18 Years Sober

I've been sober 18 years. People had beepers. Only geeks had the internet. I watched the OJ trial in rehab. Titanic wouldn't come out for 2 more years. This annual sobriety blog is going to be a little different than the previous ones. I was going to write the following story separately but I think it’s relevant to my own personal growth so I decided to include it here. 

A little over two weeks ago, I found a purse in the LAX terminal 2 parking garage. There it was, on the top rack of a Smarte Carte ($5 rental suitcase trolley for the travel-impaired) unzipped, its content$+ beckoning me. A quick scan of my immediate second level surroundings yielded only a single man loading suitcases into his SUV. A chauffeur’s prerogative is to lift abandoned carts from the garage to use for our passengers. I grabbed the “Carte” with the purse. 

Once inside the safety of a restroom stall, I examined the contents, trying to decide what to do. If I turned it over to LAX police’s lost and found, that would guarantee she’d never see it again. Just trust me on this one. The contents inside the expensive looking bag were tres tempting: iPhone, iPod, over $200 USD and some really pretty Chinese money, credit cards, makeup, moisturizer, feminine napkins, a really slick jump drive, car keys from a make of car I’ve never heard of, quality toiletries…a treasure trove. There was a also a reusable shopping bag of junk food with labels all in Chinese; I had no idea what the hell it all was. I didn’t have time to examine the contents in depth as I had to fetch a passenger. I made myself look at her face on her ID. Pretty girl, early 30’s. Her name was Haiyan. I figured that way it would make it harder to keep her stuff. 

As I drove my passenger to Valencia, I had an hour of silence to think about what I was going to do with the purse. I hoped there would be a phone number or an email address or something. Everything in the phone had been in Chinese. I”ll keep the money and give the rest back.” And “I’ll just keep the fucking thing. Finders keepers” growled my inner criminal. I dropped my passenger and ransacked the purse for clues. Tucked in a pocket was a flight itinerary and a slip of paper, handwritten in English “SLS Hotel” with the address. BINGO, I thought. I could drive to the SLS, drop the purse and be rid of it. I called the SLS, they’d never heard of her. I called every couple hours hoping she’d check in. My head was spinning. The possibilities were too much for me. Remember, I’m an addict, I get high off this shit. 

I thought of this woman and how she must be at her wit’s end in a foreign country without what was basically her life. What was NOT In her purse was her passport. Thinking she had it made me feel a little better. 

I picked up my own car from the shop and it immediately broke again, this time the repair was going to cost $960. Let’s just call it a thousand bucks. I’d just paid a bunch of bills. What was I going to do? “The precious,” cooed my inner Gollum. I could take the money and sell the bag and everything in it. Yeah.  There was an email address on the itinerary. I’d sent a message: I found your purse in the airport, please call me at…” I then placed the purse and the bag of junk food on one of my kitchen chairs. 

A day went by. No email. I came home from work; Shadow and Rufus had ripped the shopping bag to shreds and spread the junk food and wrappers from stem to stern, a doggie junk food orgy. They had opened and not eaten the potato chips so I tasted one. Shrimp. I nearly puked. Although the phone was password protected, little messages and texts in Chinese kept popping up. I figured I had nothing to lose so I decided to attempt to break into her phone. I got it on the first guess. That was freaky: it was my password. 

I called the SLS one last time and they still didn’t know who she was. Still no email. My next clients were Chinese, from Shanghai. They’d never heard of the town of Hohot, the place she’d gotten on her plane. I thought about asking them to translate whatever it said on her ID but decided that would be weird and inappropriate so I didn’t. I think 90% of the calls I got that week were from Chinese people, totally unusual. 

A week went by, no email. I looked up the bag, it was Marc by Marc Jacobs, $600-700. I was going to wait a little longer and then maybe get her ID translated. I had a friend who would have LOVED that bag and giving it to her would negate any resulting bad karma from keeping the contents. Plus the universe sent it to me anyway to help with my car repairs. Right? 

The purse became a chunk of my daily thought as well as a resident in my house, it’s brown hulk occupying one of my bright yellow chairs, sitting at it’s place at my 50’s formica table. “She’s replaced her pretties, keep it” said Gollum. Time had passed, The batteries in the electronic devices had died, halting all the cute little Chinese messages. 

15 days after I found the purse, I got an email from Haiyan. She was back in China and asked me to ship it to an address in Rosemead. I did so without hesitation. I felt silly that I’d even considered keeping anything in the purse. At the last minute, the “bad” part of my mind gave it one last stab “keep the money and return the purse.” I paid the post with some of the money, put the rest back in the bag (postal dude acted like he was going on on a limb letting me do this), sealed it up and away it went. Someone else who knows how to ship things to China can send it off to Haiyan. 

And now a little back story: In 2010 I lost my wallet in the International terminal at LAX. A good Samaritan shipped it back to me, just taking enough money from my wallet for postage and leaving the rest. I felt like this purse was some sort of test, even though I mostly don’t believe in “tests” from karma on a grand scale. I remember the way I felt when I got the wallet back. Even if Haiyan had replaced what was in the purse, I wanted her to feel the way I did, like someone out there actually gave a shit. 

My Lucy cat died last month. She was 18. She was with me my whole sobriety. I tried to prepare myself as she was old and it was bound to happen soon but it hit me hard. As all other souls have come and gone, she’s the only one who remained: Lucy the eternal. She was the house mother, watching out over everyone. If there was ever anything wrong, animal or human, she’d bring it to someone’s attention and not shut up until they looked. When she passed, I was back to being a little kid, wondering why pets can’t live as long as we do. Luckily my good friend Katie who I’ve known my whole sobriety helped me with the final arrangements, providing a lovely resting spot for Lucy. My kitty was sweet and gentle and a little bit of a bitch. When I was alone and scared and newly sober, she was there for me. Even though she’d had a stroke and was frail, she stuck with me until she knew I was OK.

Last night I was walking down Hollywood Boulevard by my house and saw a young guy who looked a lot like I did when I was at the crux of addiction working and not. He was "pulled over" in a silver sports car not unlike the one I drove back then. He looked like me, even had the early 90's dishwater blond mushroom haircut. "How's he doing?" I asked his friend as the cop gave him the drunk test. "Breathalizer" was all that came out of his friend's mouth. We both knew the same thing: the dude was hosed, no matter how well he walked in a straight line. It happened to me on St Patrick's Day of my 24th year, I was about to get the "treatment" from Torrance PD when suddenly "it's your lucky night." They got another call and sped off. Right now there's a cute boy with a backpack, twacked out of his mind on crystal meth in front of the building next door. He's me a year later. He asked me for a cigarette and probably would have given me sex for just about nothing. He's within view of my kitchen window, twitching and fidgeting. Good 'ol meth. 

Last year, active addiction roared through my life in all its ferociousness, consuming everything in its path. I’ve been here before, 3 times to be exact. A horrible deja vu. I consulted experts but then realized I was already an expert with 40 years experience in this particular kind of hell. When faced with another’s raging addiction, we are powerless. I now know that no matter what I did or did not do, the end result would have been the same. Nobody knows the whole story but me and my therapist. Not even close.  

Addiction is cunning, baffling and powerful. It is a stellar actor, a charming liar and a salesperson for something they aren’t, “good” or “great” or “better than ever.”  Addiction has but one goal: to take everyone and everything dear to us and then kill us. The worst kind of hell is being stuck in active addiction, not being able to live or die. The slipperier the addict and the better they are at deception, the longer their run and the deeper their abyss; addiction polishes its Disney-manic smile and will do whatever it takes to put on a good face to the world while it tortures and kills it’s host, destroying those closest to the addict. Losing someone to addiction is the same as a death; we mourn. Addiction survives as long as it can, feeding from the spirit of its host, deflecting blame, destroying loved ones. It develops survival skills. Not better. Not recovered. And always expert at picking the best enablers. Booze, drugs, sex, gambling...doesn't matter. The addict uses whatever tools necessary to destroy and kill. If an addict is lucky, they have the necessary moment of clarity. Years ago when I had my own, I realized what I'd lost. My smokescreen of bullshit was blown away and I was standing there alone in my field of wreckage. It was only then I could recover: I was bankrupt in every way a person can be. 

 My own humble home is now safe, not a speck of active addiction, save the drug dealer on the first floor and people periodically getting arrested or the “lovely alcohol” arguments on the Hollywood Blvd end of my street. I like having it in my face as a reminder of all the things I used to be and don’t want. My goals have changed. I used to want multiple homes around the world. I’ve realized that’s what hotels are for. My wants are far less grandiose. I want to fix up my RX-7 and fantasize about a Dodge Challenger, blue like my Mustang GT was. The rest of my fantasies mostly involve food, sleep and travel. And starting my investment portfolio with a 4-plex in some square state. I re-started my former career and things have been going well. I’ve been running on the border of overwork and the resulting constant course correction trying to find perfect balance with work, social, play, spirituality, sleep. 

As far as my “self,” I’m taking it day by day. I hadn’t had any major problems with depression since I overworked myself in 2006. The result of last fall and the events leading up to it resulted in my being in mourning for an extended  period. I’ve dealt with it by embracing my inner child and taking excellent care of myself. I gave myself carte blanche to eat really, really well and as a result have spent a small fortune at Whole Foods. I’ve resisted the urge fix myself with another person as I’m clear on what I do and do not have to give. I’ve been seeing a super-sweet guy since last January who completely gets me. I don’t have to explain myself, which is rare. We’ve been enjoying each other’s company a day at a time. There’s no reason to rush. Although I don’t have issues with meeting people, making friends and all that jazz, I’ve gifted myself with a generous dollop of alone time because I’ve needed it. This isn’t where I thought I’d be a year ago but it's where I am.

As nature abhors a vacuum, exits begat entrances. And I’m writing again.