Live Reading of “A Man of My Word” with Derrick Broze, Pt 3

Welcome to the 3rd live reading of my memoir, A Man of My Word: How I Overcame Addiction, Depression, and Mental and Physical Prisons. For those who've watched the previous videos like this, you know this is not a podcast. We're not doing a discussion. This is just me reading my book, uh, every week, sort of every couple weeks. But if by chance you are curious about the thoughts and the, the details and the subjects within my memoir, you can go to amanofmyword.com. which I'm showing you guys on screen right here. And this will actually give you some background on the book and all the topics, where you can get it from. But most importantly, if you do want to kind of experience it that way, you can listen to the official A Man of My Word podcast, which is a 6— limited series, 6-episode series I did earlier this year looking at my experience battling drug addiction, finding self-worth after a lifetime of self-hate, thriving inside the injustice system, the healing power of forgiving yourself and others, How hitting rock bottom woke me up, building a foundation for healing addiction. Those are all at amandamyword.com. If you just scroll on down there, you'll see it there if you'd like to get more of my thoughts. But as I said, that's not what this podcast is about. So let's jump back in. We are reading my book, A Man of My Word: How I Overcame Addiction, Depression, and Mental and Physical Prisons. And that is a 20-year-old, about to be 21-year-old. Derrick Rose arrested in November 2005. We're picking it up, chapter 5, Blacking Out. As 2003 turned into 2004, I began pursuing a settlement with Elliott's insurance company to cover the cost of my injured knees. I decided to go through with getting surgery on both knees even though I wasn't certain it was absolutely necessary. My mind was so blinded by the possibility of financial gain that I was willing to offer up my body parts for a laboratory experiment. Maybe it would result in my knees improving, or maybe it would make everything much worse. Only one way to find out. As the surgeries were being scheduled and the settlement check drew near, Stan and I continued our partying and womanizing. I was still seeing Carrie and any number of other random— excuse me, Casey— and any other number of random women with whom I chose to flirt. Unbeknownst to Stan, I was also still seeing Burnett. During this time of my life, there were moments when I believed I was enjoying myself by messing around with ecstasy. But no matter how many tabs of X I took, there were always— there was always a comedown. That's the part of the experience where the most potent effects of the drug, known as the peak, began to fade and the user plummets back down to earth. In the case of X, greatly reduced serotonin levels cause a rapid change in emotions, which can lead to short-lived bouts of depression. There were also moments when I believed I was enjoying myself by messing around with, with beautiful women. Attracting their amorous attention made me temporarily forget how angry and hurt I felt in the deepest recesses of my heart and mind. I wasn't having sex with all of them. It was rarely about that. But by fooling around with them, by fondling their bodies, I was attempting to convince myself that erotic interactions, like drugs, would lead to happiness— would lead to the happiness I'd been searching for since my childhood. When I look back on my experiences with women, I realized there was a sequence. First came the moment of contact— casually meeting a woman at a party or happening to connect on MySpace. Then began the dance of flirtation. I was rarely the one leading the way. Instead, I pursued a woman only if I could clearly tell she was interested in me and waving me in. After we ditched the party or finally met in person, the passion and rush of breathless excitement threatened to carry us away. But this was only a momentary high and was always quickly eclipsed by my feelings of confusion. Many times I would connect with a beautiful woman on an intellectual or platonic level and then make the mistake of turning things sexual. Sure, we both had a good time, but after it was over, the thrill and the passion turned into emptiness, shame, and embarrassment. Those feelings of letdown sometimes had the effect of making me want to search for a way out of my hap— of my unhappiness. But all too often, such flashes of clarity were outweighed by my complete lack of empathy and lack of remorse for the ways I was misleading women and damaging my own life. At those times, I felt nothing. It just went— I just went about my day without any— without feeling an inkling of compassion or a twinge of regret for hurting others. It was only when I was actually confronted, only when I saw Casey or Burnett crying their eyes out because of my constant cheating and compounding lies, that I felt something. But was it really remorse for wounding them? Did I feel genuine concern for their feelings, or was I simply sad that I'd been caught and was now having to explain myself? Maybe all of the above. I was locked in this cycle of drugs and women for all of 2003 and a great deal of 2004. One of the few areas in my life that was still bringing me joy was my band. I'd been writing lyrics since I was in 5th grade, and I had been a vocalist in metal and punk bands since 8th grade. When I found metal in 7th grade, I felt this instant rapport with dozens of bands who were singing the dark, rage-filled, misanthropic words resonated with my depressed teenage self. One Zone Chaos, which was my band, would eventually form in 2003 with Casey on the bass and our incredibly talented friends Peyton on drums and AJ on guitar. Granted, sometimes having your love interests be a part of your band is amazing. You get to practice and rock out together. You get to be creative and collaborate in a meaningful way. But when things are not good in a personal relationship, there's a trickle-down effect on band life and vice versa. This not-good place is where I found myself when AJ and Peyton told me that we needed to kick Casey out of the band because she was a constant no-show. She had a— she had a habit of staying up all night under the influence of Adderall, a powerful stimulant intended to treat ADHD, so she could stay awake and make her art or build a website or who knows what else. Then she'd sleep for more than 24 hours straight, missing band practice in the process. Dude, we love her and we know she's your girl, but she's holding us back, Peyton explained during one bitter cold morning practice session in his parents' garage. AJ was always eager to please, but even he had to admit Peyton was right. She's a great bass player when she's here, but we need more than that if we're going to play more shows, AJ said reluctantly. For most bands, performing live is the big goal. What's the point of practicing all those sweaty hours in the garage if you can't perform for your friends and family? The guys were right, and I knew it. So I knew also— I also knew that telling Casey she was out of the band was absolutely going to fuck up our relationship. I didn't want to lose my band, and I definitely didn't want to lose Casey. Maybe she would understand. No, she did not. Instead, she became passive-aggressive. She never took her frustration out on the guys. She loved them, but she definitely made it difficult for me to talk about the band as AJ, Peyton, and I moved forward. And move forward we did. The guys were quick to find a new bass player, Sam. We also went through several new guitars before settling on a quiet, talented dude named Mike. We renamed the band Through Broken Glass and focused on writing new music and played shows at clubs around Houston. I was loving it. Even then, on the inside, I still felt utterly, hopelessly lost. The adults around me were telling me I needed to do something with my life— go to college, get a real job, stop partying so much. I simply couldn't gather the momentum to do any of these activities. I tried college, went right into it after graduating high school early, but crashed and burned under the weight of a full-time job, a full course load, and long nights of partying. And I couldn't keep a job because my partying habits got in the way. Worse, I couldn't think of a single job that I would— that would feel fulfilling. Things got so dire that at one point Stan and I went to a U.S. Army recruiting office to hear what they might have to offer. Neither of us had any authentic interest in supporting the U.S. military or any sense of national pride or patriotism. We just knew that the military promises opportunities for wayward fuck-ups like us. Most important was the financial incentive. To 2 18-year-old troublemakers, the idea of trading some of our time for a payout was promising. Of course, lurking in the background was the recently launched War on Terror, a disastrous initiative of then-President George W. Bush as a response to the attacks of 9/11. This effort by the Bush administration would lead to the deaths of at least hundreds of thousands of Iraqis and perhaps as many as 1 million. I remember being in my junior year of high school watching the Twin Towers and Building 7 collapse at nearly freefall acceleration live on TV. I didn't know what to make of the event, but I knew it was going to change the world. By the time Stan and I walked into the recruiting office, the military was ready and willing to accept any young able-bodied person to use as cannon fodder for the war effort. We weren't interested in any, in any of the alleged reasons for going to war. We just wanted money to escape our shitty suburban lives. Nevertheless, the recruiters were thrilled to see 2 young men walk into their offices with wide-eyed curiosity about the military life. They promised us everything we could dream of— traveling the world, making tens of thousands of dollars, sign-up bonuses on top of those numbers. They even claimed we could meet beautiful women from international destinations we'd never heard of. When Stan mentioned the metal plate in his wrist from a car wreck a couple years earlier, the recruiter swore it wouldn't be an issue. When I announced I was due to have knee surgery in a couple of weeks, the recruiter promised me he could bend some rules to get me in. Clearly, the military was hungry for fresh blood. Stan and I listened to his pitch and left the office with a bunch of pamphlets. It didn't take long though for both of us to come to our senses. The military? What the fuck were we thinking? Neither of us were about getting up at 5 AM to be yelled at by some hard-nosed drill sergeant. After our bout of temporary insanity, we resumed our usual lives of slacking and partying. My knee surgeries were quickly approaching. I wasn't looking forward to them, but my hesitation was overshadowed by my anticipation of the insurance settlement check. The first surgery took place on March 27th, 2004. It was an outpatient surgery, so I was able to go home a few hours later. I felt very little pain afterwards, and I was walking like normal within a few days. The second surgery came a few months later. That knee didn't recover as quickly. I had to use crutches for about 2 weeks before I could normally— I could walk normally again. I found myself second-guessing the decision, but by then it was too late. I hoped the surgeries would increase the size of my settlement check. I had big plans for that check. I was optimistic that it would allow me to escape the sorry life I'd been living. My other big goal was to use the funds to finance the recording of my band's debut album. I had done my part by submitting my body to the surgical knife. Now all I needed to do was to be patient and let the insurance company work its magic. In the meantime, the partying continued. When summer 2004 rolled around, Stan scored his own apartment and was kind enough to let me crash whenever I wanted. He'd been working at the mall and was making reasonable money, enough to pay rent, keep his car in shape, and have some spare change for alcohol and drugs on his off days. While Stan loved his 6-packs, I was never a big fan of beer. The only way I could stomach the stuff was to shove it down my throat in the form of a beer bong. My preference was hard liquor, usually vodka or whiskey. Stan and I would get as much booze as we could afford, grab some snacks at the corner store, and start hitting up every hot girl we could think of. Sometimes we'd text 20 or 30 different ladies to see who was free on any given night, and more importantly, who wanted to bring their hot friends over to Stan's apartment for a night of drinking and debauchery. Most of these nights felt hollow. Sure, there were moments of excitement from the attractive women coming over and the temporary high of weed and alcohol, but we mostly ended our nights alone and wasted, or with the girls we hardly knew and didn't give two shits about. Either way, it was around this time in the summer of '04 that the first seed of concern for my health began to sprout. One night at Stan's apartment, After a particularly hard night of drinking, I found myself piss drunk on the floor of the bathroom. I remember feeling lost in a haze of inebriation and confusion and a flood of mixed emotions. Why am I here? I asked myself. What the fuck am I doing? In the midst of feeling sorry for myself, I started puking my guts out into the bathtub. I saw a long, thin, worm-like creature in my vomit in the tub. Another night, I went to the bathroom at the beginning of a party and saw blood in the toilet when I stood up. I grabbed some more toilet paper and wiped myself to double-check. Sure enough, the blood was coming from inside of me. I quickly threw the paper in the toilet, flushed it, and did my best to ignore the evidence I'd just seen. This would not be the last time I'd seen— I'd see blood in the toilet bowl. That same summer, I began taking Xanax regularly. Xanax is typically prescribed as an anti-anxiety medicine. It's nicknamed bars because the rectangular pills are broken down into 4 segments, or bars. The effect, though different for every user, is extremely powerful. For me, it led to blacking out and doing stupid shit that I didn't remember the next morning. When I say black out, I mean I continued to function and talk to people, but later I had no recollection of what I did or said. For some reason, I enjoyed the feeling of both losing control and losing my memory. It would take me a long time before I finally realized that I couldn't handle bars, but in the summer of '04, as I said, I was regularly taking them and blacking out. The erratic behavior Twice led to my arrest. Public intoxication was the charge each time. The details differed, but the story was the same. I'd begin the night drinking and take— taking bars at a friend's house, only to end up stumbling around somewhere in public. Before I knew it, someone would see me and call the cops. On the night of one of those arrests, I was with Callie and his stepdad, a fuck-up of a parent if I ever met one. He loved to do cocaine and even attempted to take us to a massage parlor one night. We weren't interested. On this night, after we'd all smoked some weed, drunk some liquor, and taken a couple bars, Callie's stepdad took us— took the two of us and Casey out driving. It was well after midnight. I was passed out in the backseat. For some reason, I suddenly woke up with the urge to get the fuck out of the vehicle, which by then Callie's stepdad had parked in some big grocery store parking lot. I opened the car door and began running like a madman. A police officer happened to be driving by just in time to see me sprinting across the parking lot and collapsing face-first into a rough patch of shrubs. The officer turned his car around as fast as he could and sped toward me. Meanwhile, Callie's stepdad and my friends bailed on me, leaving me to my fate. When I awoke, I was in a temporary holding cell in the downtown jail, though I didn't know it at the time. I vaguely remember opening my eyes, looking around, realizing I was being held captive, and then promptly passing out again. This pattern repeated itself for the next hours as I sobered up. At one point, I remember waking up and seeing an older Hispanic man in the cell with me. He was clearly drunk. Seeing him peel dead skin off his feet, I passed out again. When I awoke the next time, I could swear he had moved closer to me. After I finally shook myself from the stupor, I was informed that I was in the drunk tank, a place where cops put intoxicated folks to let them sober up. Eventually, I was told I'd been charged with public intoxication. Since I had no drugs in my possession, I was released a few hours later on time served. That— the jail didn't bother me much. As horrible as the experience in the holding tank was, I laughed about it later with Callie and Casey. Unfortunately, that night would be one of the last times I partied with Callie. Later that summer, while Callie's mom and stepdad were out of town, we decided to throw a small party at his house. It was just Callie, me, Burnett, one of her friends, and a couple of other party animals Callie had invited. We guys were doing our usual smoking, drinking, and spending time with the ladies. I was savoring an increasingly rare evening with Burnett, and Callie was trying to hit on B's friend. At some point, one of Callie's buddies said he was going to run to the store and would see us in a bit. He was slightly barred out, but we figured he could handle himself. An hour or more later, he stumbled back to the house, announcing his return with a couple of loud bangs on the door. Everyone jumped up in a panic. Then Callie checked the peephole and started to laugh. This motherfucker right here, he said as he opened the door. Once we all realized it was just Callie's buddy returning from his run to the store, we breathed a deep sigh of relief. But he was still barred out and kept mumbling about some stupid bitch and something about the wrong house. We realized that he must have knocked on a neighbor— nearby neighbor's door, only to be told by the resident he was at the wrong house. Don't be fucking around like that, Callie told his friend, simultaneously smacking him upside the head. Within moments, there was another even louder bang on the front door. Then flashlights started shining in through the back patio windows. This is the police! someone shouted from the outside. Open the door now! Everyone scrambled. I hid in the kitchen with Burnett. After a few moments, it became obvious that there was no avoiding the cops. They weren't going to leave without getting answers. As soon as Callie opened the door, they started barking questions, demanding to know whose house this was and where the adults were. I pretended to be Callie's older brother. I told the cops our parents were out of town and I was in charge. Well, you're doing a horrible job, growled one of the officers who was hovering above us as we sat at the kitchen table. The officers told us that this, quote, stupid drunken kid, as they called Callie's friend, had accidentally gone to the wrong house, had banged on the front door, and in doing so had freaked out Callie's immediate next-door neighbor who called the police to report a potential break-in. The cops insisted that they had to take Callie to the local station and hold him until his parents returned. They handcuffed him and placed him in the back seat of the squad car. I assured the officers that I would handle everything and that Callie would be punished for throwing a party. I offered to get our mom— our, quote, you know, our mom— on the phone so she could straighten everything out. They accepted the offer. I quickly called one of our mutual friends and quietly asked her to pretend to be Mom. The officers talked to Mom and explained the situation, but despite her best efforts to get them to release Callie and allow his parents to punish him, the police refused. They took him away and, as they promised, held him until his parents came back from vacation. Almost immediately afterwards, Callie was shipped back to California to live with his military stepfather once again. I never got to say goodbye, and it would be years before I saw him again. This was one of the first signs that the Project Mayhem crew was beginning to fall apart. Even with Callie around, I continued to have run-ins with the police. My next arrest was for the same offense— public intoxication. After these charges, I was still getting away without too much damage. Just one night in jail, no big deal. If anything, the experiences of interacting with cops and getting arrested were like a badge of honor. They gave me some street cred. Yeah, I've been to jail a couple times and I'm still out here causing mayhem. Sure, I was also causing mayhem to my mind and body, but I was having a blast. Well, at least sometimes it was a blast. I still had no reason to stop drinking, to stop using drugs, to get my shit together, to turn my life around. I couldn't find the strength in myself to care about my future and to want more from my, my life. It would take me meeting yet another beautiful woman to finally decide I wanted to turn my life around. So that's chapter 5. That was what, about 17, 15 minutes? I'm gonna go ahead and do 6 if y'all cool with that. And then I don't know how long 6 is, but, uh, 6 is kind of short, so we'll see where you guys are feeling. If you're feeling 7, we'll go into 7. This is really my descent to the bottom. Chapter 6, Almost But Not Quite. One night, Sam, Casey's replacement in the band, was throwing a party at his parents' house while they were out of town. He'd invited a bunch of our band's fans and some mutual friends, plus friends from his own circle whom I didn't know. I was thrilled to spend some time partying with Sam. We didn't know each other prior to Sam joining through Broken Glass, but we hit it off instantly. Mike and Peyton were still in high school and were the designated sober members of the band. Sam was a year older than me and, like me, a party hound. He hadn't been exposed to harder drugs yet, but he'd love to drink and get rowdy. Not surprisingly, we became fast friends. We'd practice for hours with the band and then go out and find some place to drink and smoke weed. So when Sam told me about the end-of-summer party he was throwing, I needed no convincing to join the festivities. But because I'd been waging a battle with alcohol and Xanax, I decided to stay mostly sober through the night. By mostly, I mean I was still under the influence of bars from the previous nights, but was coherent enough to present a relatively sane and put-together version of myself when I met Shannon. I'm not sure who invited her to the party or if she knew Sam prior to that night. I just know that I was instantly struck by her beauty. She was about 5'5 with thick brown hair flowing to her shoulders. She had the prettiest clear blue eyes. They reminded me of ocean— of clean ocean water at some exotic beach I'd never visited. Under those lustrous eyes were light freckles on her face and thick pouty lips. At some point during the night, I stroked up a conversation with her and realized she also had a fiery attitude and loved to talk shit. This was not a princess waiting to be saved by Prince Charming. So do you just hang out at parties and hit on all the hot chicks? she asked me with a smirk on her face and a drink in her hand. Oh, come on, is that really what you think of me? You just met me, I retorted with a laugh. She was perceptive, all right. Well, you're a hot dude and the vocalist in a band, so I'm sure you get all the ladies, she responded with what I later learned was her signature sarcasm. So you think I'm hot, huh? You're not too bad yourself. We went back and forth with this light banter throughout the night. When the party wrapped, we both decided to stay at Sam's house. We ended up crashing on the couch together, head to toe, so there would be no funny business. The crazy thing was that as we lay there, my feet in her face, hers in mine, she told me she was a virgin. Yep, I'm a 17-year-old virgin. Can you believe it? she asked with a rueful smile. Despite my habit of chasing women for sex, Shannon's frank admission didn't arouse in me the desire to add her to the list of my conquests. I didn't have my heart set on sleeping with her, not immediately anyway. Her bluntness about not having had sex extended to her candid comment that being a virgin wasn't a, quote, big deal. Sooner or later it'll happen, and that will be that, she said. We talked for hours on the couch until we both drifted off to sleep. In the morning, we exchanged numbers and said our goodbyes with a simple kiss. I distinctly remember feeling elated by this chance encounter that led to a long night of relaxed conversation. Shannon was different from Casey and Burnett, and really from any woman I'd met at that point in my life. I had this renewed sense of eagerness excitement, anticipation after connecting with her. Of course, she had no idea that I was the typical village drunk at every party and that I was beginning to rack up an arrest record for my steadily increasing habit of public intoxication. Speaking of Casey and Burnett, at this point Casey and I were hardly seeing each other anymore, and Burnett was on the other side of town creating her own life. I hadn't fully let go of my feelings for them or my half-assed relationships with them, but the more time I spent with Shannon, the less I thought about them. Shannon started to become a regular at Through Broken Glass practices and live performances. She loved metal, and she developed a great rapport with Sam, Mike, and Peyton. Turns out she'd grown up spending most of her time with her dad and brother. She clearly preferred being around guys to having girlfriends. She quickly became one of the band's biggest fans, even if she didn't always agree with or understand our politics. Not that we were a political band, but Sam and I were definitely being radicalized by watching the administration's war on terror which we now realize was a war of terror, drag on. An earlier version of Through Broken Glass's official website kept an official count of the number of U.S. troops and Iraqi civilians who died in the massacres. Sometimes at our live shows, we would surprise the audience with a life-size cardboard cutout of then-President George W. Bush. Sam and I would shout some wild rant or other about ending the war, then we'd behead the cardboard tyrant and throw his head to the fans. Shannon was all about the spectacle we created. She definitely didn't agree with the war, but she would often attempt to goad me into a political debate with her mother. I never took the bait. As the weeks turned to months and we began to fall in love, I felt increasingly inclined to get my act together. Shannon had no patience for bullshit and was not afraid to tell me if she thought I was fucking up. She never explicitly said she would leave me if I didn't stop taking bars and getting drunk, but it was becoming obvious that these activities could not continue if she and I were to remain together. Having overingested both bars and booze, I could barely remember the beginnings of our relationship. It was as if I took a bunch of bars one day, fell into intoxicated state, and woke up in a hazy daze with a hot new girlfriend. But even though I had only the vaguest memory of how we came to be together, it was enough to know that I didn't want to lose her. I knew I needed to get a steady job and sober up if I was going to keep Shannon. I wish I could say I had the strength to straighten up just for myself and my future, but I didn't. I needed outside encouragement to push me to make changes. I started applying for jobs. Several times I forgot a scheduled job interview or showed up in Xanax-induced hypnosis. I had no idea what I said and whether or not I made a complete fool of myself. That's the thing about Xanax. It can heighten your worst characteristics and turn you into a monster. It can lower your inhibitions and cause you to act the fool. It can smother your anxiety and make you calm and cool as a cucumber. Sometimes it can transform a normally insecure, hyper-self-aware person like me into a charismatic, creative wordsmith. And that's exactly what I experienced the day my sister Jordan and her boyfriend showed up at my mom's apartment and woke me up from my stupor to tell me they were headed to— where they were headed and invite me to join them. Hey bub, what are you doing today? asked Jordan, giving me a shake on the couch where I was passed out. What, what's going on, sis? I responded, wiping my eyes and trying to remember where I was. We're going to apply for a job at this new barbecue spot that just opened. You want to come? Really? Okay, fuck yeah, I'll come. Let me change real quick. And we were off. The crazy thing is that while Jordan and her boyfriend had dressed up and prepared for the interview, I was the one who ended up getting the job. I had literally rolled out of bed, thrown on some clothes, walked out the door having no no idea what I was getting myself into. However, when we showed up at the restaurant and met the man— the manager, my Xanax charisma kicked in and I talked myself into being the new pit cook. I had some experience as a cook and I knew I could cook anything they wanted. The manager was impressed and brought me on board. My sister was astonished but supportive. She knew I was struggling to find a focus and she was optimistic the job would help me. I wished I could be equally optimistic for Jordan. Sadly though, she began to experiment with alcohol and pills. I was failing to set a positive example as a big brother. But I knew she was capable of taking care of herself and would let me know if and when she needed me. This was the way our relationship had worked since we were kids. I stayed out of her business, but when she needed me, I was there to kick someone's ass or listen to her vent. She did the same for me. We always had each other's back. Now that I had secured a job, I needed to get my head together so I could operate as a normally functioning human being once again. I had one week before my first shift began. It was time to pull myself together. This meant I needed to sober up. I immediately stopped taking bars. Thankfully, the job didn't require drug tests, which meant I could keep smoking weed, but I pretty much swore off alcohol for a time, a brief time. Shannon was thrilled to hear about the new job. I promised her that I was on my way to returning to the land of the living and that my days of intoxication were coming to an end. She had faith in my ability to keep my word. Her support and her no-BS attitude gave me the strength I needed at the time to push forward. I started to plot my triumphant return to a joyful life. For the first time in more than a year, I could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

Excuse me.

I didn't currently have a car. I'd blown the engine of the car I had worked every day in high school to afford. It's hard to keep a motor vehicle maintained when you're a broke teenager struggling to maintain your own sanity. I was going to have to get a ride to work. I was going to need a real place to live. I'd need to work at this job for a good month or two before I could afford to get my own apartment. I was going to make it happen. And that's exactly what I did. I worked my ass off for 2 months, partying as little as possible and focusing on my dual mission to find— finding a place to live and buying a car. By November 2004, I had enough funds to rent an apartment. I decided to get my own place in the same complex my mom lived in. I figured, well, I've been breaking into her apartment and sleeping in the fitness center, so I might as well get an actual apartment this place. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I was working 5 days a week and living in my new place. where Shannon stayed over regularly. I still didn't have my own car, but I was managing the job and the relationship quite well without one. On December 1st, I celebrated my 20th birthday with Shannon, Stan, and Sam. Life was good, and I was feeling pretty great. I started to party a little more on my off days. I picked up drinking and smoking weed again, though I stayed off X and bars. I wanted to show off my new digs. You could say I was feeling a little too comfortable and cocky, a little too self-assured. Foolishly, I started letting it be known that my place could be a party spot for all the young punks and misfits. Eventually, a few friends I'd known in high school started to come around. Some were close friends like Elliot, others I'd known only from a distance, perhaps at parties. Slowly, this motley crew became regulars at my apartment a few nights a week. Little did I know that these friends from the past had begun experimenting with hard drugs like cocaine, crystal meth, and opiates. Chapter 7. I think we're going to keep going.

Yeah.

All right, this will be the last chapter for today, guys. Thank you for being here while I'm reading from my memoir, A Man of My Word, which you can find at amanofmyword.com. Chapter 7, Hello Crystal Meth. January 2005. The apartment was simple enough. A front porch for sitting and drinking and gossiping. A big open living, living room for cramming as many people in as you could possibly fit. A kitchen that would be largely ignored once hard drugs were introduced. and a bathroom to have sex in and vomit in, and my bedroom. My bedroom was one of the few places I felt safe in, at least for a time. The parties too were simple enough. At least they started off simple. Just friends coming by to drink some beer, take shots of whiskey, or pass around a blunt of chronic. But it didn't take long for crystal meth and cocaine to become regular features of the parties. When Elliot stopped by, he brought PJ, whom, whom I'd grown up partying with. PJ was one of my philosophically minded, incredibly intelligent friends who also had a thirst for pushing the boundaries of the mind and the body through drugs. I was stoked to have Elliot and PJ around, even if we didn't necessarily— if we weren't necessarily the same people we were in junior high and high school. During our time apart, one of the most obvious changes they made is that they continued down further down the road of drugs than I had yet ventured. The two showed up one night with a man, with a dude named Brian in tow. He was a dude I'd seen at school but never befriended. Brian was the same age as us but seemed older, maybe because he could grow a big beard or because he had a large imposing figure and a devilish smile. Regardless, he and Elliot and PJ were all regularly experimenting with cocaine. I'd been around the white powder and I'd seen its effects, of course, but I'd never used it. Since I wasn't the type of person who judged others or rained on their parade, I let them party however they wanted. To be honest, I think part of me felt important and noticed because people wanted to come to my apartment and hang out. And even if they were just using me for a place to party, at least I didn't feel alone. You want to do a line? Brian asked me in his usual gruff voice. Nah, I'm good, man. You guys have at it. I gotta work in the morning. They never pressured me to do drugs with them. I think they understood I was focused on my job and my romantic relationship. In fact, Shannon and I were in the best place we'd ever been, and I was doing my utmost not to screw it up. She'd even witnessed the heavy drug use sometimes going on at the apartment and said she didn't mind, although she never joined in. Not being at the apartment every night, Shannon didn't realize that a steady uptick of partying had started to take place daily. Even I didn't see it coming. The guys would come over, stay for a few hours, and leave at a decent hour most days. Then as time went on, they started partying later and later. I still didn't mind. I'd let them know they were welcome to hang out while I went to bed, as long as they locked up when they left. During the first month or two of having my apartment, Elliot, PJ, Brian, and sometimes friends of theirs would show up to party.

Excuse me.

I'd kick back with them for as long as I could. They'd offer me some coke. I'd decline and go to bed. The next morning, I'd head to work. After a while, some of the coke snorters pivoted to snorting something known as crystal methamphetamine. This drug has many street names: crystal, meth, glass, peanut butter, or our preferred name, clear. Meth can be made in different ways. One of the most disturbing methods involves building a makeshift laboratory and combining common household cleaning products to concoct this powerful substance. In its finished form, meth looks like a giant clear crystal. Hence the term clear. Once the solid crystal is broken down, it looks like shards of glass. Sometimes the shards are so perfectly clear you can see right through them. Other times they have a hint of purple or even red. When the guys offered me coke or crystal and I declined, my excuse was that I had to work the next day. But eventually I had a couple of days off in a row. At that point, when the invite to try crystal— to try crystal came, I accepted. It was one of the more chill and quiet evenings at my apartment. There were 6 of us: Brian, PJ, Elliot, and my friend Sham, a nickname he earned from his obsession with the British punk band Sham 69, and Jason, a friend of Brian and PJ's who had started to show up regularly. I wasn't afraid to try crystal. I wasn't even curious. I already knew that it was an upper that would keep me awake all night. Unlike cocaine, which lasts for only a couple hours or so and requires the user to do line after line to maintain the high, Just a couple lines of clear will make you high for 12 hours or more. The first night I tried clear, we were smoking it from a glass pipe. I don't recall the dose we took, but its odor was unforgettable, like the smell of burning plastic. The guys were passing around the pipe and taking what looked to me like massive hits. As a first-time user, I didn't want to go overboard. I knew it would have been dangerous if I were to hit it too many times. I placed the warm glass against my lips and lit the lighter underneath the bowl. I watched the tiny crystals start to melt and then slowly inhaled. Smoke swirled around the bulb, down the tube, and into my mouth. It tasted just like it smelled, like plastic. I felt the thick, rank smoke enter my lungs. I began to cough. Welcome to the club, Brian said with a smirk as he took the pipe from me. The high of Klear is unique. It's not the same as the high you get from coke, weed, bars, or X. For example, in contrast to X, which induces overwhelming feelings of positivity, joy, and love, and sometimes acts as a stimulant, the high produced by Klear is just pure speed. It turns some people into nervous chatterboxes who never shut up. Others respond to it by wanting to have sex or masturbate furiously. And still others, like Elliot's girlfriend Janie, get this massive urge to clean house. I kid you not, when Janie got high, she cleaned my apartment like her life depended on making the place look immaculate. Klear didn't make me chatter like a social butterfly or have sexual urges or want to clean house. Instead, it catapulted me deep into the recesses of my mind. It's hard to describe. On the one hand, the clear stimulated my body into being so wide awake that I felt like my eyes were literally blown open. On the other hand, the clear made me so absorbed by my own mental conversation that inside my head, I was the opposite of still. My thoughts were racing back and forth, racing from one topic to the next. I couldn't focus on any one thought, yet I was hyper-focused like I'd never seen— been before. if that makes any sense. Even though the guys tried to talk to me, I spoke only minimally. Oddly enough, this strange experience of receding into my own mind made me desperately want more of the stuff. Can I get another hit? I pleaded, biting my bottom lip in guilty anticipation. Slow down, dude, you just had some, PJ said with a look of concern and a pat on my shoulder. You gotta let it work its magic. We can get— you can get you more if you want, Brian interceded, but PJ's right. You should enjoy the high for a little while. Yeah, totally. Like, I'm feeling it, but, but I think I could handle more, I reassured them. Let's give him some more. He's ready for it, Jason chimed in from across the kitchen table. I later learned that Jason was the one supplying the clear through an older friend of his named Cody. No wonder he was eager for me to keep going. Jason was a couple years older than the rest of us. He seemed proud of his exploits. He boasted about the armed robbery that landed him in prison and about the many fights he got into during his stint there. He also appeared to bask in his tough guy experience. A distinctive scar ran diagonally across his throat. It was from a motorcycle accident he'd been in a few years earlier after drunkenly crashing into a concrete pylon. Not surprisingly, Jason was the connect to, to most of the drugs that were flowing into my apartment via my old high school friends. I'm down, I'll take another hit, I blurted out with too much excitement in my voice. Okay, but that was all we had to share, so you're gonna have to pay for the next round, Brian explained. Sure thing, I get paid tomorrow. I'll pay you guys as soon as I cash my check, I promised. Fuck yeah, let's do it! PJ shouted right before he inhaled and exhaled massive clouds of clear into my apartment. I ended up doing $200 worth of clear in one night. I don't know how much of it— how much of it I consumed weight-wise because I still wasn't sure how much the drug typically cost and how much the dealers were charging me for it. For all I knew, the guys could have been ripping me off right from the start. Regardless, I used up the entire $200 that I bought. While the guys talked about any number of inane topics— favorite drug movies, hot chicks, memorable moments of getting really high or fucked up, how to get more drugs— I spent the entire night in silence. For those 8 hours straight, I was living inside my head. When the sun began to rise the next day, it didn't take long for Jason and Brian to start asking me about picking my check— picking up my check to pay the debt. They were in a hurry. I wasn't. I was worried about seeing my boss while I was still wired and fried from the long meth-fueled night. I showered slowly, attempting to calm my jittery nerves. I took my time getting ready and made it clear I was in no rush to leave. I was handling the pressure the guys were exerting on me reasonably well, but I was not at all confident that I could act like a normal human being in front of my boss. Regardless of how anxious I was feeling, though, I knew it was time to pay the debt. Jason and Brian drove me to the restaurant and waited in the car. I walked inside and was met with a bustling lunch crowd. Conversations filled the air, coming in from all directions, creating a cacophony of sound that overwhelmed my heightened senses. I was certain my eyes looked like they were popping out of my head. I took a deep breath and headed towards the kitchen as fast as— at a fast pace, hoping to avoid talking or making eye contact with anyone along the way. Once inside the kitchen, I was hit by the high-volume noise of food orders being shouted, plates being slammed on the counter, and dinner bells being rung. My nostrils were filled with the overwhelming scent of barbecued meats. I walked past the maddening scene straight to the manager's door and gave it a light knock. Come in, he called out. I quickly complied, opening the door and standing awkwardly in the doorway. The manager had his glasses on, an indication that he was in business mode, calculating budgets or making supply orders for the next week. Hey, Derek, how's it going? Can I help you? he said, looking up at me and giving me a quick smile before turning back to all the papers on his desk that awaited his full attention. Uh, um, yeah, I'm here to pick up my check. The words came haltingly out of my mouth as if I were a 90-year-old man stumbling about without his cane. Okay, great. No problem, he said in a soft tone and began searching for the stack of checks. He found it and thumbed through them. Alvarez, Anderson, Baker, Brown. Here we are, bros. I grabbed the check from him as politely as I could, thanked him in a pleasant tone as I could muster, and began my hasty retreat from the restaurant. Derek, wait! He called out before I could escape from his office.

Yes?

I just wanted to say thanks again for coming on board. You're doing great. Thank you, I mumbled. I appreciate the opportunity. I exited the building as quickly as possible and jumped in the backseat of Jason's car. How'd it go? Did you get your check? Jason asked. He was staring at me intently in the rearview mirror. I got it. We're good. Actually, I wasn't good. The smell of the smoke from the cigarette he was puffing made me sick to my stomach. Once we cashed my check, the guys wouldn't wait to introduce me to one of their female friends. couldn't wait to introduce me to one of their female friends and score some more clear. We drove to the home of someone they kept referring to as Mama. I'd heard them mention her more than once during the partying at my apartment. They described her as the mother of one of our former high school classmates, a friendly sort of mother who happened to enjoy dabbling in drugs from time to time. When we pulled into Mama's driveway, I was already feeling overwhelmed by Jason's cigarette smoke, by my lack of sleep, by the stress of talking with my manager, and by the anxiety that always accompanied my meeting new people. Plus, I was still high from the previous night's clear. Mama came outside to greet us. Right away, I could tell she had an intense, high-energy personality. It also looked like the guys had downplayed how much drugs Mama had used in her life. She was extremely thin, had faded brownish-red hair. Her faded brownish-red hair looked like it came from a bottle. Glasses sat atop her shallow cheeks. Come on in, baby! she shouted just as she gave Jason and Brian hugs. And who's this? You brought someone new, I see. I was introduced to Mama and the rest of the meth misfits hanging out at her place. I didn't say much. I just sat there and listened while the guys arranged for the purchase of more drugs. They paused the conversation to make a big deal about me no longer being a virgin now that I'd smoked my first bowls of meth. I didn't like the attention, nor did I like the atmosphere of Mama's house or the vibe of its inhabitants. It felt like a place where hope goes to die, a place where people used meth all the time and had no desire to escape its hold over them. Still, when the group started smoking meth, I didn't turn it down. Yeah, I was judging Mama and her friends for their obviously advanced addiction to meth, yet here I was, willing and eager to light up with them. them. Little did I know that I was at the beginning of my own meth addiction. Soon I would be just like them. Partying would no longer be a part-time experience that I made time for on my days off from work. On the contrary, it would consume me and would deeply affect everyone close to me, everyone whom I cared about and who cared about me. That's what we're going to call it for today, guys. I could keep going, chapter 8, but nah, let's, let's save that. I will say Thank you again for being here. That this book— I've shared this before— the book is broken down into 3 parts. We're in part 1, which as you can tell is like my descent to the bottom and using lots of drugs. We've got about— we just got to chapter 8, which is where we'll pick up next time. And 8 through 13 is that, you know, hitting rock bottom before I get locked up. Part 2 is all about me going in and out of prison and jails and stuff like that. And then part 3 is, uh, you know, after I get out of prison to start changing my life. So A Man of My Word: How I Overcame Addiction, Depression, and Mental and Physical Prisons. It's a little bright right there. You can find it at amanofmyword.com. amanofmyword.com. That's where we're going to leave it, guys. Thank you so much. I'll see you on the next video. Remember, you're powerful, you're beautiful, and you are free. Peace.

Since 2012, the Conscious Resistance Network has been an independent media organization focused on empowering individuals Through education, philosophy, health, and community organizing, we work to create a world where corporate and state power do not rule over the lives of free human beings. Our motto is leading by example and helping others in their pursuit of freedom. Visit theconsciousresistance.com to find our articles, documentaries, interviews, podcasts, books, and more. Remember, you are powerful, you are beautiful, and you are free.