light my way?
I wanted to cry.
I wanted to pray.
I wanted to be absolved or find that feeling of mercy and behold, The Son of Man.
What about me?
What about my sins?
Would I be forgiven?
Behold the light of truth or as it were said, when The Son of Man asked blind man, “Do you believe in The Son of Man?”
The blind man asked, “Who is he, Master? So that I can believe in him.”
“You are sing him,” replied The Son.
“It is He who is speaking to you.”
“I believe,” said the blind man.
I believe . . .
These are beautiful words, when said in a beautiful context.
I wanted to believe
The coldness in my heart and the shame of my past was afraid.
I was blind and too afraid to see because if I knew or once I saw, then I would have to see the truth.
And the truth is that yes, I was a sinner.
And yes, I destroyed, and yes, I lied and I hurt people.
And now, I was alone.
My Father had gone.
I had no plan or clue how my life would be.
Who would ever love me?
Who would ever want me?
Who would choose me over the rest of the world and be proud to have me at their side?
St. Dismas, my hero, died on he cross beside The Christ.
St. Dismas realized his pain and his punishment was just.
St. Dismas said to Jesus, “Remember me when you enter your Father’s Kingdom.”
The Son of Man promised him, “Today, you shall be with me in paradise.”
I am 53 years old.
April 1, 1991 was the last time I took a recreational drug to get high . . .
I have surpassed my 19th birthday by 34 years.
However, there is something to be said about the predictions we choose to believe in.
There is something to be said about the outrage and the threats of our enemies.
I do not mind when my enemies scream at me.
This is what they do.
However, I am often concerned when me enemies smile.
This means I know they have something on the way.
I do not support the terms of drunk or high, clean or sober.
I do not support titles or the diagnosed labels that limit us to the stigmas of mental illness.
And so, I refuse to believe in anything that limit our abilities to believe that we can recover or be well.
But more, I need to refuse the predictions that forecast my future or send me to hell.
I sat beside a young man in church yesterday.
His Mother, beautiful as ever, sat beside him.
I saw her.
I saw this and scanned the rest of the congregation.
Church can be a beautiful place.
perhaps this is why this leads to salvation.
I watched this with a quiet heart and secretly weeping.
I am simply a child, lost, not unlike the Prodigal one, but I am not as pure or as wholesome.
I saw the child and the Mother beside him.
And She, like Mary, like the Mother of All, pure and sweet; she is beautiful yet, humanized by a world around her.
I know there are reasons why we are who we are.
I know there are reasons why we go or why we stay.
I know that I have been blind.
I know that as man thinketh, so shall he be.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.
Amen.
I still remember that day at that old Church in Callicoon, New York back in the winter 1990—
And here I am
March 2026.
To the teachers, the healthcare professionals, the arresting officers, and to people, good, bad or indifferent who predicted my failure and death—
I think you should have bet heavy on the over.
You were wrong about me
Very wrong
The Written Addiction 