Vegas! It's My Honeymoon and I Want To Get High!

The wedding was beautiful and the trip exciting for both Squeaky and I. There is another side of the story though. It is the story of my addictive side. Please note that I did not drink alcohol for 5 years from 1999 to 2004. As an addict we switch drugs, control amounts and fool ourselves into thinking we don't really have a problem. I knew I was an alcoholic and wasn't drinking. That equals no problem. Anyone who has been to Vegas knows you can find any drug or experience you fancy. You can enjoy the "sinniest" of sins, if you find the right people. As an addict I can pick these "go to guys" out in a room of a thousand faces.

Before we left Chicago I finished up the rest of my weed. When I felt like there wasn't enough I would crawl around the carpet looking for a bud that had fallen to the floor during a previous party session. Smoking dog hair, bugs, food and dust bits was just collateral damage in finding that wonder bud under the bed and reaching the high I craved.

We woke from our late night nuptials about 1:00 pm. We made love and showered, ready for a night on the town as Mr. Tom and Mrs. Kris Connolly. I was jonesing. Whoever said you can't get addicted to weed didn't interview me. I was hooked, but since I wasn't drinking, I was cool with it. I thought it didn't count. My wife wasn't supportive but was happy I wasn't drinking. She didn't understand addiction and the addict then, and had seen a lot of alcohol damage in past relationships. She accepted what I was doing, but secretly hated it and knew she was enabling me.

Below our hotel was a strip mall with souvenir shops and liquor stores. I only had to walk a hundred yards from the front door before the street rats and hustlers surrounded me. Ice, Tic, Smack and Blow was hawked under muffled breath. The dealer also has an eye for the user and they were locked in on me. I said I was looking for weed and 3 entrepreneurs jumped to attention like valets excited to park my BMW. I made arrangements for a small amount with the guy who could score the quickest. There was no consideration for leaving my wife uncomfortable or the risk that I was talking to a cop. I was trained to look at shoes and haircuts, eyes and sunglasses. I could pick a cop out like a hippo in a chicken coop.

30 minutes went by and my connection returned. The nonchalant brutha handshake dope pass was followed by an equally unassuming cash pass hand slap. I had my weed and was dying to get flying. For me the excitement of the deal and risk mixed with the relief of the score and anxious waiting was intoxicating. I bought some papers from the liquor store and headed back up to our room, dragging my wife behind me like a frustrated parent tugging their unruly toddler through the supermarket.

In the room the next ritual was initiated. The smelling, cleaning, breaking and de-seeding was vital to the roll. I twisted a J and opened the window to vent the smoke. A pothead also rolls up a towel and places it along the crack at the bottom of the door for extra odor prevention. It really is a lot of work to get high. All the while my new bride sat impatiently prodding me to hurry up. She didn't want me high but knew I would be irritable and no fun if I didn't get my way. She was as much at mercy to my habit as I was.

I finished the doob and was now ready to go. We headed down the strip and she was excited that we were husband and wife. I kissed her and was trying to determine the quality of my high while she shattered her sweet nothings. I told her I needed to see where Tupac was killed. That was the extent of my sightseeing. We reached the spot and I screamed at the ridiculous notion that no one saw anyone shoot him that night. If I made a sudden reach for my wallet four people would look at me. How could there be no witnesses on hand the night of a Tyson fight in Vegas? We were there in May and the street was packed. I ranted on and my wife dragged me on pleading for our honeymoon dinner.

Food was near the top in my botanically induced euphoria and a buffet at Treasure Island was just what the doctor ordered. We ate a lot. I ate a lot more than I should have. We lost a few bucks gambling and I wanted to return to the room. I told her I was tired but just wanted to return for another hit or two or 10. She wanted to see more of the strip and I acted like a spoiled child being martyred every step of the way. After my drama and whining became too much, Squeaky relented.

Our walking pace back to the hotel was double what it was when we left earlier in the evening. I was tired, remember, and I needed to get back quick and relax. I bought my wife a Starbucks, her favorite, as a token apology for cutting the evening short. I said all the right things to let her know how much I loved her. I meant every word. I loved her with every fiber of my being, but I love getting high one fiber more. Once the scale tipped toward getting high I was on auto pilot.

We made it to our room, my rituals were repeated. The towel was neatly rolled sealing the outside world out of my private party and I smoked until I fell passed out. My wife watched TV, feared a bust and wondered what the rest of the honeymoon and our life had in store for her.

I Was In A Coma! Oh Yeah, And Driving My Car!

One of the most ridiculous statements I have made to myself and to other people is that when I have a couple of drinks in me I'm a much better and safer driver. I pay attention more and my reactions are better. That is like saying when I wear a blindfold my hearing gets better! I have said it dozens, if not hundreds, of times to the people daring enough to get in the car with me when I was hammered. I said it mainly to myself knowing in my heart I should not be driving, but my addiction could play me like a kazoo.

My prayer life was at it's peak while driving drunk. "God please don't let me get a DUI." The professional drunk takes note of the shape of police car headlights so we can do a quick rear view mirror analysis of the cars tailing us. "It's a Ford LTD slow down." "It looks like a Charger. Be cool." I couldn't tell you much about a car's interior, but I damn well could describe the front of a cop car to the T.

In March of 1991 I was laid off from a job I held with a major petrochemical corporation. I loved being laid off. I could get paid, drink earlier and drink more. When I was working, I had second shift and my hours were 7pm-7am, a two days on and 3 days off kinda thing. Since my body was not used to nocturnal labor I began to take ephedrine to keep me awake. I could get it at the gas station. There was no late night drive to unfriendly neighborhoods or circling my dealer's house endlessly until he returned home. I could pop in, buy some speed and a honey bun and I was set.

The recommended dose was not to exceed 4 tablets during any 24 hour period. I took 30-50 in a night. It's funny how the addict has a unique way of counting. When I was talking to people I had half the money I claimed to have in my pocket and did three times the drugs I claimed to have taken. Even to this day if I take some Tylenol and its recommended dose is 2 tablets, I will take 3! An addict like me feels we need more than the average bear, even when it comes to curing a headache. I am working on that unhealthy thinking daily.

I quickly learned that when I mixed the speed with the booze, I could consume unbelievable amounts of the sauce and get a racy head tingly, hair itching buzz at the same time. It was addiction Utopia! On this particular March day in 1991 it was unseasonably warm and I was enjoying several vodka and lemonades with ephedrine chasers. I made a couple of trips to the liquor store that day. I was celebrating the dawn of spring! I deserved a drink! My high made the birds sing louder and the breeze all the more refreshing. I am amazed when I look back at the denial, justification and rationalizations I used for killing myself one drug at a time.

I got a call late in the afternoon that I would be returning to work the following Monday. I would have time to cleanse my body of the pollution and piss clear spring water for my drug test. This was a call for more celebration! I called a buddy and we made plans to meet later in the evening. I drank and popped, drank and popped. My mother returned home to find me tanked. I took a French bath and headed for my white Ford Escort.

As I slid behind the reigns of my iron chariot, my mother came to the car and begged me not to drive. I dismissed her knowing I was a much safer driver while drunk rather than sober. At that time seat belt laws were more lax than today. I never wore one. That evening I clicked the belt on to pacify my mother's concerns and headed for the bar. I do not remember anything about the drive until "IT" happened.

I was halfway between Frankfort and Mokena on Route 45. They were repaving the road and the sides were cut straight. There was no curbing installed, just a 24 inch drop off.  I looked down to change the radio station and didn't notice that the Blazer in front of me had made a last second decision to make a left turn. I looked up in time to cut my wheel hard right. Grazing the bumper of the Blazer I shot over the two foot man made cliff. The nose hit first and I began to roll end over end, 4 times I would later find out.

The car came to rest on its roof. I unbuckled my seat belt and crawled through the window. I was numb and in shock. My hand and right ankle ached and burned. I do not remember anything after that except waking up in Silver Cross Hospital. I had a police guard and promptly vomited all over me and him. I had broken my hand and ankle. Thankfully no one was hurt in the Blazer.

They stitched and casted me up and my friend came to bail me out of the police station. He told me that I had a blood alcohol content of .32. In Illinois the limit is .05 and drunk is .08. I was .32! I was driving in a clinical coma! So much for driving better while drunk. I was nearly dead and should have been killed in the accident. Why did I put my seat belt on that night? God was looking after me. I see that crystal clear now. I used to think he didn't know I existed. Looking back, I see he saved my ass day after insane day for 20 plus years.

My sister took me to the pound to see the remains of the car and we both wept in horrified relief that I survived. You could barely recognize the twisted chunk of metal. It shook me up. It hit me hard just how lucky I was. I could barely process the information but I had a solution. I got home and made a stiff drink. What? You made a drink after nearly dying in a drunk driving accident? Yup! That's what alcoholics do.