KILLER ADDICTION: When Murder Becomes A Habit

Chapter 26

Chapter 26

‘IT ALL STARTED IN COLLEGE, after I hurt my knee and then got hooked on Oxy,’ I explained to the group. It was another Narcotics Anonymous meeting in Arlington, with a group of twelve people in attendance. My first meeting had been tough, saying those jarring words for the first time in public; ‘Hi. My name is Simon and I’m a d**g addict. A h****n junkie.’ It was the most difficult thing I’d ever said.

Owning what I had become and incorporating it into my psyche, making it part of my identity, was very confronting. But the meetings were getting easier, and they were really helping me on my ongoing path to recovery. I continued relaying my story to the group, which through repetition became easier. And not going through it alone was an immense relief, after my intense cold turkey detox period all by myself. I finished my story, got the usual wholehearted support from the group and then headed home after some free Oreos and a hot coffee.

The walk home was a reflective one, with many thoughts circulating in my head. It had been eight weeks since Sally’s death, and I’d been slowly getting my life back together. I was eating again, my brain was recovering its function, getting back some of its former brilliance—I now had an attention span slightly longer than that of a goldfish. I was working, making some money, doing a good job at the diner, getting back to reading books and following the news. I was gaining in physical and mental strength every day. I’d taken up jogging and doing some simple exercises in the park, including push-ups and chin-ups on the playground bars. I was slowly regaining some of my former strength and muscle as my energy returned. My skin had cleared up, and I was looking healthier. I was still way underweight, but I had already gained thirty pounds since I’d stopped shooting up.

Now it was time for some emotional work. I’d been attending meetings and had worked my way through the first seven steps of the Narcotics Anonymous twelve-step program, all of which centred around me, my personal responsibility and my relationship with a higher power, which for me I called The Universe rather than God. I’d been thinking a lot about Karma lately and knew if I dropped dead this minute, I would come back as pond scum, so I had some serious work to do if I was to climb the evolutionary ladder in my next life.

It was time for the eighth and ninth steps in the twelve-step program—make a list of the people you have harmed and then try to make amends. Wow, that was some list. It had been a real in-your-face, f**k-you kind of moment, looking at that list, long as my arm. The friends I had screwed over, the family I had stolen from, the strangers I had robbed, the fellow junkies and homeless people I had pilfered from, the home owners I had burgled, the tip jars I had pinched, the church donation boxes I had ransacked, the people I had abused when I was high or coming down, the list just went on and on.

The enormous list was too daunting, so I’d decided I had to just start with the big one—family.

As I stood on the front porch that held so many happy memories for me as a child, my breath was fast and heavy, my palms were sweating, and my head was spinning. I hoped my family would welcome me back into the fold but thought they would likely reject me. I just had to suck it up and try. I knew Mom was the only one home. I had waited out front of the house for two hours to see Dad go out and watched with fondness as I saw her farewell him with a kiss at the front door, just like I remembered.

I drew back my hand, rapped my knuckles lightly on the front door, and held my breath. I heard movement in the hallway and then saw the front door swing open. The face staring back at me was so familiar, and yet so different. Mom looked like she had aged ten years since my serious d**g use began, with worry-lines etched deep into her forehead. The happy, shining eyes that I remembered had become sad and tired. She didn’t say a word; I think the shock was too much for her. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she just dropped to the floor, flopped down like a rag doll right in front of me without uttering a sound.

‘Mom? Mom!’ I cried out, staring down at her. I quickly rushed into the house, went around behind her head and stretched her out. I sat down beside her and cradled her head in my arms on my lap, stroking her hair and waiting for her to come around. After a few seconds, her eyelids fluttered, and she opened her eyes, looking up at me.

She reached her hand up, brushed my cheek and whispered, ‘Simon? Is that really you? Or am I dreaming?’

As the tears flowed down my face, I replied, ‘Hi, Mom. Yes, it’s me. It’s Simon. I’m back.’

‘Oh, Simon, I’m so glad to see you!’ she cried, ‘I didn’t even know whether you were alive or dead! I kept having visions of your body lying in a gutter somewhere, thinking someday I would get a call from the police to come and identify you in the morgue.’

She raised herself up and buried her face in my neck, first crying and then sobbing uncontrollably. My tears grew and grew until I too was sobbing, my face contorted in anguish and my body heaving with each breath.

‘Mom, I’m so sorry! Oh my God, I’m so sorry for what I’ve done to you and put you through!’ I cried out through my tears. ‘I’m so selfish and horrible. I was only thinking about me and what I wanted and didn’t think at all about the impact I was having on those close to me, the people who loved and cared for me. I’m sorry, from the depths of my soul, for what you’ve had to go through because of me.’

We sat there together on the floor in the hallway for what seemed like an eternity as we both cried ourselves dry, without talking. Finally, Mom pulled away from my neck, reached out both hands and cupped my cheeks like she used to when I was a little boy, drew herself in and rubbed the tip of her nose on mine in the traditional greeting of the New Zealand Maori people and said, ‘Welcome home, Son.’

This simple gesture and welcoming words from my mother melted my heart. We had travelled south to “The Land of the Long White Cloud” on a family holiday when I was young. We had seen the traditional tribal greeting and adopted it as our own special welcome when one of us had been apart from the other for any longer than one night.

‘Thank you, Mom. You don’t know how much it means to me to hear you say that,’ I said.

She raised an eyebrow in response and replied in a tone with a hard edge, ‘I know exactly how much it means, Son. And I don’t say it lightly. That welcome home comes with a big condition.’

‘What do you mean?’ I gulped, nervous to hear what was coming.

‘Four simple words. Don’t f**k it up.’

My head snapped back like someone had slapped me in the face. I had never, ever heard my mother swear before, and I hadn’t seen this hard edge to her. This simple statement from her brought everything into sharp relief for me. I had made some huge mistakes, hurt her deeply and busted down some big fences that needed mending. I was on fragile ground—she had opened her heart to me, even though she knew it was at risk of being crushed again.

I had taken the first big step of coming home, and she had made the second big step of welcoming me back into her life, but from here it was all up to me.

Up to me to prove to her I was worthy of her trust, support and love.