This is a place for me to get all sticky and shit.

Friday, December 24, 2010

My worst and best Christmas

Christmas 1997 will always be my worst....and my best Christmas. I had been living in San Francisco for just over 5 years. When I started out there, all was great. I loved my job, I loved the city, I made a bunch of great friends. After I lost my first job, I started working at Daddy's Bar. Actually, it wasn't even Daddy's Bar yet. Philip, the owner, did my best friend Tony a favor and let me work as a barback the night he took over the bar from the previous owners. The bar was supposed to close for just a few days, do a little remodelling and open back up....that was not to happen. The remodel ended up going through months of red tape and hassle. During that time, Philip sort of adopted me and I worked for him during the remodel, pretty much doing whatever he needed me to. The money helped, and I liked the people I was meeting.

When Daddy's finally opened, I was the assistant manager, and Tony was the manager. It wasn't long, however, before Tony realized he didn't like the management side of things, so I was promoted to manager of the most popular bar in the Castro...well, most popular for what I'd call "Scruff types", you know, leather, blue collar, bears, etc. My time at Daddy's began my descent into madness. Booze was always a factor. I had a beer in my hand most of the time I was working, and lots of shots every night. It was sort of the culture. Customers buying me drinks, or me buying drinks for customers and joining them in a shot, etc.

If it had just been the booze, I might have made it through, but fate introduced me to "Crystal". Meth was wildly popular in SF, and it was sooo easy as a bar manager to get. I had an office in the back to do my drugs, to have my dealer come back and "deal". My hours at the bar were long, and I was expected to be "On" all the time. There were days when I arrived at 8am and didn't leave until 3am the next morning. Meth seemed like a good way to keep moving... to stay "on". It started as just a little here and a little there, but over a very short time, I pretty much didn't do anything without a "bump".

Crystal was a harsh mistress, however, so I began to indulge in other chemicals to make sure she got an attitude adjustment. Pot took the edge off, Coke and Crack changed the high. Heroin made the whole thing just...well, I'm not sure there are words. I was a regular pharmacy. I got really good at compensating, so it wasn't overt, or at least I thought. I would go for days, and sometimes weeks without sleeping. When I did sleep, I would crash completely. I would sleep for 24 hours on a day off without ever getting out of bed. I was so dehydrated, I didn't need to piss, and my body would just shut down. When I woke, feeling like shit, I'd do a line or 3 or 6 to get things moving again.

When I wasn't at work, life was one constant sex party at my apartment. I had so many different men through the door. I can't even count the number of people who ripped me off. Drug addicts are not nice people...don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise. Around this time, Tom died, and things just got worse. I only wanted to be numb, and so it was a constant party. I remember sitting in my apartment looking across the street at the college building there. I would see people in the windows, in the doorways, on ledges. I would peek out from behind the curtains for hours every night. Even with a room full of guys naked and fucking, I would stand and stare at "them"

Paranoia was my constant companion. I truly believed every night that "they" were coming to get me. I hid my drugs in the craziest places to make sure "they" didn't find them when they busted in the door. I had bugs growing under my skin...well so I thought. I would pick at my arms all night and swore I was pulling out wings of the bugs that were breeding under my skin. At one point, I even took a baggie of these "wings" to the Dr to show him. Why he didn't commit me, I don't know.

The drugs and sex were a perfect combination to contract HIV. I have no idea who or when it happened, I just know it was about 18 months before I left SF. I never used needles...I hate needles, which is funny if you look at all the ink I have. I think that was one of the factors that saved me, I never mainlined the shit. I just did lines and booty bumps.

My spiral just got worse and worse. I think I left Daddy's when I could no longer cope. I was supposed to be leaving for a free lance web design job, which never panned out. I was spending every cent I had left on drugs. I wasn't eating, or leaving the apartment for days on end. The rent money went to drugs, the phone and electric money....drugs, I sold most of my leather for...you guess it, money for drugs. Well, this type of thing can't go on forever, and by December of 1997, the end was near.

I had not talked to my family for many weeks. They kept calling and I kept avoiding. One night, I remember a frantic message from my mother coming over the machine as I fisted someone in the sling. She was in tears and wondered if I was still alive. I didn't call back for a few more days. I sat in my apartment alone, listening to that message over and over for at least a full day. My parents loved me and wanted me to call them back. They loved me, and I hated me!!

I called my mother and it wasn't long before I broke down. I didn't tell her about the drugs, but just that I was out of money, no job, no prospects. I sobbed for what seemed like hours and my mother said two very simple words..."Come home". I had thought of SF as my home for over 5 years. I didn't want to have another home. I had moved from FL with just a few bags and established a life in SF. Going "home" meant I was admitting I was a complete and utter failure. Going home meant that I would lose all my friends - Of course, that had already happened. People who aren't addicts typically are driven away by the addict. I drove off all of the friends I had come to love and cherish. Tony had already moved to San Diego, and all the rest had moved on and left me in my drug induced madness.

All except for Mark. Mark had been in recovery for many years. I met Mark when I was first in SF, long before the booze and drugs. I would go months without talking to him when the madness was at its worst, and he would always be there when I called. Mark never once said anything about drugs to me. He never once called me out. It was clear by just being in the same room as me, that I was high all the time. The twitches, the stammered speech, the picking and scratching, the sweating. He knew all the signs, I'm sure, and still he never pushed me.

I called Mark and asked to talk to him about flying "home". My Mom and Dad offered to send a one way ticket for me to leave SF. Mark looked me in the eye and said simply, "It's time, Don." Mark helped me box up what few possessions I had left and ship them to my folks. My Mom had wired some money so I could eat and ship stuff. I used a good portion for drugs. The night before I left, I think I did every drug in my arsenal...how I am not dead, I do not know to this day. Mark arrived the next day, Christmas Eve, and took me to the airport. I cried all the way there. Mark left me off and I was alone. I had one line left of meth, and I went into the bathroom at SFO to do that last line. I cried as I did, hating myself, and what I had become. SF had so much promise for me when I arrived, and now, I was being ejected like so much trash. That was the last drug I ever did.

I got on the plane, high, and shook my head most of the way to FL. I had a layover for an hour in Minneapolis which turned into many hours. As is often the case around Christmas, snow gets in the way. I was coming down, HARD, and had no prospect of any drugs ahead. When we finally got back on the plane, about 5 hours later, I was shaking.

My parents picked me up at the airport and took me to their home. When I got there, I jumped out of the car to run in to the bathroom and vomit. The next day, my parents give me a brand new TV for Christmas for my room. They couldn't have been any more supportive. The next few weeks are a blur. I spent most of my time in my room, going through serious withdrawal...for like 6 different things at once. I told my folks it was the flu. I was depressed, so damn depressed.

After a few weeks, I started to look for a job and within 6 weeks from when I arrived, I had my first job working on a Help Desk for GTE. It was a 90 minute drive each way, so my folks gave me their old car and helped me get an apartment close to work. From there it was really a big snowball. I was good at what I did and was recognized and promoted quickly. My first dog adopted me off the street and then my second. They kept me laughing and provided unconditional love. One of the managers at work started bugging me about going for my Masters Degree. Work would pay as long as I kept my grades above a B. I figured, what the hell, and after 2 years, I earned my MBA. I really enjoyed my job at that time as a project manager, so I pursued my Project Management certification. The MBA and the PMP opened doors for me. I bought my own car, I bought my own house. SF started to seem like a bad dream...but I didn't forget.

Today is the 13th anniversary of when I cried in the Men's room at SFO, did my last line, and got on the plane. I'm not crying today. I can't say it has been easy. Every day I fight my demons. Every day, still to this day, I know that once bump, one line would be the end for me. I trust in the Universe. I trust in myself. I have come to realize that each and every moment is precious. Each moment a gift. We are so small, so helpless and so powerful each one of us. I am today grateful for every single second.

I've been blessed. Many of my friends from San Francisco have been gracious and have allowed me to reconnect with them. To a person, not one has shut me out. These are good people.

My health has it's up and downs, HIV remains my least favorite "lovely parting gift" from that time in my life. I have terrible scars on the tattoos on my forearms. People as me all the time if I am going to get them fixed......never! Those scars are part of me, part of who I was and who I am today. To paint over them would be such a huge mistake. I look at them every day, touch them and remember. Those scars are truly a blessing.

13 years ago, and it seems like yesterday and like a lifetime ago. I don't know what tomorrow holds, so I live today...and for me, right now, that is enough.....