Chapter Four: My Search For Truth and an Answer I Found
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“We don’t see the world as it is, we see it as we are.”—Anais Nin
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1973 Evergreen High School Photograph
I divorced my mentally ill first wife Donelle early in 1984. In March, I moved into a 22nd floor unit in the Panorama Towers with Randy Olson, near Washington Park, after leaving the shared marriage residence. Randy and I were quite the party monsters, and the activities with Randy helped delay my conscious dealing with my traumatization and emotional injuries.
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In April of 1984, I checked myself into the Lovejoy Care Unit, a hospital for alcoholism care and recovery. I had been a drug addict and alcoholic since 1971, as well as a person consciously suffering from inner turmoil since my birth in 1955. My most important initial consideration was keeping my job at the U.S. Postal Service, where I worked as a maintenance electrician and instrument technician-in-training since 1975. I was about to lose my job if I did not stop substance abuse, and the EAP strong armed me into compliance . I was to stay in the Unit for thirty days while learning, at a puerile, kindergarten level, enough about my disease and myself that there might be hope for me.
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After an interview with my parents, my counselor, Claire, informed me that one of the burdens that I was carrying was that my father was still trying to live his life through me. I wrote a lot of dark poetry during that time, which provided many clues for me in my desire to leave the knowns of my suffering and search for truth, peace, and a much more fulfilling life. And I succeeded in sobering up, but not for long.
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In June of 1984, while sober and still working at the U.S. Postal Service, I was sent to their national training center in Norman, Oklahoma, for a three-week class on repairing mail sorting equipment and a digital logic course, which was a prerequisite to advanced training. I needed to pass this test to have any hope for advanced placement, which would elevate me into a new, more challenging career as a computer technician. I wanted this position because it was, potentially, far more interesting than my mundane, regular job as a maintenance electrician. There were two parts to the test, and I needed a 75 percent score to succeed. I aced the first part, scoring 70 out of 70 on the digital logic portion. The last 30 percent of the test was devoted to complex schematics of electronic control systems supporting optical character readers and other equipment. I had no prior experience with this equipment and could not properly interpret the representative symbology. I failed, scoring zero out of that the last thirty, failing the test by a mere five points.
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Prior to the flight home, I made a decision to relapse back into drinking. I called Craig Salter and asked for him to pick me up at the airport upon my return to Portland and that I would buy us both a big meal and lots of drinks. I was so disappointed at a seemingly unfair turn of events at Norman that I became re-dedicated to my self-annihilation. I even hid from and ignored the presence of my Care Unit counselor, Claire, who serendipitously appeared on the same plane back to Portland. Thus, my sobriety lasted for less than three months, for I did not quite connect with the healing threads that I needed to escape my personal hell.
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Cast Out on My Search for Truth
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It remains no mystery to me as to why many people choose continued addiction or suicide over recovery and healing. Invisible wounds are the hardest to heal and the easiest to stay in denial about their life-threatening potential. I was starting to see the end of my road, with my out-of-control car crashing through all of the safety guardrails and continuing the race toward the finish line of my dead-end life. I knew that my problems could not be solved, at least not on my level, and I knew of no other levels that were accessible or available to me.
Alcindia and me
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I found a girlfiend, Alcindia, in the summer of 1984. She and her girlfriend, Baby, were chipmakers at the Aloha Intel plant. We were to become big drug using friends. Her girlfriend, Baby, had access to the whole pharmacy cabinet through her motorcycle gang member boyfriend. It only took me 5 months with her to become convinced that our lifestyle was quickly killing me. After another three day stint in Cedar Hills Hospital, beginning in January, I began a six minth streak of wonderful sobriety, but it was fueled by powerful antidepressants that Dr. Dan Beavers had prescribed to me. . While on a summer vacation with Alcindia, I relapsed yet again. I was so ashamed of myself that I called in sick from my job, and never returned back to work.. I moved back in with Randy Olson, my lifelong friend, in December of 1985, after ending my latest relationship mistake with Alcindia in a rather dramatic fashion.
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On January 26th, 1986, after yet another night of fighting depression with the hops and yeast antidepressants, I woke up on Randy’s living room couch at 8:45 a.m. to him emerging from his bedroom, screaming to my clouded mind:
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“Bruce, wake up and turn on the TV. The Challenger just exploded!”
Challenger Explosion January 28, 1986-The day I attempted suicide, and began my search for truth
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After watching that horrific event over and over, I had the crushing realization that my life was also over. In part because of a childhood dream of becoming an astronaut, I saw mirrored in the Challenger disaster the total destruction of all of my hopes of realizing my life’s potential. I made the decision right then and there to end it all to fulfill a pledge that I had made to myself when I was just fifteen years old. I had known since then that I was a hopeless alcoholic and drug addict, and if I could not shake the disease by age thirty (and if the disease itself had not already killed me), then I would take matters into my own hands. I never told another soul of my self-imposed fifteen-year “pull date,” should I fail at sobering up. I just held on as best that I could for the intervening years, and I tried my best to adapt to my self-destructive life situation.
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I only needed to refill a prescription for some antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication that I already had secured from Dr. Dan Beavers, a psychiatrist whom I had been seeing since 1985. I was going to take them all at once and call it a life. I went to the pharmacist to see the deed completed immediately. While standing in line, I ran into Alcindia’s sister’s friend, Mike. We weren’t friends, but I knew him from around, and I started to share the smallest part of my story with him. He immediately shut me down, stating that he had no time for other people’s problems, which reaffirmed my understanding of other people’s tendencies toward indifference to each other.
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The pharmacist would not fill the prescriptions, however, even though I had one refill left on each one. He told me that I needed to see the doctor again. Even with this setback, I was not to be deterred. I scheduled an emergency visit to my psychiatrist for that afternoon. He perceived that I might be in a crisis and elicited a promise from me that I would not kill myself with the medication. Dr. Dan had just had another patient kill himself using the same medication, and Dan was still grieving mightily and could not tolerate another such event from a patient of his. So, he got the empty promise from me that I would not commit suicide. Then, I immediately placed those pills under the front seat of my car for easy access and use, should the conditions of my life prove that it needed termination. I never intended to take those pills as prescribed, instead telling myself that unless I found a reason to live, I was leaving this planet without a rocket ship. Thus began my official search for truth.
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Although the word “truth” is a loaded word, this is the exact expression that erupted in my mind after the postponed suicide attempt. A search does not begin with answers in hand, only questions. The search had to take me to the deepest, darkest recesses of the human soul and spirit to find another source of wisdom and understanding. And, I would not discourage anyone from taking a journey into the deepest, more horrible corners of life itself if a path into a new light can be found. I took this path because I had both turned away from life, and love had turned away from me. I am not alone, as there are countless others just like me, and I was about to meet dozens more like me.
Passport photo, Jan 1986. Death takes a photograph of itself
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I called my old high school friend, Sean, who was stationed in Spain for the U.S. Air Force. I told him that I had a fatal brain tumor and that I was going to die soon. He offered to let me stay with him in Madrid for a while. The thought of a geographic change brought a little hope to me, so I secured my passport and applied for my pension from the U.S. Postal Service. I was going to use the money for airfare and to support myself in Spain. I also filed for unemployment benefits to help with my immediate income needs. Then I filed for bankruptcy, as I had no intention of meeting my financial obligations, which were immense. I had student loans, credit card debts, credit union loan debts, personal debts to my father, and other debts that totaled close to forty thousand dollars. I wanted the slate to be clear by the time I was gone, and bankruptcy seemed like the right process to engage in. So I was putting my affairs in order. As coincidence would dictate once again, the effective date of my bankruptcy was November 20, 1986, on my 31st birthday.
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In early February, I ran into DiDi, a woman I’d known for a few years. I had a brief but intense relationship with her in May of 1984… We partied a few times and then decided to go to the beach. We traveled to Seaside together, and I did not know what to expect, other than there would probably be some more partying and maybe some connecting on a more personal level. We drank at several local Seaside bars until late in the evening. When I no longer had any desire to drink anymore, I told her that I was going back to the hotel room. She stated that she wanted to keep the party going, and she continued drinking and carrying on with some of the local folks. She returned to the hotel room at two in the morning, all excited about some new friends and the great cocaine that they had shared. She wanted to bring the two guys back into the hotel room to continue the party.
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“No thanks, this is where I take my leave!”
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I told her angrily. I grabbed my overnight bag and headed toward home, even though I was drunk. Somewhere along Highway 26, I crashed my car into a guard rail, nearly going over a cliff in the process. I quickly got the car back onto the road and kept going. When I finally reached North Plains, I fell asleep at the wheel again, stepped on the accelerator, and rammed into the back of another car at freeway speeds. We both pulled over, and I bribed the owner of the car not to call the police, since I was drunk, by writing him a check for $471, which was every last penny that I had in my checking account. My car was totaled, but somehow I made it home to Randy’s apartment, miraculously escaping death and a DUI citation. But I still didn’t stop.
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I had to move out from Randy’s apartment, at his girlfriend’s request. I had nowhere to go. My retirement money arrived by the end of March, and since I owed and paid my father nearly $3,000, I no longer had enough money for a final trip to Spain. Stuck in Portland, I began to live out of my 1977 Datsun 310, which was the replacement fod my once cherry Dodge Dart, which was destroyed on the drive back from Seaside. When I was not crashing in abandoned buildings with other homeless people, my car was my camper. During this time, I connected with all manners and types of damaged and dangerous
1977 Datsun 310 motor home and chariot of the godless in 1986-1987
I was nearly dead, or so I thought, so I had little fear as I met new people and befriended them. Most were people whom I never would have associated with if I weren’t looking for new trouble, but in this phase of my life, I was curious to know them. I sure had not experienced any life changing truth with those figures from my past, so my circle needed expansion.. My only intention was to find the truth of living and of being, if there was such a thing, and to bring no further harm to anyone, save myself.. And I intuited that the truth might be hidden somewhere in this darkness and unknown.
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I engaged will all types of individuals, and I had conversations with them about what life meant to them and what they felt about God, good, evil, darkness, light, and human relationships. I carried my suicide drugs under my car seat so that when the pain got too real again, I could make my departure from my world of little or no meaning, no peace of mind, and extreme personal suffering. During this time, I lived in an underworld community of drug manufacturing and distribution, homelessness, while witnessing several crimes. I befriended homeless victims of sexual predators and child abuse, members of motorcycle gangs, hit men, felons, murderers, and undercover federal agents, some of whom were still investigating the criminal tentacles remaining from Portland’s infamous Stephen Kessler. I ran with my new friends, and my only intention was to be the best person I could be while living out the final moments, days, or weeks of my life. I wanted to live the spiritual aspects of AA’s Twelve Steps, without actually recovering from drug addiction and alcoholism, which I had totally given up on.
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As my behavior demonstrates, wisdom and forethought are not all-or-nothing propositions. Some of the greatest wisdom comes from sinners who have plunged into the darkest of darks, even though they possess fine minds. I had developed a lot of wisdom over the years, and it had to live side by side with the self-destructive mechanism of a life not yet judged as worthy of committing to. It may be tough to understand, yet these qualities can and do coexist. I had an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other.
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My first “realization” was that I needed to avoid sex. I committed to no new relationships with women, including no sexual encounters. This was a pretty easy decision for me, as I was so beaten up by my history of misadventures with women over the previous fourteen years.
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My second “realization” was that I could no longer smoke pot because it made me feel paranoid. And because I no longer wanted to keep isolated in my need to find truth, pot produced paranoia would be counterproductive. Pot also dulled my emotions, intellect, resourcefulness, and curiosity, and I perceived that I needed those qualities of being to survive in my new world.
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Methedrine, crank, speed, go-juice, or one of any number of other street names of the same stimulant became my primary drug of choice, as it made me feel social, connected, and conversational with all others. I would not sleep for up to one week at a time while running with my peer group. The Punjab Tavern on Foster Road became my main hub for contact with many of the social branches of the tree of death that I was now climbing. Many a night was spent with a revolving group of my new friends there, with a main core group of people who had mutual interests. Each person I met during this time in my life both pulled me further into addiction and inadvertently helped me find the path to recovery. I was to eventually learn how to finally embrace the path to truth and love within my own heart, but not before nearly losing all hope again and opting for suicide through continued abuse of drugs.
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Ralph was from Scappoose, Oregon, or so he said. He was the center point for much underworld activity, and I quickly became his friend and driver for many underworld adventures. Through him I met drug chemists, motorcycle gang members, hit men, armed robbers, practicing felons in possession of firearms, prostitutes, homeless victims of child abuse, heroin addicts, and Steve, who was an undercover federal agent investigating, among other things, the Portland Police Department. About a year later, Steve would figure strongly in my sober future.
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I learned to love Ralph, who was an incredibly damaged soul, and his excessive drug use would sometimes concern me. I noticed paranoia creeping into his mind, and we would joke about it, but he became my first living example of the damage that excess meth use causes. I also befriended Ralph’s girlfriend, Sarah. One day, she decided that we needed to visit Jake, who was being held in Clackamas County Jail until his transfer was completed to a federal penitentiary. I knew Jake on the outside, and he was always so kind and friendly toward me. I wanted so much to express my sorrow at his long-term imprisonment. She told me on the way that our friend was a hit man for a regional motorcycle gang that distributed drugs, and he was in jail because one hit went horribly wrong. Sarah and I snorted some of the latest designer meth creations from our favorite local chemist just before arriving at the jail. Then, when we met Jake at the reception area for the jail, all that would come out of my mouth were awkward grunts and squawks. The stress created by the meeting, coupled with the drugs, probably caused my loss of the ability to speak, which lasted for neary two days, thus contributing to the conspiracy of silence that my drug use and addiction enabled.
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On another frightening night, I was sitting at the bar yet again, conversing with the owner, Jack, when Robert slid in and sat right next to me. I didn’t know Robert well, but I’d seen him around, and I knew he was recently released from prison. He said, “I have been out of the neighborhood for a long time, and I am hoping to find some old friends.”
“Well, maybe a new friend might show up, say, right next to you this evening?!”
“That would sure be nice.”
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I made a joke about him being a murderer and then learned he’d been in custody for killing a man during an armed robbery. After feeling a big lump appear in my throat, and then attempting to clear it, I bought Robert a drink to overcome my discomfort and awkwardness and talked to him until one of his old friends showed up. They went to the restroom to conduct whatever business they had. When Robert returned, he was slurring his words even harder than he’d been a few minutes before, and his eyes had lost their luster. He closed his eyes and slumped down, face onto the bar. Then, he fell off of the chair onto the floor, where he was trying to right himself.
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Thinking he was sick, I asked the bartender if he could call an ambulance. He shook his head and said,
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“Bruce, he is right where he wants to be. If you could, please help him over to a booth in the corner where he can try to get his shit back together.”
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Still not sure what was happening, I asked the bartender if Robert had just done heroin and why he would do that.
Jack said,
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“Bruce, some people are just waiting for a better day. Today is not the better day for Robert, and it may never arrive for him.”
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As I got Robert to a booth and out of view to keep us out of trouble, I didn’t truly understand what was happening. But I understand now that the Conspiracy Of Silence had claimed yet another human being. The heroin used completely shut Robert down to his humanity, and it left me wondering what my fate might be if I were to find myself in his situation.
One night, I was hanging out with Dorothy, who was a young woman with two young children. She was a heroin user, dominated by the need to use, and she was also shadowed by a former lover, Jakob, who was incarcerated at the time of our connection. While I was at her place, she was scraping used spoons so that she could get together enough heroin residue to give her a fix. Her supply was out, and she was waiting for her next delivery, so she was tense and anxious. She believed that her criminal boyfriend, Jakob, had extraordinary powers and could astrally project himself out of prison at night. As long as she had company (friends or heroin), Jakob could not materialize into her home to threaten and dominate her, as he did when he was not imprisoned. Our conversation was intense, too.
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She did not believe in the power of God, having long eschewed any connection with such concepts. She lived for the moment and knew all too well that shit happened regardless of how “good” or “bad” a person was. She told me about her darkness and belief that even good people will turn against others in a heartbeat, should the need arise.
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“Good people do not really exist,” she said, “just fucked-up people who occasionally make helpful choices for themselves or, inadvertently, for others, usually while they are just trying to selfishly take care of themselves.”
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I argued that I believed we all have both energies. We can act from a not-so-dark, not-so-selfish position and occasionally help ourselves and each other to have better lives. Then she called me out.
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“Well, Bruce, how much time and energy do you put into having a better understanding of yourself and being more helpful to others?”
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The answer was very little, as I had no clue how to do it honestly.. But I wanted to try to look at the forces of darkness within myself, to see where I might also be negatively impacting myself and others through a lifetime of not fearlessly confronting those energies. I had no idea what would be revealed if anything had ever successfully overcome my darkness. Dorothy used heroin to cope with her darkness. But when she said her supplier was on the way and offered to share it with me, I declined because I’d never done heroin or intravenous drugs before, and I knew I probably didn’t want to start.
My search for Truth would have ended that day, had I stuck around Dorothy’s home. I was only minimally tempted to try heroin that day, as I felt quite disturbed by the darkness that I felt coming through Dorothy. I never saw her again.
Steve belongs in a special story all to himself, but I will include him here because he had ultimate importance in my “search for truth”. I met Steve at the same time that I met Ralph. Steve was a very intelligent, well-dressed man, about 8 years older than me. He drove a nice 1982 Chevrolet, which somebody had tricked out (I did not think that he did it, however). Shortly after becoming a “peripheral person” in our rotating community of characters, his car became impounded by the police, and he could not get it released back into his care (or so he said). That is where I first became “suspicious” of Steve, because I sensed that he was looking for somebody who might have an “inside track” into our Portland Police Department, and its inner workings.
Steve and I shared a lot of time together over the 12 months that I wandered over the underworld landscape. I could always count on him to give me good insight into others, though he held the truths about himself close to his chest. He became a ‘big brother” to me, at times, and would not spare me criticism, if I appeared out-of-place, or out of touch. He would criticize Ralph’s excessive drug use, all the while using extremely small amounts of the same stuff, which he poured from a very tiny vile. He initially could not understand why I thought it necessary to be where I was, either, though he was the only person that I ever told that I was on a “search for truth”, while continuing to use speed, and alcohol. I did not understand, at the time, how he could “get by” with so little use of drugs.
From time to time, Steve would seem to “test” me, by exposing me to new situations and people who required some sort of help or intervention. Through Steve I met Georgette, a 15-year-old runaway girl, who was escaping a sexually abusive father by being homeless in the southeast Portland area. She was hanging out with another sexually abused homeless young man, named Greg, who was three years her senior, and already skilled in the art and science of locating abandoned or temporarily vacated homes, for their own temporary residences. Greg was always accompanied by five to ten other “friends”, who would be his assistants in illicitly securing property or goods for resale, and, I was to learn, help distribute freshly manufactured methamphetamine. Greg, I would learn, was also about to “peddle” Georgette, for added income.
Georgette was a tiny young woman, no more than five foot two inches, and ninety-five pounds. When I first met her, I noted her innocence, and my heart almost broke, and I felt helpless, though I wanted so much to protect her from her fate. She had developed “pink eye”, and I saw an opportunity to break her free from this group of itinerant thieves and junkies. I had her grab her meager belongings, and I placed her in my car, and we talked for hours. She was the younger sister, or daughter that I never had, and I wanted to keep her safe. I finally whisked her away from the gang, and drove her to Outside In, where she could get necessary medical help and counseling. I had recently received a retirement payout from my 10 years working at the Postal Service, and so I had some extra money, which I stuffed into her pocket. I told her, in no uncertain terms, that I never wanted to see her again with her “friends”, or there would be serious hell to pay. I never saw her again, though a tape recorded message of my conversation with her would mysteriously show up a few days later.
One evening the next week, I was sitting at the bar in the Punjab tavern, which was my second home, talking with Jack and a couple of acquaintances when a cassette tape was thrust across the floor, originating from a table on the other side of the tavern. There were four men seated at the table, and none would maintain eye contact with me when I looked their way. I got off of my bar stool, leaned over and picked up the cassette tape, and looked at it with Jack and the two men sitting on either side of me. We discussed what it might be, and none of us wanted to confront the table where the tape originated from, for we all had our own paranoia and suspicions of strangers. Jack walked to the back of the bar, and grabbed a cassette recorder, and inserted the tape into the player. My voice started speaking from the machine, and a fear took over me like I had never felt before. When I saw what the subject matter was about, I asked Jack to please stop playing the tape, as it was making me extremely uncomfortable. I asked Jack for the tape, which he gave to me. The other people at the bar started regarding me suspiciously, as well, and all that I could offer to the listeners was that Georgette must have been miked, and that somebody in the bar wanted to “out me” for having befriended her.
Greg (Georgette’s ‘handler’) was to later engage me, and asked to speak to me in private.
“Bruce, I hear that you might be able to help in my situation. I have a friend who has set up a trailer near 82nd avenue, and we can hang out there, and use it as our base of operations”
“Greg, I am not sure what you are asking of me. My time is quickly running out, I am afraid, and whatever “help” that you are seeking, I probably do have sufficient assets to draw from”.
“Well, we have a pretty good operation going right now. I am getting lots of merchandise stockpiled, and, in fact, we have filled an entire basement near 52nd avenue. Before you say no to anything, let’s go over and check it out”.
“OK, but I can’t be tied down to any one place, any one situation, or any one person. I certainly do not have any interest in buying or selling stolen items. I will go over with you and have a look at the house, though.”
We drove over together to the home on Duke Ave. near Brentwood City Park in my Datsun 310, talking about a wide range of subjects. Greg appeared to be only about 17 years old, yet he told me that he had been on the street for over six years. I could tell that he was “feeling me out”, asking me many leading questions. My paranoia, which was a gradually increasing inner experience for me over the last several weeks, was barking at me, the closer we got to the safe house. As we entered the driveway to the home, Greg then asked me
“Bruce, you sure don’t talk like anybody that I have ever met. You talk about things that I don’t like to think about, or would normally not even consider. You are so different, and you sound a little strange at times, I think.
I think that we should be partners. I can tell that you do not like women by the way you have ignored all the girls we hang out with, and you should know that I have little attraction for women, as well. I only feel a strong bond to men”.
I think that I then swallowed a golf ball sized lump in my throat
“Greg, I don’t think that you understand. I am not sexually attracted to ANYBODY. I want to meet people and make friends with no ties, sexual or otherwise to anyone. I have to travel light, because I am going to be leaving very soon.”
“I have heard you say that before. Where the hell do you think that you are going to go”?
“I got a passport earlier this year, with the intent to travel to Spain, to start a new life, or maybe to die. I think that my journey will not be taking me too far from home now, though”.
“I don’t understand. Why do you talk of death? Are you dying?”
“I am really not sure what I mean anymore. I know that something feels like it is dying inside of me. I won’t know until more time passes, and I meet more people. I will then know for sure what I mean”
“You don’t make any sense. Maybe when you see what we have in the basement, it will be easier to make up your mind whether to stay or to go”.
We exited the car, and walked up to the front door together. Greg knocked on the door, and a nearly fifty year old woman of unkempt appearance answered.
“Greg, come on it! I have missed you! Umm, I have not been able to organize everything yet.”
“Martha, this is Bruce. He is OK, don’t be afraid of him, I’ve known him forever Don’t worry about the mess, we can take care of that later”
There was some more small talk, and then we walked downstairs. Martha had merchandise almost stacked to the ceiling covering almost the entire basement, of which I estimated it was 1500 square feet. There were brand new boxes of retail merchandise, as well as some “used” items of very good condition. It was like an unofficial hardware section of Home Depot, and the clothing section of Fred Meyer. I saw chain saws, table saws, drill motors, hand guns, shotguns, military style guns like an HK 91, toys, kitchen pots and pans, appliances, car parts, lawn mowers, bicycles, clothes, shoes, and just about anything one could imagine.
We walked into a closed off section of the basement, with Martha becoming quiet, and almost reverential.
“I want to show you how the lab is progressing. Dieter has made great progress, and has secured all of the hardware and chemicals necessary to get started. We have not been able to get Jeff bailed out of jail yet, so we may have to kidnap one of our other chemists for a week to run a test batch or two”
She opened the door, and there were three tables filled with Erlenmeyer flasks, beakers of various sizes, Bunson burners, propane tanks and fittings, glass cookware, coffee filters, some sort of automatic stirring or mixing device, stainless steel pressure cookers, and a host of other tools that I did not immediately recognize, even though I had taken chemistry lab several years before. There were also several Mason jars and mayonnaise jars filled with substances of various colors, some of which were liquid in nature. I do not remember if they had made provisions for ventilation, though there was a window that looked north located near the ceiling that would have been adequate. I made sure not to offer up to them the fact that I had some background in chemistry, as the thought of being trapped in a lab as an assistant for a week or more sounded a bit like imprisonment to me, no matter how much free drugs might be made available to me.
“Well, let’s smoke a joint, and celebrate the good fortune that we are about to have!”
Martha then pulled out a stick and lit it up. When it got to me, I declined.
“Aren’t you a partaker of the wacky tobacky?”
“Not today. I’ll stick to my crank now. I need to keep my head clear, and the joint just gets in the way of what I am trying to do”.
“I don’t get it. Pot is the best stress relief available, save for the brown or black holiday”.
“I am trying to figure some things out. It is hard for me to function at the level I need to while high on pot”.
“Are you sure you are OK?”
“Oh yes. By the way, I could use a line of crystal, can you send me a life line?”
“Now you are talking! Let’s get the party started.”
And with this group, another one week run starts, with no sleep, little food, and too much conversation. I was never quite sure what to make of Martha. I never saw her again.
Greg lost interest in me, and found himself a “friend” to hang out with him at his trailer. I saw him from time to time after that. He looked worse and worse every time that I saw him, and I think that he reflected back to me my own disease and disfigurement.
I continued an incredible downward spiral into addiction, and Steve commented to me, in November, how I looked like I could be the “Aids Poster Boy” because I had become so slight of figure, and so unhealthy looking. I had started “hearing voices”, and I had become paranoid, as well. Yet, I did not let on to others that I had become so disfigured internally, though the signs were starting to appear. I “heard” that there was a major undercover operation active in Portland, and that dozens of criminal indictments were immanent. In reality, that was partially the truth, yet I should not have known that, let alone warn a few others of those “facts”.
Steve wanted to know how I knew of these indictments, and I would not tell him. I noted that people were tailing me almost all of the time now, and that some of my conversations were being recorded in my car. One day I tore my car apart, searching for the transmitter, or the recorder. I had two different people stop by, and try to interrupt me from the search, which only added to my own paranoia. I did not locate the transmitter, but I really began to fuck with any listeners’ mind, by talking dark shit, and renaming myself “the Wild Card”. I let my world know, in no uncertain terms, that I was no longer aligned with anyone, as I was on my way to my own death.
I will fast forward through three months more of Hell. My main core group had collapsed, with Ralph relocating himself to protect himself. I had lost touch with Steve, my last connection with sanity. I was running with a new group, and most were intravenous drug users. I met Doctor Dave, a short, friendly man, with a severely pockmarked face, a man who also recently was released from jail. He introduced me to intravenous drug use. He ever so carefully shot me up with speed, for my first time of ever using the needle, and most subsequent times, as well. I could not shoot up by myself, as I feared needles so much. But the incredible rush I received from intravenous drug use made me want to use this hastened path to Death frequently for the final two months of my drug abusing life.
I will share a story of Frank, and Steve’s providential return to my life. Another house had been commandeered near the intersection of Holgate and McLoughlin Blvd, and that became our new hangout. Our new leader, Frank, organized a big party, and we had over 70 people show up. This was in early March of 1987, and I was ready for my swan song. My mental health was seemingly irreparably damaged, and my “search for truth” had apparently only uncovered a hastened path to Death for me. Frank had just secured a fresh batch of speed, and heroin (which I had never used before), and he was mixing up his renowned “witches brew”, and invited me to join him.
Sure, why not? I had nothing to lose, but a life that was already dead.
I was following Frank to an upstairs room when I spotted an old friend, Steve, talking with a healthy-looking thirty-year-old woman, a person that I might have been attracted to had I been healthy. I met Steve at the same time that I met Ralph. Steve was a very intelligent, well-dressed man, about eight years older than me. Shortly after becoming a peripheral person in our rotating community of characters, I started suspecting him of being an undercover cop. Even so, I had always counted on him to give me good insight into others, though he held the truths about himself close to his chest. He became a big brother to me at times, and he did not spare me criticism. He initially could not understand why I thought it necessary to be where I was, though he was the only person I ever told that I was on a search for truth. And I did not understand, at the time, how he could get by with so little use of drugs. Then I heard the girl at the party say his name, and it was not Steve, confirming my suspicions that he wasn’t who he said he was.
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When he saw that I heard his real name, and he then knew that I knew, Steve took me aside and tried to explain. I instead stopped him and told him that I had suspected him all along of being undercover. I also told him that his secret was safe with me. I told him my journey was about to end, that I was going upstairs with Frank, and if I survived that experience, I was going to return to my car, grab the pills under my front seat, and finish business, once and for all. Yes, I was finished.
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Steve grabbed my arm, excused himself from his girlfriend, and took me outside to his car. He said, “Bruce, I can no longer keep you protected and safe. Your search for truth within this dangerous world has to end. Now your real search for truth must begin, starting with your relationship with your father. I never want to see you again, but believe me, I am going to try to help you in any way I can. You deserve so much better of a life than you have given to yourself.” And then he drove me home.
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At my father’s house, Steve let me out and returned to the party. He and his partner then drove my car to my dad’s house later that evening, and I never saw him again. The pills had disappeared from under the driver’s seat, as well. There was no way that I was going to go back to the doctor for another prescription, as I was still such a mess. I was strung out from months of drug abuse, alcoholism, and gambling, and I only weighed a mere 135 pounds. My face was all broken out, I had the most horrific shakes, and I heard voices. I had experienced convulsions several times, and my thinking was often confused and disorganized..
My parents were still snow-birding in Arizona, so I called my old roommate Randy. He came over, and he, his girlfriend, and I proceeded to down an inordinate amount of my father’s booze and wine. My parents would not be home until the end of the month, so I kept my dysfunctional momentum going. After partying, Randy went home, and I was left alone with my horrible problems. That was when I blacked out.
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I don’t remember picking up one of my father’s loaded guns or driving to another friend’s home in the Milwaukie area. This person was an associate of one of the drug chemists in the underworld culture that I had just emerged from. I have no idea why I went down there, but I awoke from my blackout when the gun was discharged, shooting a hole in the front door of his apartment. He had two sleeping children in one room and a sleeping wife in another, and I was fortunate to have not harmed anyone. He then brought out a hypodermic needle and injected me with speed (I still would not inject myself). I immediately snapped out of my drunkenness and proceeded to talk with this guy for twenty-four hours. He gave me one more injection, and then clarity finally hit me.
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A light went on in my mind, and I saw the utter insanity of the person I was and the insanity of my life. I stood up, laughed at the guy, called him and myself nuts, walked out of the front door, got into my car, and drove back to my parents’ home. I was changed, though at the time I didn’t know how much. Yet, for the first time in my life, I consciously entertained the intention of bringing harm to no one, including myself.
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With five dollars left in my name, I needed to make a decision. Either I could buy more beer and cigarettes, or I could go visit my grandparents in north Portland. I kept the five dollars and drove to my family. My grandparents were happy to see me, but they were concerned about my appearance. I claimed to have the flu, and my grandmother nursed me back to some semblance of health over the next five days, while I detoxified and had withdrawals from cessation of cigarettes, alcohol, and drugs all at the same time.
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I returned to my parents’ home after a week at the grandparents’. It is another funny thing, two days later, out of the blue, Craig Salter, a friend from childhood, called me for the first time in three years. He was court-ordered to attend AA meetings for a DUI, and he asked if I wanted to go with him. I figured since God was such a big part of AA, and since I was searching for truth, maybe it would be worth trying it. I proceeded to attend over 270 meetings in my first ninety days; I had nothing else to do, having lost my job and, basically, my life to my disease. Craig stopped going to meetings after his court-ordered attendance ended. But I continued to attend them, feeling like I had finally found my spiritual home. I then literally spent thousands of hours over the next several years in AA meetings, communication, investigation, reading, writing, meditation, associating with all types and manners of people, and, eventually, healing my relationships.
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I finally had to face troubling relationship issues with my father, my family, my society, and my unconscious. Working the Twelve Steps of AA, initially in my recovery, and practicing meditation and mindfulness helped me to find the threads of meaning that would lead me out of my desire for self-annihilation, while also finding a great measure of inner peace.
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The Twelve Steps of AA Revised to Reflect My Present Spiritual Understanding
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1). Through our extended suffering, we finally found the desire to want it to end. We admitted that when we become self-destructively habituated to any substance, situation, perception, or judgment and/or lack of forgiveness in our relationships with others, we lose our freedom of choice, bring unnecessary trauma into our lives and the lives of others, and, thus, fail to achieve any lasting sense of inner peace and joy. We finally realize that our lives have been lived unconsciously and have become unmanageable as a result of that neglect.
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2). With our newfound hope and openness for change came the desire to begin to awaken to higher possibilities for our lives. We realized that, in our essence, we have an interior, though neglected, power that will heal us and restore us to balance if we pursue it in earnest. We now realize that we have not been living up to our full potential as human beings.
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3). We decided to turn our will and our lives over to the care of our higher interior power. We become open to the possibility of embracing a new truth in our lives. We want to access the power to evolve continuously, and we want to cultivate our hearts to be more loving to ourselves and others. We decide to let go of anything that impedes our progress toward happiness, healing, and wholeness. We realize that without the deepest desires and intentions to change our behavior, we will not be transformed.
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4). We made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. We have lived a life without a high sense of self-esteem, and we have made unfortunate choices because of the scarcity consciousness that has resulted from it. We realize that when we find the blocks to our evolution and become willing to remove them, our newfound insight will guide our paths with precision to the truth of our existence. This is our entrance onto the path of mindfulness and higher consciousness.
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5). We admit that we were not being truthful with ourselves and with others, and by talking with another whom we may trust, yet not be beholden to, about our errors in judgment and actions toward ourselves and others, we can better deal with the shame and self-judgment that so often arises from the deadly secrets that we once felt that we must keep. Just by honestly talking with someone else, our burdens can be lifted. Our secrets need no longer keep us imprisoned and mentally ill. When two or more people come together in the spirit of truth and honesty, mutual compassion and empathy also become part of the gathering.
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6). We become entirely willing to let go of our attachments to unhealthy attitudes, behavior, and people. We wish to see clearly, without the limitations of our past, our family history, and our cultural conditioning, with all of their embedded trauma.
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7). We open our hearts through humility and the willingness to change to embrace a new possibility for our lives. Our newfound sense of connection with our higher interior power inspires us to become more grateful for the gifts that we now have, and we are now spiritually preparing to finally give back to the world in a meaningful, positive way. We want to finally let go of all of the emotionally charged memories that keep us trapped in a dead past. Rejoice, for the old demons are being transformed into the new angels!
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8). While we were unconscious of our higher potential as human beings, we bring emotional, spiritual, and perhaps even physical harm to other innocent beings, and we want to bring healing and peace to those who have suffered from the effects of our ignorance. We realize that through the mirror of all of our relationships, dysfunctional or otherwise, we are granted a view of how we truly see ourselves. We want to see through the eyes of 6 not through the pain and suffering that unfulfilled relationships may have brought to us.
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9). .We made direct amends wherever possible to all people we may have brought harm to, except when to do so would bring further injury to them or others. Our guilt will not be assuaged at the expense of others. We make full application of our newfound wisdom and our renewed desire to bring no harm to any sentient being. We want our world, and our sense of self, to feel safe from further attacks from us, and our honest disclosure of our mistakes to those impacted by our errors in judgment will continue to support that intentionadmit.
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10). We continued to take personal inventory and, when wrong, promptly admit it. We have become honest with ourselves. We practice mindfulness and continue to develop our capacity for insight into ourselves. We now know ourselves, and we now know many of the potential impediments to experiencing and expressing the truth of our being. We no longer solely abide by old modes of thought, and now we are more focused on the beauty of the present moment.
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11). We sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with the truth of our being, praying only for knowledge of truth and the willingness to live within its infinite domain. We now understand that this whole process of recovery is a meditation on life and that the evolving, healing life that we are now experiencing is our living prayer. Each time we drink from the deep interior waters revealed to us by meditation, more of our painful dreams are dissolved. We finally realize that the capacity to change, to evolve, to grow in our infinite spirit is the whole point of our human existence. We are now traveling upon new paths of consciousness.
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12). Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, we attempted to carry our message of recovery to our world while continuing to practice these principles in all our affairs. We have finally become whole, and we are now conscious, caring human beings. We have accepted full personal responsibility for our lives, including healing our past and keeping our present balanced and harmonious, and we no longer blame others for who we are now. We are now experiencing prosperity on many levels, and we have witnessed the healing of ourselves. We have saved the world from ourselves. Our life is now our truest teacher. We realize that we have no power to bring salvation to others, yet it is our responsibility to point to the way of healing for others who may still be suffering, and who may finally become interested in overcoming their limitations.
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Beyond the Twelve Steps
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Outside of meetings, I was enlightened by a new teacher, a recovering alcoholic named Jack Boland, who had released to the world many series of tapes on recovery and spirituality. On May 16, 1987, John, my coworker at the Fred Meyer warehouse, gave me one of his tapes on recovery, and for this, I am eternally grateful. I listened to these tapes over and over, and something miraculous happened.
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My search for Truth, which had taken me through the darkest regions of hell, was about to give me wings and enable me to fly to the sun and beyond. Yet, the prison guard with one of the primary keys to releasing me from my spiritual imprisonment was my unhealed relationship with my father. Overcoming a lifetime of oppression and control by others is no easy task. It also must be done clean and sober for the true depth and healing of the experience to permanently take hold. I began a new relationship with my father, starting with my newfound sobriety. After that era of my life, I certainly was ready to move away from ignorance, the effects of trauma, and suffering. My desire to bring harm to no one in the underworld culminated in my continuing intention to no longer bring harm to myself and to resume a family relationship with overtly healing intent.
