Memoire of An Addict: Choices: How I Beat the Odds

By Ronald Mangum

We live in a world of choices, good and bad. I was immersed in a world of addiction and bad choices. My life spiraled out of control—in and out of prison, taking from anyone who crossed my path, self-exiled because I didn’t trust myself amid the world of chaos I created for myself.

This is my life in the streets, dodging death and embracing my drug of choice, which was cocaine, wanting to stop after sixteen years but felt I couldn’t do it myself. How wrong I was! God took care of me. My mother and my sisters prayed for me. It never occurred to me to pray for myself, let go and let God, until I became sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Everything I endured led me to the point of absolute surrender. This is the story of that surrender and, ultimately, my deliverance. Today, with God’s help, I am constantly evolving into a better person.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662443640

Book preview

Chapter 1

1967—I was a nine-year-old Black child attending McIntyre Elementary School in Montgomery, Alabama. I stayed up the street from the school, which let out each day at 3:00 p.m. If I ran fast, as I always did, I could catch Dark Shadows at the beginning, which also came on at 3:00 p.m. It was my favorite TV show. We had not long been able to afford a TV, and I was loving it. My mom and dad were raising eight kids in a one-bedroom house. The kids had a big bed in the living room. We were very poor. Sometimes, we only had flour bread and syrup to eat. But we stayed full of love and lots of water. (Smile.) My mom used to say, Drink you a big glass of water and say thank you, Jesus! My dad worked hard as a sanitation worker. My mom worked now and then, cleaning people’s houses. There just wasn’t enough money to go around. I would see a lot of things as a child that I would not like but understood. Although understanding didn’t stop the anger and resentment, I kept bottled up inside. My mom was, in my eyes, the sweetest, kindest, best-looking mom ever. She did the best she could, silently wanting much more for us. She never took time to enjoy herself or go anywhere. She rarely left the porch. Everything about her essence was her kids, and she wouldn’t allow us to play anywhere but the yard outside the house where she could see us. My dad was a weekend alcoholic. During the week, he would not drink. He would just sit and not really talk. Then on the weekend, everything he saw he didn’t like during the week, he would bring it up when he got drunk. I hated that my father was this way, and it caused the anger and resentment I felt about the situation my family was in to be directed solely toward my father.

I became mean and quick-tempered with everyone except my mom. I still never got into trouble. I just looked at the world with disdain. I knew that I was smart and that I wanted to make a difference in the world. Sometimes, it would seem to me, even as a child, that everyone was stupid, said stupid things, and did stupid things—except me. Being poor, not having things other kids, had begun to influence my character and personality. I knew basically I was a good person. I was raised the right way, but I wanted things. I was embarrassed about my clothes and where we shopped. I just held it all in. One day, this would influence many bad decisions I would make. I would pay a healthy price.

One hot summer day, my granddad, who lived in the Fort Deposit, Alabama, asked my mom if my brother Johnny and I could come live with him for a while. I knew my mom wanted to say no. She would rather keep her boys at home close to her. But Granddad convinced her by saying he wanted to make young men out of us, teach us the value of hard work and hard living. I loved my granddad, and I didn’t mind going at all. My teacher at McIntyre School always said that I was the smartest student she ever had. I didn’t believe her, but it felt good to hear her say it, so I would smile and say, Thank you, Mrs. Capleton. That was her name, and when I told her I would be leaving school to go live with my granddad, she seemed on the verge of tears. She said that she would miss teaching me terribly and to behave. I said, Yes, Mam. I’ll miss you too.

Chapter 2

Fort Deposit—My fifth-grade homeroom teacher took the place of Mrs. Capleton. She spoke highly of me the same way. I began to believe that maybe I really was very smart. I aced a math test once, and my math teacher couldn’t wait to run down the hall and show my homeroom teacher the A plus that she had given me. They all thought I was the smartest student at Ft. Deposit Elementary. I made honor roll every week with only one B, so things were looking up. All the girls wanted me to help them with their work. I was a little shy around girls, so I happily obliged. I was in heaven, and I didn’t care if I never saw Montgomery again. My brother was just the opposite. A little slow on his schoolwork, but he had a very active imagination. It would prove our undoing. The first time we dabbled in juvenile delinquency, we took my granddad’s truck for a spin. He worked at the dairy farm at night, and sometimes, he would drive. Other times, his friend would pick him up, and he’d leave his truck and keys at home. He was teaching us to drive on dirt roads. Johnny took to driving a lot quicker than me, and he wanted to drive everything!

One night, he decided we should go for a spin in the truck. I remember thinking, Naw, we shouldn’t do that, but, of course, I didn’t say it. Whatever my brother wanted to do, I was down with it. He was almost two years older than me, so there! We jumped in the truck around 11:00 p.m., shirtless and shoeless, and went to pick up a friend of ours named Joe, who lived up the highway. My granddad would take us there some nights. He had a lot of drinking buddies, and he would always take us with him. Sometimes, he would even give us a nip or two, which we liked because it made us feel grown-up. Picking up Joe, we wouldn’t be alone if we got into trouble. We went down the highway past Joe’s house, doing 70 and 80 mph. My brother did all the driving. After we dropped Joe back off, no sooner had we turned in the driveway, then a state trooper hit the lights on us! We were scared and told him that our granddad let us drove sometimes. He knew him and said, This is Morgan Somersett’s truck. Are you all his grandkids? We replied yes. He called him at work.

My granddad was very angry, but afterward, he said, You all were driving that fast? He half smiled and said, Don’t do that anymore. You all know better. Then he found us jobs at Bates Turkey farm up the street so that we could earn a little money and keep out of trouble. Even at age eleven, Johnny could cook almost anything. He used to watch Mama a lot of the time, I guess. I know I didn’t. Mrs. Bates was around sixty-five years of age. Her husband had passed away, and she and her grandson lived together. He was a rebellious seventeen-year-old, who stayed gone on his big Harley, so she was glad for the company. My brother worked inside the main house, and I worked outside, taking care of the baby chicks.

One day, my brother showed me an extra check for a lot more than what we got paid. I was curious, so he explained that since she paid us in personal checks and we cashed them at the little store across the street, we lived right across from Mrs. Bates and the store, it would be easy to cash the check, even though he forged our names and hers on it. I knew it was wrong, but like I said, I went along with whatever my brother wanted to do. We had tasted juvenile delinquency, and the money and benefits it offered were pleasing to our virgin palates. The seed was planted. Money made you popular, and there were easier ways to get it. We took too much money to school, and eventually, the teachers began to question where we got it from. We had cashed several checks. They sold soda and candy at the school, and we were buying it out for all the girls. They loved us; why not? The school finally notified my granddad. The paper trail was found, and we were caught! A powerful member of the town, who also owned a service station, told my granddad, Morgan, we won’t prosecute. Mrs. Bates doesn’t want to, but they got to go! The boys are too much for this small town.

My granddad was hurt, devastated, embarrassed, and very angry. Mostly, he was bewildered as to why we would do this. Our behavior was inexcusable, and we had to go back home. I could tell he didn’t want us to go. He had gotten used to having us around now, and he would be lonely again. I felt bad for him but was deathly afraid of what my mom would do to us. She took the belt to us, of course, and said, I knew I shouldn’t have let them go. Stay down there. Of course, she was right. We wanted adventure now to be popular again. Soon our lives would change yet again, as we would be moving up to a nice project community on the north side. I called it moving up, thanks to my dad becoming a truck driver, a promotion on his job. I considered moving to the projects a step-up because we had a bedroom and central heating. Wow! We could walk by a vent in the wall and feel warmth without having to stand directly in front of a space-heater. Man, I was loving it. I was even able to muster up a newfound love and respect for my dad. However, I didn’t realize it at the time, but it wouldn’t last long, mainly because my dad’s drinking and anger issues would continue. My resentment toward him would reassert itself at an even deeper level. He would never lay a hand on my mom, but he would threaten to, and as a child, I just could not accept that this was not controllable—my dad being an alcoholic. All I knew was that he couldn’t communicate unless he was drinking. None of this would take place unless he was drinking. I was twisted and angry inside, but there was nothing I could do. I loved my dad. He was a loyal husband and a good provider. He just didn’t know how to be a dad, and things between us would get worse because I resented it so much.

Chapter 3

In 1971, I was thirteen years old. My brother Johnny became rebellious and kind of ran away. I say kind of because we all knew where he was. My mom was really hurt because she loved her kids to life and wanted them with her. If my dad was hurt, he kept it hidden from his kids, as was his nature. My dad never ever said he loved me, that I can recall. I was angry inside because of all the fussing my dad would do. Once, my mom had to huddle us all up and take us to stay with my grandma Sarah for a few days because my dad went crazy while drinking and told us to get out! I’ve never forgiven him for that because he hurt my mom deeply. After a few days, he called my mom, acting as though he was going to set himself on fire if we didn’t come home, saying he was sorry and would never do that again. My mom, bless her sweet heart, of course, forgave him and took us back. I told myself I hated my dad for being the way he was. I found out later that I didn’t really hate him. I just hated the way he was.

One day, he was drunk, trying to cross the street, and was hit by a car and knocked way up in the air. I was looking out the window and saw it. My heart jumped in my throat because I really loved him and didn’t want to see him hurt. I was confused and angry that I felt this way because I wanted to hate him. He only sustained a broken leg and a few scrapes. Inwardly, I was relieved and happy for my mom because she was devastated at first, and I worried about her. These were feelings that were revolving inside of me in a tumultuous fashion—feelings that were forming my character the person I was to become. The projects we moved to were called Northgate, and we lived at 1619 Northgate Drive, Apt. F, on the corner.

My dad kept our corner yard clean. He was neat and clean, one of his positive assets, and deep down, I knew he was a good man. He just drank too much. My mom still tried to keep us corralled under her dress’s tail, but my eyes were wide as