Junkie Hunters

Tonight’s episode of the Fraudulent Files: Halfway House Edition will be delayed for a night or two, but in its place is everyone’s favorite human herding show, Junkie Hunters. Tonight’s episode: Adapt and Overcome

6:03PM
The sun has set on another day in South Florida, darkness creeps across the parking lot of New Beginnings One More Time as my partner, Reverend Franklin and I, Stu Prentiss, map out the areas of the concrete wild where we will hunt junkies.

“Rev, I am thinking we go to the traps on South Federal in Lake Worth. I heard Gina is there, and I got a hot tip as to exactly where she is staying.”
“Sounds good Stu. To the recovery van.”
“You have your Square to run the credit cards?”
“Check.”
“Expense money to buy a cap or two?”
“Check.”
“We have to hurry, I’ve got an appointment to finish my sleeve at 9:30.”
“Where are the Red Bulls and tell me you have the vape juice.”
“This isn’t my first rodeo Rev.”
“That’s what your mom said last night.”

We set out on a night full of revelry, and fat referral fees. It feels really good to help people get into recovery, whether it’s the first, second or third time this year. We go the New Sun Gate, and I can only imagine how hideous the Old Sun Gate must have been. I wish they would just embrace the trap life, offer the Cobain, Winehouse, Houston, Staley, etc suites. Instead it’s fucking Elvis, who to be fair, knew his way around a prescription cabinet.

This used to be a much more simple process, just sneak up on any one of hundreds of dumpsters, and tranquilize the junkie looking for free donuts. We throw them into the van, transport them to the inpatient rehab, and sign them up for Obamacare, especially Cigna. So we have had to do a lot more surveillance, finding the higher class of junkie.

“I totally just punned it Rev!”
“That’s what your mom said last night.”

There’s a lot of junkies running around, but once again, Obama has ruined everything. Apparently he doesn’t care about recovery. Now we have to use varying degrees of ethics and morality, so that we can be the impetus of change in these heroin addicts lives. Just yesterday I picked up a girl at an NA meeting, and discreetly slipped a cap and needle into her purse. placed an anonymous call to her halfway manager so that she got thrown out, thus right now we are in a position to 12-Step her right now.The greater good!

7:27PM
“I’m going up to her room. Mic check 1,2, recovery!”
“Read you loud and clear. Let’s make a fucking difference.”

I go to the second floor, the Marilyn Monroe suite. Shit, there’s Red.
“Yo Stu. What’s good? You need more caps?”
“Not now Red. We’re filming this intervention. Don’t worry, I’ll edit you out.”

I knock on the door. “Gina, It’s me Stu Prentiss. I heard you’re in trouble. I want to help.”

After some banter, I ask her for her insurance card.
“I don’t have insurance.”
“Oh, ok, clearly you don’t want help then.”
“But I do.”
“It’s about surrender Gina, and willingness. But I’ll give you $20 for a blow job.”

Time lapses.
“Where’s Gina?”
“She has no insurance. You didn’t hear that?”
“No, it was like the mic malfunctioned.”
“Well, let’s freestyle pick. There has to be someone close by that is still on their parents’ insurance.”
“Let’s go to Burger King. Watch the bathrooms/”
“Always a solid plan Rev.”

8:15PM
We spot an ideal candidate. Well dressed, yet an aura of griminess surrounds her. She goes to the bathroom, and I wait outside the door. Another dirty, disheveled junkie heads to the men’s room, giving me a dirty look. Fucking junkies with no insurance. Take a Puerto Rican shower for fuck’s sake.

As she open’s the door, I hit her right in the neck with a tranq dart. We use Special K. I know someone in the program who works at a veterinarian’s office, and gets us good deals on all sorts of  equine injections. Tren is my favorite. We Weekend at Bernie’s her to the recovery van.

Now’s the moment of truth- I go through her purse. It’s like we just unlocked a secret vault. She has a matching Michael Kors wallet, a great sign. We take the cash, we don’t want her relapsing with all that money. Good lord, her wallet is loaded with credit cards. What is this girl doing in Lake Worth?

“We can’t have her giving her Back Amex to a dealer. Let’s save her from that path. Her parents will thank us.”
“It never fails to amaze me the amount of empathy and foresight you have Stu.”
“Well, I am a Prentiss. Granted, the disowned one, but Daddy will take me back into the fold.”

Then we see it, a Blue Cross PPO card.So shiny.So…money.
Her name is Leslie, and she’s in a huge K hole from the looks of her. We drop her at New Beginnings One More Time.

And just in time. I have to get my skull sleeve finished.
“What an awesome night. It feels fucking awesome to help.”
“God is good.”

9:36AM
My cell phone is ringing. Why did I download that nuclear siren ringtone? My recovery timer tells me I have 7 months, 11 days, 22 minutes of clean time.
“Hello?”
“Stu, what the fuck man? That chick Leslie you dropped off last night. Her Dad is an FBI agent. She doesn’t use drugs. The only thing in her system was ketamine.”
“Hmmm…I can see your predicament, cut her loose to save face, or maybe you use that therapist degree and talk to her about denial. It ain’t no river in Egypt.”
“Stu, we are fucked. She kept screaming about charges and fraud.You and the Rev are fucked. Kidnapping.”
“Did the billing go through?”
“No.”
“Charge it to her Black card.”
No sooner than the word card left my lips than more door is broken down.

“I didn’t do anything wrong. I was helping her. My fucking arm doesn’t bend that…” SNAP!

Producer note: We will be searching for a new recovery duo to fill the vacancy of Stu and the Rev. All junkie hunters are welcome to come by for an interview between the hours of 4:00 and 6:00PM.

Guilty Bystanders

Well, it’s been an interesting few days. Thanks to the over 400 people who stopped by to read about an occurrence all too common down here. One of my favorite things I heard was it’s none of my business, that if I were working a program, I’d ignore this person’s bullshit. I was labeled passive aggressive, probably accurately, because that is something I tend to do.

So, let me be a little more clear this time around. If I have already eaten a Five Guys burger, and get a second one on my way out, you know, just for later, and I see a cachexic human being digging through the dumpster, I sure as fuck better give that person my other greasy Godsend. It’s beyond right, it tears at that part of me that is instantly taken back, to those moments when I would look over my shoulder, make sure no one is looking, before I picked up a half eaten bagel from behind a Dunkin Donuts, because my options were just that dire. Desperation, acutely primal, yet incomprehenibly vain. Really Mike, you are starving to death, haven’t showered in days, and you have the gall to look around ONE more time to make sure no one sees another secret?

Isn’t that addiction at its core though, fear.? Scared to death to be rejected, to fail, to face the consequences, to admit a multitude of mistakes. The truth terrified me- when I was sick. When I wanted to pretend I had my shit so together even though I was shattered. When I was married, my then wife actually pulled up my sleeve, and I lied straight to her face, that I had given blood once, or another time I had used a syringe to gather ink for a journal entry. Yeah, I was that sick I wrote in my own blood. Tell a bigger lie with a lesser truth, that was my way of convincing myself I had nothing to hide.

Working steps, I faced my self-perceived inadequacies, have made amends wherever possible, and keep my slate clean daily, and make sure I erase my marks daily. The alternative will be the end of me this time around, no doubt about it, I can’t go back to heroin. I can’t smoke a joint, do a line of cocaine, or have a beer. The misery of that life…no way. The gift of grace is only given so often, and who do I think I am to throw that back in God’s face?

As has bore out across the nation, addiction is not some slap on the wrist disease. More people overdose and die than are killed in auto accidents. That doesn’t include the incredible number of near misses thanks to Narcan and quick action of first responders. It could be so much worse.

That blog, it was written because of all this. If it were someone I saw drink some beers during a football game one weekend, then pick up a year the next weekend, that’s none of my business. Maybe that person hasn’t made the concession to self that he/she is an addict. Maybe they are a problem drinker. Not my inventory to take. When actions however directly affect others, putting those looking for help in a situation where they get nothing even resembling assistance, well, do I sit around and say, none of my fucking business? In case anyone missed it, I’m not going to let that person pick through the dumpster.

Just like I am not going to walk by someone being strangled, I’m not going to just say, “Hey, that person probably had it coming.” When a situation is blatantly wrong, and lives are at risk, it’s everyone’s responsibility to speak up. When greed wrecks a system that could have helped so many more people down the line, well, shame on me for not speaking up even more so than allowing places to get away with $3000 urine tests.

I’ve dealt with enough shame in my lifetime.

I’m not going  to sit around pretending there isn’t a mother and father sitting up in New Jersey right now, praying for their son or daughter to get help. That right now, they think that anguished scream to God was finally heard as their child says, “Please help me,”and South Florida is the answer. I don’t want their moment of relief to be one of agony a few months later, because instead of the kid relapsing, then going back through the cycle of detox and IOP, they’re coming down here to collect the body.

No, I am going to speak the fuck up. If that bothers anyone, I am not sorry at all. What would a father say if they knew their daughter reached out for help and instead of that, it was deemed cool to stay there, to shoot dope as long as she gave it up and slept in the same bed. How the fuck is that helpful?

The reality of it is there are a lot of people in recovery that are dangerous to those who really want a new life. Shoot your steroids, fuck as many vulnerable women as you can, rape insurances, pretend this is all okay because that’s what ‘everyone’ does. Not everyone lives in such a selfish way. Sorry, there are great rehabs. halfways, great sponsors. I’m not condemning you if you take any of this and get all up in your feelings over it, because it’s Marathon Man dentistry and that pain comes from inside. Is it safe? 

Not at all, but I am not even close to alone in this fight.

In fact, there are so many people earning an honest living down here, that run rehabs and halfways where the goal is recovery that I consider this place home. There are men and women who take others through the steps, that put Step 12 in front of everything, that endeavor to live a spiritual life, not just 60 minutes at a meeting, but all the other waking hours as well. They walk the talk. Those who have been there for me, that have showed me how to live a selfless life and give back. God-given.

-MFJ

The Fraudulent Files

South Florida is hyped as a recovery mecca. In recovery, one gets well. I can’t explain how much I’ve changed for the better. I use the word recovered, because I worked the steps. I work 10, 11, & 12 daily to the best of my ability. I was exhausted from being a selfish ass hole for so many years. I was tired of hurting people by destroying myself and doing anything to feed the beast.

I’m far from perfect, but I try pretty fuckin hard to be a stand up guy. Those who know me can attest to it. I will help you if you ask. I know what it’s like to be all alone, or at least so shut off from God, friends and family, that it’s literally me floating in a vacuum while the world streams past. I wanted to get well. So I picked a man to sponsor me that was the type of human being I wanted to become.

Apparently not everyone values gratitude, grace, and altruism like I do. That, I attribute to God putting my sponsor in my life. I love to have a good time, and in my wallet there’s a joker, and my medallion. It reminds me of balance, it tells me life is about truly living and having a good time. I want my sponsees to get the gifts the steps gave me, that shift in perspective that allows me to show compassion to any human being I encounter, to handle “life on life’s terms” (don’t get me started again on that phrase) by not turning the world inside out so that I can step into the center of things. I’m just not that important.

When I am deadly serious it is when sponsoring someone and working steps with them. When I went through mine, it was a lesson- in so many ways, but it taught me how to be a sponsor. I happen to have worked mine old school, and last I checked, that worked or we wouldn’t have the plethora anonymous groups we have today. I am not saying I am a great sponsor, but I am qualified, I am most definitely a card carrying member. I’m proud of that.

Now then- If not pictured below, take the rest of this with a grain of salt. If its truth resonates with you, and doesn’t piss you off, let’s try and tighten up on those who constantly put others in danger. If you’re angry and not pictured below, sorry, the truth sets some free, and pisses others off.

Addiction is selfishness. If you are still selfish, you are not helping others. If you offer a hand to someone and have the other out for some sort of payment, you’re not practicing altruism. If you say shit like, people who pick up multiple white chips should be shunned, I have to ask what program are you following. That guy, Bill W., might not have had chips, but had AA been around, he would have picked up multiple white chips. Being that he founded it, well, fuck you. Maybe you don’t understand addiction. That’s not for me to say- I can however comment on actions.

I have a lot of friends, one’s by your logic, I should have shunned. Fuck, I should have turned my back on myself a long time ago. God doesn’t shun anyone. If you’re bigger than God, drop some knowledge on me please. In the interim, I’m going to drop facts on you. Anyone who is a friend of one of my friends, is mine by default. When I get a phone call in the morning about actions, hurtful, self-centered actions, I get pissed. There’s this problem down here- maybe you’ve heard, a lot of people are dying.

As a person, I cannot save anyone. I can offer my help in anyway if that person is willing to get help. I don’t judge sincerity, I just do what I can. I’m a junkie, so I’m pretty good at smelling bullshit. When someone puts their trust in you to help out a friend, and you go from her sleeping on your couch to threatening homelessness over her head if she doesn’t fuck you, well…

That you know she is vulnerable, and you take advantage of that, yeah…That you know she is getting high, and use that against her, to sleep in your bed so you can get laid again, dude… you are all that is wrong with “recovery.” What if this girl, who was so uncomfortable, she slept in her car rather than be inside your place, what if she had overdosed while out there, alone? Her choice right? Yes, it is. There’s this thing though, I learned it from the steps, personal accountability.

It’s not about the other person’s actions, it’s “what did I do?” Step 4 shit, if you’re ignorant to the program. Apparently you did miss that. Recovery isn’t a feeding ground to sleep with girls so you feel just a little better about yourself. Human beings are not self-esteem nourishment, that’s an inside job, accomplished when you reconnect with God and maintain that connection. Worse, you work for recovery communities. Maybe they should market the fact a girl had to leave a halfway because you hit on her repeatedly, and wouldn’t leave it alone. People look up to you as a member of the recovery community? You don’t represent recovery in any way. It’s a fucking disgrace.

Worst of all, you sponsor men. Bad sponsorship kills. Literally. Please stop sponsoring people. That I haven’t said fuck 1000 times in this blog is a miracle. Step 10, make sure to promptly admit you’re wrong. You owe some serious amends to people. You need to get well or get out of the recovery community.

I’m done.

The Recovery Scene

I’ve been thinking about how to say certain things, without being a complete dick. A lot of people are dying in our country, as bags of fentanyl go around. 74 people in 72 hours in Chicago, yet my little hometown of Washington had 18 in 24 hours, not to mention like 8 in 3 minutes or something crazy like that. Thankfully a lot of people were saved thanks to Narcan and fast responses of EMS crews.

I’ve died. More than a few times, and while it certainly should qualify as a “sobering experience,” it never did for me. What should have been a wake up call was not. Far from it. The junkie mentality is anytime there are bags going around causing OD’s is to seek out those. After all in my head, the people who died were just rookies, and I could handle anything.

In the end, it was sheer desperation that brought me to my knees. I lost absolutely everything, including my will to live. Back when I tried recovery for the first time, circa early 2000, I went to a meeting on Mount Washington, St. Mary’s maybe, but it was one of those fashion show meetings, where everyone dressed to impress, it was more social hookup fest than a regular meeting. It’s why I went. What I will never forget, and it’s impressive I remember anything from early 2000, is this guy, I can see his face so clearly, coming into it, and just standing up, going on a rant about the heroin users and the needle. “You will die.”

Because he was high, no one probably took him seriously, but that moment in time is vivid for me. “I’m not talking about those who snort it, I’m talking about those that shoot it right in the vein. It’s impossible to stop.” Yeah, I remember hearing all of it. What he said made sense. What caused me to pick up again was the same old pattern I would repeat over and over in life. I met a sexy nurse and the rest went down in the typical junkie love tragedy. Sex, drugs and rock n’ roll, and some rap. I think about Debbie a lot, just wondering if she made it out of the tempest.

Other names include Sarah and the girl from Vermont I met here, whose face I can see but whose name I forget. Liz. That’s it. Amazing what a little clean time can give you. Denise, from South Carolina, who we called the Leprechaun. I’m sure you get the idea, but there were more than a few lives I intersected with that are just gone. With social media, I sometimes stumble upon someone from the past, but when first names are hard to jog, last names are impossible.

Back to my opening sentence, how do I say what I want without being a judgmental jerk? I’m going to talk about me. Anyone who meets me today, outside of work at least, is amazed by my peace. I got that from the 12 Steps. I suffered for almost 20 years, I swore I wouldn’t be miserable in recovery. I’m a jovial kind of guy, thankful for another day of life. Thankful for making it through, hoping I did something good for someone and admitting my mistakes.

I’ve gone through it, I’ve been literally penniless in recovery, unemployed through no fault of my own, been to funerals of friends, and spent of all of it single. Spare me the Tinder whore comments. 😊 Through all of it, I’ve remained firmly grounded, I am entrenched in sobriety, I am recovered and I am not giving any ground.

My worth is inside and I am most thankful for that gift. I am comfortable alone, and a few nights of lust withstanding, I didn’t want to get an apartment and obsess over any of those ladies like I used to prior to recovery. That idea blossomed into co-dependency but today I get it-  I never needed someone to make me whole, what I needed was conscious contact with God. If you’ve read Shoestring Theories you know it starts out with this line:

“Please God, let me die. I just can’t fuckin’ do this anymore. I’m sorry.

God, who never turned his back on me, who never tired of sending guardian angel after guardian angel to save my life, did allow a chunk of me to die. That part that whispers in my ear on how to get grimy, to get the next one, no matter what. You did not want to be my friend back then. Apparently I have a genius IQ, ironic given all incredibly stupid chances and choices I took on a daily basis, but intelligence turned selfish produces tragic results.

I guess the point is this, for me, nothing in the outside world is going to give me pure joy. Any happiness from a material possession is fleeting at best. I think of how this all began- be a pharmacist Mike, so you can make money, drive fast cars, get the girls, who cares why they like you, just shower them with gifts, get money, get stuff, get happiness, buy love.

I have a friend I lived with down in Maryland, that kind of friend that you go years without speaking to, that helped me out and I never repaid her, but once we talk, we’re all caught up and that bond I thought we reestablished, I realize it never broke. I have these incredible people in my life, old friends that always loved me, that kept me in their prayers, but again, I turned my back on God, not the other way around.

My drug addiction began chasing the American Dream, because I had no idea what happiness was. Today I have the answer. I got my self-worth and self-esteem back, something taken from me at such a young age, and that gave me the chance to find pure joy- it’s all in Step 12 – the message of altruism. Give to give, because someone did that for me. Give because it is right, not because you’ll get something in return. Help someone, with no ulterior motives, and life has a way of taking care of itself.

Peace and love
-MFJ

Good and Evil Vs. Right and Wrong – Cage Match – Free PPV

Love is a crazy thing, it’s a word I reserve for myself, for God, for family and dear friends. Only lately, after 15+ months clean and 99% serene, have I been thinking about that relationship  type love. It’s not tied to any one person. (Lie) Maybe it’s chained to two. One I know as well as myself. The other was a beautiful stranger a month or so ago, who I’ve gotten to know because of a little randomness in time led to an exchange in numbers. Since then she has been living a situation I went through years ago, where my world caved in around me, where I felt so alone.

When I got clean, and learned to strive to be selfless, that that was the key to a peaceful life, that helping others provides pure happiness, I began to pay a lot of attention to those who were living situations that tore my sanity into pieces, that pushed me into such a dark place, I couldn’t even see a glimmer of light in my imagination. I’m not letting that happen to a friend, he or she will know I’ve got their back in whatever way possible.

Naturally I do my best to help addicts, to get them through the steps, which for me birthed this change in me, that full-scale shift in perspective that altruism produces. The wholly selfish asshole was murdered when I tried to kill myself, and begged God to not intervene. Shift in perspective- God always listens, he’s always there. He answers with Mick Jagger wisdom- I got what I needed. I was lucky enough to be given incredible amounts of hurt, so that I can appreciate and feel joy to the extent of my pain.

There’s a lot of times things just don’t work out, regardless of mutual feelings. I get that, I am sadly beginning to understand this lesson. When I started this blog, there was no homework assignment, now it’s setting in, the years are not always kind, the roads we are on intersect at finite times, and who we walk along that path with isn’t always the one you dream about. Now I’m feeling a certain kind of sadness.

I am realizing this has little to do with the title, and maybe that’s more than alright. Good people can appear evil when assumptions are made, good people can make a ton of wrong decisions. More than anything, I can see myself in people, the miserable empty shells, that are so fun to be around, laughing and joking while everything inside is so wrong. Funny thing is this one isn’t an addict, but she’s mirroring my past so much it’s kind of scary. I know she feels nothing will go right, that the sky is falling around her and no one cares. Someone most certainly does.

I have no idea where this is going, and maybe that is the point- Spotify just played a Bustelo commercial- and if you follow this, you know Bustelo and I have this tangled affair going on, but that’s another clue where irony is the mystery that won’t be solved. I used to pack a ziploc of Bustelo in my bag, and add it to my Dunkin coffee. I stopped doing that, in fact, I’m out of Bustelo currently, but there are certain things I always have with me, I carry a Big Book, a composition book, and a journal. I carry the journal because it has a variety of words in its pages. Among them are words written in blood, a terrible habit when I was using.

Then there is that paragraph, that ideal girl description. I haven’t read that in a while, life has been so hectic, and well, that journal and I have this connection, Hear me out, I open it and there’s notes from a Buddhist monk, forgotten moments from Thailand that I read at the perfect time. It got me to make a leap of faith, and find something I lost many lives ago, my old soul wasn’t whole, and the lesson- a soulmate isn’t necessarily a forever thing, in the physical sense, it gives you back what was thrown away. I have that, and when my room is quiet, I find my mind thinking about her. Tangent drift…sorry, that ideal girl thing-

“Battle-tested, treasuring the losses for the wisdom gained rather than the spoils of war.”

I’ve met people who like that line, know that line but don’t live it. She understands. The best thing about life is I’m not afraid to see where this road takes me.

Peace and Love,
-MFJ

PS- This poem, I just found, in that journal – 4/25/15

Shell Game

I’m pretty sure I knew what I was asking for
Fairly certain we were a shared exit
Now journeying to different destinations
Not even heading the same direction
Makes the separation inevitable
Adjust the rearview
I glance, she stares
Cosmic collision and I know my role
Overnight distraction when more was imagined
Hold my hand, maybe no envelopes should be pushed
No matter the stationary inside
Is it the words written, the phrases spoken
Or the flipped coin actions that caused the disconnect?
Who let go first?
Doesn’t matter, I wasn’t holding on either
Think what you must to sleep uneasy
My peace was the attraction
Especially in the context of my wreckage
Of self
Of soul
Wounds scar
Forever remember that moment
Where undesired freedom
Gifted a stranger on the same road as me
Where I grabbed an outstretched hand
And felt her grip tight
Maybe I’m not letting this one go…