My Search For Truth:  A Journey Through the Abyss to Redemption

THE FOOLS ( written in Care Unit, 1984)

You know who we are, there is no need for our names

We may be outwardly different, but inside are the same

Vacationing on chemical trips, playing strange mind games

Perhaps striving for success, and its dubious fame

We remain graceless souls blending into life’s darkest mass

Affirming our uniqueness, though we remain stuck in the same class

As those parading around like winners, but appearing just like an ass

Steering clear of self-awareness, Oh our transparency of glass!

Spewing words of wisdom, but with only another dogs’ bark

Seeking to make a good life, but on life’s script just leaving a shit mark

We may eventually see the light, but now life is always so dark.

Needing more purifying inner flames, while snuffing every divine spark

Hoping to someday blossom, yet we will never possess Love’s flower,

While swimming in intoxicating sweetness, and then drowning in the sour

Never realizing that, over life, we don’t hold any real lasting power

We avoid the dark reality of our lives, by living in a chemical tower.

We may bring up life’s rear, though we think that we should be first

We want all of the best, somebody else deserves the worst!

Our life should be more blessed, why on earth do we feel cursed?

Our dependency creates overblown bubbles, just waiting to be burst!

 

My Search For Truth:  A Journey Through the Abyss to Redemption

“The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson)

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 potentials.

Addiction is a dark, complex labyrinth that ensnares the soul, often clouding one’s vision of hope and recovery. This memoir excerpt is a heartfelt message dedicated to my best friend from 1986-1987, Steve, and may serve as a beacon for others lost in their despair. Through my personal narrative, I aim to shed light on the harrowing path of addiction and the eventual glimpse of redemption. This story, though deeply personal, is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the search for truth amidst chaos.

The time period of January of 1986, through March of 1987, was to become the time container for my descent into the furthest reaches of hell and darkness, with addiction and little will to live as companions on an often times lonely, isolating journey..

I was starting to see the end of my own road, with my out-of-control car crashing through all of the safety guardrails while continuing the race towards 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.  I had already tried residential drug addiction treatment and psychiatric care, to no lasting avail.

My descent into addiction began at a tender age. Starting with beer when I was just five years old, my occasional abuse of alcohol escalated to other substances by the time I started experimenting with drugs with Randy Olson in 1971. Randy was more than a dear friend; he was a catalyst in my life, introducing me to marijuana, and to my first wife. Little did I know, this would be the beginning of a long, arduous struggle with substance abuse.

PAIN

Growing without roots, with a will that won’t bend,
Weathering life’s storms, which never seem to end.
No longer waiting for the sun that was once promised to arise,
How could truth’s light possibly shine in dimmed eyes?
Having reached with futility for all the high goals of life,
With no spiritual growth, while consumed by inner strife.
Devoid of healing affection, and a stranger to real love,
Unrealistic hope was what my failed dreams were all made of.
Despair meets each day, summer has now changed into fall,
Looking at life, I am totally disgusted by it all.
Dying of loneliness, and holding life by only a thread,
With me rotting inside, hopefully, I soon will be dead.

Pain,
Why?

Let me flash forward fifteen years. I started living with Randy in a Beaverton apartment in 1986 following a tumultuous relationship breakup, and my walking away from a lietime guaranteed job with the US Postal Service.. I found myself spiraling deeper into the abyss. Alcohol and drugs were my constant companions, numbing the pain of failed relationships and shattered dreams. Despite securing a full-ride scholarship from the US Air Force and joining the ROTC my freshman year at college, my addiction, and a marriage to  a woman who had a nervous breakdown, derailed my aspirations of becoming an Air Force pilot and astronaut. My potential was vast, but my lack of self-esteem was even greater. The Challenger explosion symbolized the obliteration of those dreams, leaving me in a state of despair.

January 28, 1986, marked a turning point in my life. The Challenger explosion was not just a national tragedy; it was a personal one. It represented the destruction of my hopes and dreams. I was 30 years old and had made a promise to myself at 15 that if I couldn’t shake my addiction by this age, I would end my life. The “conspiracy of silence” I participated in had kept my struggles hidden, but the pain became unbearable.

PAIN REVISITED

Though the dark cloud looms on the horizon, it is also hidden within myself.
It hovers in the distance, just beyond my reach, as it patiently waits my most vulnerable moment.
I then feel the initial mist from its clouds, I know that I am its target.
A piercing wind picks up, hugging me with its frozen arms, and I vainly look for protection
As the torrential downpour begins, I feel my tenuous sense of peace and safety eroding beneath my feet.
As it strips back, layer, upon layer, upon layer, upon layer, of my consciousness, exposing a bedrock bereft of sanity and hope.
Exposing long forgotten mental relics, threatening old, unhealed memories, and dangerous old habits,
Stinging, piercing, hurting me at my core, obscuring visions of glorious, yet impossibly distant futures,
Washing away all tenuously held possessions of sanity, and hope.
Uprooting the feeble foundation of a life desperately, but futilely, attempting to, yet again, reconstruct itself,
Carrying a powerless, helpless, desperate soul back into toxic chemical valleys, amid a dark, swirling depression,
Ravaging, drowning, then decaying.

Pain,

Why?

Despite my best efforts to secure the means for an assisted suicide, an aware pharmacist refused to refill a previous prescription that had the necessary deadly potential. After revisiting my psychiatrist, I was able to get a refill, but the need for immediate death had waned somewhat.  Because I no longer only wanted to just die, the powerful thought erupted in my mind:

So now I must begin a search for truth.

As the slowly shifting sands of time

Create ever taller hills for lost souls to climb.

It is in my selfish, hated world of little reason and rhyme,

That I began a search for truth, to find Love Sublime.

I did carry the suicide drugs under my car seat, ready for the moment when I could no longer bear the agony. My 1977 Datsun 310 sedan became my home, my sanctuary, and my prison. For a year, I lived in this vehicle, while I was not squatting in unoccupied homes with other homeless people, distancing myself from family and friends, and descending further into the depths of addiction.

My search for truth led me into Portland’s underworld, where I encountered a diverse cast of characters.  Despite my circumstances, I clung to the principles of AA, even while avoiding abstinence. My first realization was a need to avoid sex and any new relationships. The second was to quit smoking pot, as it dulled my emotions and intellect, qualities I needed to survive.

I made a commitment to hang with the type of people who, in the past, I never would have befriended. The way I saw it, the people who I had judged against may well have had some of the answers that I was searching for. In my mind, I was already a dead man walking, so past fear of society’s undesirables receded into the background, and I now considered myself a fellow traveler in darkness.

During this time, I formed unlikely friendships with people society had cast aside. These individuals, though scarred and broken, became my only companions. I realized that the same spiritual disease afflicting my underworld friends also plagued my privileged white middle-class acquaintances. The only difference was the latter’s ability to mask their afflictions.

I will begin my story of the underworld with Ralph. I met Ralph at the Punjab, a tavern on Foster Rd, and a hub for much underworld activity in the mid 1980’s.  Ralph was from Scappoose, Oregon, or so he said. He was the center point for much illegal activity, and I quickly became his friend, and driver, through many 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.

Steve (not his real name), unbeknownst to me initially, was an undercover federal agent, investigating Portland’s police department for insider drug dealing and corruption and the echoes left by Steven Kessler, who had previously escaped a local jail after killing a guard, and then broke into the DEA’s Portland offices to steal important information about ongoing investigations. Steve would figure strongly in my future release from personal HELL. Steve deserves a story devoted all to his self, as he saved my life when I stood at the final brink, early in March of 1987.

I learned to really love Ralph, who was an incredibly damaged soul, and his excessive drug use would sometimes cause concern for me. I noticed that paranoia was 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. He was one of my protectors in the underworld, and he would redirect others who were tempted to bring harm to me, because I did not fit in too well at times with Portland’s dark underbelly, being too healthy looking, too educated, and too well spoken. My appearance would quickly change, however.

My big vocabulary betrayed me on several occasions, and I was counseled to use smaller words wherever possible. One time I was busted for using the word “magnanimous” while sitting at the bar, and I was told that people who use “quarter words” where a “nickel word” is enough were not welcome there.

Once, I had all four tires of my car slashed while parked overnight for a party with Ralph and his minions. Ralph put the word out on the streets that this was unacceptable behavior, and whoever did the deed would answer to him personally, and to lay off of that car. I felt strangely safe, and protected, while with Ralph, even though there were continued threats against my safety and well-being. While jacking up my car for tire replacements, I had to use my AA book to help with extra elevation, which attracted some strange looks from those who already thought that I was a stranger in this strange land. Hey, I had finally found a constructive use for the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, and I actually felt a little pleased with myself. Ralph told me to “ditch that evil book”, and I kept it hidden from all sight from that point on, though to this day, I still own that very same book.

 

In his appreciation for me, Ralph also offered to me Sarah, his long-term girlfriend, who he had an open relationship with. But I had already eschewed all connections with women, other than platonic ones, because I feared that they would distract me from achieving my goal of either killing myself, or finding some new truth that would sustain my will to carry on. But I did share many adventures with Sarah.

While hanging out with Sarah, we would occasionally visit incarcerated friends at the local jails. 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 towards me. I wanted so much to express my sorrow at his long-term imprisonment. It was on the way there that I learned that our friend Jake was a hit man for a regional motorcycle gang that distributed drugs, and one hit went horribly wrong for him, apparently.

Sarah and I snorted some of the latest designer meth creations from our favorite local chemist just before arriving at the jail. It was just after that I had either a stroke, a prolonged seizure, or I was struck dumb, and speechless, for two full days, perhaps by the realization of the potential danger that I was in. When we met Jake at the reception area for the jail, all that would come out of my mouth were awkward grunts and squawks. Yes, the stress created by the meeting, coupled with the drug interactions, probably caused my loss of the ability to speak, thus contributing to the “conspiracy of silence” that my own drug use and addiction enabled.

As a marionette’s dancing puppet trapped within a drugged mind,

With intoxicants in control, what freedom could I find?

If I could find release from those entrapping chemical strings,

I might finally see what a liberated intelligence may bring.

Robert was a convicted armed robber, who was recently released from prison in May of 1986. One night, fate gathered us both together to sit at the bar in the Punjab tavern. The bar was a long, semi-circular arc, which seated up to 14 souls. The bar had two pool tables, and several tables and booths where people could be comfortably seated. And, there were several video games, which drew my attention at after hours’ parties where I was usually quite wired, and needing extra entertainment.

I was sitting at the bar yet again one evening, conversing with the owner Jack, who was to become another friend to me, when Robert slid in, and sat right next to me. He was dressed in a leather jacket, which was popular at that time, and fairly new jeans. He was about my age, 30 years old, and looked like he wanted to talk.

Let us “tune in” to a conversation that we engaged in that evening:

Robert: Hey, I have a plan for this seat, is it OK for me to sit next to you for while?

Me: Why, of course! Where are you coming from, you appear to be already having a good time.

Robert: Well, tonight is the night for good times, for sure. I just needed to get out, and get some “fresh air” and hook up with some old friends. I have been out of the neighborhood for a long time, and I am hoping to find some old friends.

Me: Well, maybe a new friend might show up, say, right next to you this evening?!

Robert: That would sure be nice.

Me: My only requirements are that you are not a murderer, because if my life has to end tonight, I want it to be by my own hands (I said this half-jokingly)

Robert: Hmm, I was just released from prison, having spent ten years behind bars for a pretty famous robbery committed in 1975.

Me: Oh, really? You really made the news, eh? I think that your notoriety won’t get in the way.

Robert: Umm, I killed a man while committing the robbery.

Me: (gulping, I am feeling rather uncomfortable and stupid now, and my thoughts began racing). Robert, everybody deserves a second chance, let me buy you another beer, and let’s turn our attention to the present.

Robert: Sounds good!

We clink our glasses together, and each take a big drink. An ‘old friend’ of Robert’s comes up to the bar, and accompanies Robert into the restroom, leaving me at the bar. I ask the bartender for a shot of whiskey, which I quickly down, and then wash the bitter flavor away with a big drink of beer.

Robert returns to the bar, sans his old friend.

Me: Well, what is up for the rest of the evening?

Robert: (slurring his words noticeably, and his eyes had lost their luster) I think that I will just hang out here for as long as I can, then move on down the road a piece.

He then closes his eyes, and slumps down, face onto the bar. Then, he falls off of the chair, and tries to right himself on the floor.

Me: Bartender, I think that my friend here just got sick, should we call an ambulance?

Jack: Heck no, 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.

Me: Jack, did he just shoot heroin, or something? Why would he do that to himself? I just don’t understand, because I want and need to talk to people now, and that would be so counterproductive.

Jack: 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.

Me: Wow, thanks for that, Jack, I did not really understand, but I think that I do now. Let me get him out of view before we all get into trouble.

The Conspiracy Of Silence claims yet another human being. The heroin completely shut him down to his humanity, and left me wondering what my own fate might be,.

This story goes on, through an almost endless array of struggling, spiritually darkened humanity. I will continue this story with several others that I had the privilege, honor, and distress to meet and converse with. Each one of them helped me to find the next step on my own path to recovery, and to finally embracing the path to truth and love within my own heart.

Hal was a tall, lanky fellow, who wore black rim glasses. He had always seemed to have a cigarette going, which was common with the crowd that I was now running with. I was smoking 2-3 packs a day, so I fit right in. Hal was the alternate transportation for Ralph, whenever I was unavailable. Hal lived in downtown Portland, near the Scientology office. We became friends for a while, and spent a lot of time processing information together about the insane people and situations that we were experiencing while hanging with Ralph and Sarah. There was never a dull moment, that was for sure.

Hal was from a devout Catholic family background. His family was economically disadvantaged (POOR), and Hal had to work even while in high school to help his mother make ends meet financially. He had taken four years of college, obtaining a bachelor’s degree in forestry, and he was no dummy, that was for sure. He had a strong work ethic, when he was employable, but now he was suffering from the after effects of some sort of emotional breakdown. To support his income stream, he peddled speed at some of the local strip bars and taverns. It was a high risk proposition, as he had to make exchanges with some really damaged people, as well as potential exposure to informants and snitches.

He tried to present a happy face, though whenever I saw him. I felt a strange, sad feeling. One time, while visiting him at his home, I saw a copy of his college degree from Oregon State University. His photograph was next to it, and it was only from six years previous. yet, he looked twenty-five years older now. I was a little surprised that I could feel my own heartbreak around the loss of human potential for somebody else, yet not even feel it for myself.

From time to time, we would get involved in discussions about religion, philosophy, psychology, and society, in between snorting lines of our latest shipments. He was the best person for animated discussions, which were accentuated by the stimulants that we liberally used together. Hal loved to make extensive commentary about the Pope, or about the state of American Catholicism. I would usually just listen to him after he got all “fired up” because I just did not share the same sense of oppression that he experienced because of his religion while he was growing up. I certainly was oppressed, no doubt, but at this point I did not have a really good clue as to why I felt that way.

He would always end his religious take downs by stating, unequivocally, that heaven and hell are right here on earth, nobody has to die to get there. Just look around, he would say, the evidence is obvious.

“I carry heaven and hell in my own mind, Bruce. I don’t need the Church to tell me how to feel, behave, or believe, for they just add more layers of hell for me to sort through to find my own little piece of heaven”.

“Hal, I don’t really follow the Christian religion, or Catholicism too much. I only know that I carry more than a nodding familiarity with Hell. Since I do not experience anything resembling heaven on earth, I guess that is why the church people hope that it exists after we die, because we sure aren’t drinking from its fountains right now!”

“Bruce, there was a time when I occasionally knew peace of mind, and that is when I first knew that I did not need any God, any Jesus and his crucifix, or any Pope to lead me into my own greater good. But after walking through this world for the piece of time that I have, I have somehow lost all hope that it will return anytime soon. The damage in the world is becoming the damage in my own mind. I despair that the world will ever change, and I doubt that any change is even possible for myself”

“Hal, wow, I actually might be your long-lost brother from another mother. I don’t have any answers. I stopped using pot because I wanted to see if it was preventing me from accessing important parts of myself. I use speed now, because it helps keep me engaged with the world in a more social way, yet I am no happier than I was before. I stopped using antidepressants last year, and now I am just riding this bucking bronco until I get tossed for the last time. I am not planning on picking myself up again, when I hit the dirt the next time.”

Yes, our discussions never ended on a positive, life-affirming note, but how could they? Hal was to get arrested, and charged with drug distribution, when another “friend” of ours, Cowboy Ron, snitched on Hal to save his own, sorry ass.

As a seeker of Truth, God’s high mount I would climb.

Yet I  stumbled through this damaged world’s shifting sands of time.

If I could stop confusing my mind with worn-out rhyme and reason,

Truth would cease charging my mind with treason.

One significant relationship during my descent was with Steve, a man who knew Ralph well, and who was to play a pivotal role in my life. Steve was intelligent, well-dressed, and always carried a sense of mystery. We spent countless hours together, sharing insights and navigating the treacherous landscape of addiction. Steve was the big brother I never had, offering guidance and criticism when needed. He introduced me to various situations and people, testing my resolve and pushing me towards my “search for truth.”  Steve would use drugs with me, but at such a small amount, I wondered if they had any effect upon him.  He was very critical of Ralph’s and my rate of use, stating that we were abusing ourselves. 

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 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 and taking her off of the streets..

Greg (Georgette’s temporary ‘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 not 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.

Dorothy was a young woman in her early 20’s, who had two young children. I was invited over to her house one evening, and was privileged to have a fairly intense discussion with her about our life’s issues. She was a heroin user, becoming dominated by the needs to use, and she was also “shadowed” by a former lover, Jakob, who was incarcerated in jail at the time of our connection. While I was there, I noted her “scraping” used spoons, so that she could get together enough heroin residues to give her a fix. Her supply was out, and she was waiting for her next delivery, so things were getting a little “tense” for her We spoke of what we thought the real powers of this world were, and it got interesting.

She did not believe in the power of God or Jesus, 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 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, and threaten her and dominate her, as he did when he was not imprisoned.

“There is only darkness, Bruce, and all of the people who attempt to use it. Those who use to help others are considered “good people” yet, these same people will turn against others in a heartbeat, should the need arise. Good people do not really exist, just fucked-up people who occasionally make helpful choices for themselves or, inadvertently, for others, usually while they are really just trying to selfishly take care of themselves”.

“Dorothy, I believe that we all have both energies, and it may only be that if we stumble upon the right understanding, we can act more from a not-so-dark, not so selfish position, and occasionally help ourselves and each other to have better lives”

“Well, how much time and energy do you put into having a better understanding of yourself, and being more helpful to others?”

“Good point, Dorothy. But I actually 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 have no idea what will be revealed, if anything, if I ever successfully overcome my own darkness.

I continue to search for the reasons to stay around here, and see if there is any real value to staying alive. My old way of seeing life sure has not brought any lasting happiness or social responsibility to me. If there is no Truth to stumble upon to keep me going, then I may as well allow the darkness that I already know to finish swallowing me up, and take me away from my own suffering”.

“Heroin is quite helpful for me, Bruce, have you considered trying it? My supplier will be here shortly, and I can give you a little bit.”

“Dorothy, thanks for talking with me, and making the offer to share with me, but I have to return to some other business that I am attending to, so time for me to leave”.

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.

As a mental marathonner, only on Life’s treadmill I would land,

My lifeless words and thoughts made me just another also ran.

I chased in vain Love’s all-knowing voice,

If I could only be still,, I might find the real cause to rejoice..

I will fast forward through three months more of Hell. My main core group had collapsed, with Ralph relocating 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.

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 fear was that my mental health was 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 started to accompany Frank to an upstairs room, when I spotted Steve talking with a healthy looking 30-year-old woman, a person that I might have been attracted to, had i been healthy. I overheard her calling his name, and it was NOT Steve. “Steve” 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, and grab the pills under my front seat, and finish business, once and for all.

Yes, I was finished.

“Steve” grabbed my arm, excused himself from his ‘girlfriend’, and took me outside to his car. We then drove to my father’s house, and “Steve” then commanded to me “Bruce, I can no longer keep you protected and safe. Your search for truth has to end within this dangerous world. 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, any way I can. You deserve so much better of a life than you have given to yourself.”

We arrived at my father’s house, and he let me out. He drove away in my car back to Frank’s party. He and his female partner 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 Dr. Beavers, as I was too ashamed to have anybody see me in the state that I was in.

Note 1: One year later, he called me, to check and see how I was doing. I was a year clean and sober, and, in tears, I gushed with my love and gratitude for “Steve”. He was the best friend that I never knew I had.

Randy Olson was to return to my life, yet again. I was still a mess, strung out from months of drug abuse, poor eating habits, and excessive alcohol consumption, and I still only weighed a mere 135 pounds. My face was all broke out, and I had the most horrific shakes, and I  still heard voices. I had experienced convulsions several times.. I I was still drinking, but I was no longer using drugs very much. I invited Randy Olson over on March 13 of 1987. He came over, and he, and his girlfriend and I proceeded to down an inordinate amount of my fathers’ booze and wine. My parents were still “snow birding” in Arizona, and would not be home until the end of the month, so I was still able to keep my dysfunctional momentum going. Well, after partying with Randy until about 10:00 PM, Randy had to go home, so I was left alone with my horrible problems.

HURT, Sung by Johnny Cash written by Nine Inch Nails

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vt1Pwfnh5pc

It was then that I entered into a blackout, and picked up one of my father’s loaded guns, and drove in a alcoholic blackout, to Brock’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 in my lap discharged, shooting a hole in the front door of his apartment. He had two sleeping children on one room, and a sleeping wife in another room, and I was fortunate to have not brought harm to anyone.

As a lifelong shadow boxer of evil, when will I ever retire?

Why be champion of a  lonely dream world, where love does not inspire?

If I could stop resuscitating dead illusions with constant mental pugilist blows,

Truth could reveal a peaceful mind where compassion and love always grows.

He then brought a hypodermic needle out, and injected me with crank/speed (I still would not inject myself.) I immediately snapped out of my drunkenness, and proceeded to talk with this guy for 24 hours. I got one more injection, and then clarity finally hit me.

Literally, a light went on in my mind, and I saw the utter insanity of the person I was with, and the insanity of my life. I stood up, laughed at the guy, called him, and myself, nuts, and walked out of the front door, got into my car, and drove back to my parents’ home. I was changed, though I just didn’t know how much at the time. As I had only five dollars left to my name, I needed to make a decision. Either I needed to buy more beer and cigarettes, or I needed to get some gasoline for my car, and go visit my grandparents in north Portland. I kept the five dollars, and drove to family. My grandparents were happy to see me, but were concerned for my appearance. I claimed to have the flu, and 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.

I returned home to my parents’ home after a week at the grandparents. It is another funny thing, two days later, out of the blue, Craig Salter called me, for the first connection in three years (he was a childhood friend that both Randy and I had known since the 5th grade, and the same person that I chose to have my relapse with after my Care Unit experience), and asked me if I wanted to go to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting with him. He was required to attend meetings due to the conditions of the court that had prosecuted him for a DUI. Of course, Craig was not an alcoholic; at least he thought that he wasn’t. I knew that he was, though. I, in fact, was the person that got him drunk the first time in High School, when Craig was 17 years old. I actually may have started him on his own horrific decline into his own alcoholism, just like Randy Olson had started me on my first drug, which was marijuana, and may have indirectly contributed to my own eventual decline.

Anyway, I went to that AA meeting, because the way I figured it, since God was such a big part of AA, and since I was searching for TRUTH, there must be a relationship between those two forces, and AA may have an angle on that. I proceeded to attend over 270 meetings in my first 90 days, since I had nothing else to do, having lost my job, and, basically, my life, to my disease. Craig eventually stopped going to meetings, after his court ordered attendance ended. I continued to attend them, feeling like I had finally found my spiritual home. I did fall into a temporary trap at the HInson Baptist Church, thinking that my personal TRUTH must somehow be hidden in the church system, and that I could unearth some more by attending church, and being baptized.

Wrong!

To be in realization of Truth, is to find God’s high mount just another illusion to be climbed

Created by ignorant, fearful minds caught on the eternal merry-go-round of time.

The unillumnated mind remains forever bereft of Love’s Rhyme and Truth’s Reason,

It just chases after mirages, until it has insight into its illusions that are guilty of treason,

 

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 relationship with my parents, especially my father.

I was enlightened by a new teacher, a recovering alcoholic by the name of Jack Boland, who had released to the world many series of tapes on recovery and spirituality. I was given one of his tape series of recovery by a co-worker at the Fred Meyer warehouse, John Johnson, of whom I will be eternally grateful to, on May 16, 1987. I then listened to these tapes over and over, during the Memorial Day weekend, and something miraculous happened afterwards, probably as a result of my openness to the experience brought about by listening to these tapes, and practicing some simple steps from the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous.

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.  I had a series of dramatic, miraculous healing experiences over the next several years that restored me to a physical, emotional, and spiritual sanity and understanding that I had never experienced before in this life. I began writing about this transformation in 2016, which has resulted in eleven books and hundreds of blog posts being written, by a man who had been trapped most of my life by the conspiracy of silence.

Yet, the prison guard with one of the primary keys to release me from my own spiritual imprisonment was my own 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 new-found sobriety. The real fruitage of healing from the relationship was not to become apparent until many, many years later.  That is another story, for later.

I waked up to Love’s voice, no longer just a somnambulator,

And realized the Truth that there is another I within me that is greater,

Than any trauma and grief created images I ever formed or learned,

My world then reflected back to me the One for which I have yearned.

Note: Stephen Kessler was denied parole, and spent the rest of his life in prison (died 2021).. He was regarded as the most dangerous criminal ever encountered, by several federal agents.

Coincidentally, I was roommates with Tom C. in the Physicians and Surgeons Hospital Care Unit in 1984, when we both sought sobriety. Tom was successful, but I was not. Tom was one of six co-conspirators with Stephen Kessler during the 1968 prison riot, where a lot of the Oregon State Prison in Salem was burnt down,, and shame was brought to our then Oregon Governor, Tom McCall. While growing up into the beast that he became, Stephen Kessler also shared the same school as my present wife, Sharon White, and, in fact, beat up a teacher while in the same classroom that he shared with my present wife Sharon.

My descent into addiction was a harrowing journey filled with despair, broken dreams, and unlikely friendships. Yet, it was through this darkness that I found a glimmer of hope and the strength to persevere. My story is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the power of connection.

The New Normal of Addiction and Cultural Disease in America

In the modern American landscape, a troubling phenomenon is emerging as an insidious “new normal”: the widespread acceptance of addictive and self-destructive behaviors. This normalization is not only alarming but also represents a cultural disease that urgently needs to be addressed.

One of the most challenging aspects of this crisis is the pervasive denial that envelops those who suffer from alcoholism,  addiction, and mental illness. It manifests as an ingrained societal resistance to acknowledging the gravity of the issue. Individuals trapped in cycles of addiction—whether to alcohol, drugs, or other vices—often remain oblivious to the destruction they wreak upon their lives and those around them.

To these individuals, the concept of hitting “rock bottom” is not just a cliché but a harsh reality. It is the point where the pain of their affliction becomes so unbearable that it forces a reckoning. This moment of clarity, often resulting from catastrophic events such as job loss, family breakdowns, legal troubles, or near-death experiences, can serve as a catalyst for change. However, the tragedy lies in the fact that such moments are often required to break through the walls of denial.

The impact of addiction and cultural disease extends far beyond the individual. Families are torn apart, communities are weakened, and society at large bears the burden of lost productivity, increased healthcare costs, and the erosion of social cohesion. The normalization of these behaviors not only perpetuates the cycle of addiction but also desensitizes society to its consequences.

Mental health professionals and public health advocates recognize the critical need to address this issue as a public health crisis. Yet, the stigma attached to addiction and mental illness often impedes progress. Empathy and support are essential components of any effective intervention, but they must be coupled with accessible treatment options and systemic changes that prioritize mental health.

What is required is a paradigm shift in how we perceive and respond to addiction and cultural disease. It is imperative to view these issues through the lens of public health rather than moral failing. This shift necessitates a comprehensive approach that includes education, prevention, early intervention, and robust support systems for recovery.

We must advocate for policies that destigmatize mental health treatment and make it accessible to all. Communities should cultivate environments where individuals feel safe to seek help without fear of judgment. By fostering a culture of compassion and understanding, we can begin to dismantle the barriers that keep so many trapped in cycles of addiction and self-destruction.

The normalization of addictive and self-destructive behaviors in American culture is a pressing issue that demands immediate attention. It is a call to action for public health advocates, mental health professionals, and the addiction recovery community to unite in addressing this crisis. Through collective effort and unwavering commitment, we can create a society where healing and recovery are not just possible but expected—transforming the new normal into one of hope, resilience, and renewed purpose.

If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction or mental health issues, reach out to a professional today. Remember, it’s never too late to find your turning point.

Remember that there is hope. Share your stories, engage in conversations about addiction and recovery, and find inspiration in the journeys of others.  Please don’t turn away from the problems of others, no matter how difficult the scenery might become. Together, we can break the cycle of silence and find our path to truth and healing.

On The Turning Away