Crystal and Cocktails: Anatomy of an Addict

By Zebulon C. Miller

When I was in rehab, I mentioned to a counselor that I was an aspiring writer. She suggested I write a memoir and specifically suggested I include details about rehab and recovery; she said, "There are tons of books about addiction and tons of self-help books about recovery, but not very many memoirs written by addicts that share their journey through recovery."

At three years sober, someone close to me said, "You've been able to help yourself, and that's good, but good people help themselves, and great people help other people. If you could find a way to tell your story, that would be great."

My book describes the personality traits and character defects that began my journey into drug and alcohol abuse, the gradual decline of my mental and physical health over fifteen years of addiction and over a decade of recovery. It also describes the process of finding a home group in twelve-step programs and finding a sponsor, both of which I feel are integral to success in the transition from early to long-term recovery, and I describe the reintegration process with both my spouse and my immediate family.

My story needs to be told because it's a bit less exorbitant and appalling than other popular stories and different from the way addicts are typically portrayed in movies and television. Most addicts are not homeless, jobless, and friendless; they are quietly imploding at the behest of those closest to them and unbeknownst to nearly everyone else.

We, as a society, are moving into an era of awareness and action regarding mental health; it's finally okay to admit we need help. However, many addicts and alcoholics use a worst-case scenario as a metric for the progression of their illness and convince themselves they need not pursue solutions to their addiction and mental health, often until it's too late. I hope if they hear a middle-of-the-road, white-collar journey like mine, they will proactively take action to save themselves, their marriages, and their relationships with their children and their families before the consequences become so dire that they lose them entirely.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798885058957

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

About the Author

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Crystal and Cocktails

Anatomy of an Addict

Zebulon C. Miller

Copyright © 2023 Zebulon C. Miller

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2023

ISBN 979-8-88505-894-0 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88505-895-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

I wanted to be the best drug addict there ever was. I wasn't sure what that meant exactly, but I'd do it.

Maybe it meant professionalism, the drug addict equivalent of a clean-cut male model on a GQ magazine cover, dressed in a crisp, starched suit with sharp edges and pressed lines. Or maybe it meant becoming a human garbage disposal—dump anything I could find into my open mouth and, if the pieces were the right size, I could put them away and ask for more.

My regularly scheduled programming of five straight days without sleep stuffed grains of salt and sand behind my eyelids. Rubbing them only made them hurt more. Every few hours, I transferred crystal meth from a small Ziploc baggie to a glass pipe and smoked it—maybe I was getting those jagged crystals on my fingers and rubbing them in my eyes. I should've washed my hands more.

Several months prior—for no reason—I'd stayed awake for 216 consecutive hours, which was a personal best. I just wanted to see how far I could push it. I probably wanted to brag about it later, something to make me feel less useless, unaccomplished, and insignificant. Problem was that those nine straight days messed up my routine and I'd crashed headlong into a row of couch cushions for twenty-eight straight hours—dead to the world. I'd slept through an entire day of work, college classes that evening, a bunch of phone calls, and half of work the following day.

Not very professional. After several years of drug abuse, I was at risk of being demoted to amateur status.

After being awake for a few days in a row, my brain was like a record with a huge scratch across it; the needle happily slides along the groove until it hits that scratch and starts to skip. Then it just skips over and over, and I'd chew my fingernails relentlessly until the skin is raw, pick at the same cuticle until it bleeds, run my tongue over the same tooth until it's marred by open sores, and scratch the same section of skin until it looks like leprosy.

It was anyone's guess how long I'd been staring at the computer screen in front of me.

I caught a hint of motion at the edge of my vision. It looked like someone poking their head through the open office door. Whatever it was skittered away when I tried to look at it directly, like when I squint and see those floaty things. The shadow creatures would appear around the third day of no sleep, and the shadow people would appear around the fifth day—which was today. I wondered how many real animals I almost killed because I refused to swerve and avoid a hallucination.

I suddenly remembered a tweaker I barely knew was sitting in the chair across from me. I wasn't sure how he'd figured out where I lived. I didn't know why he'd visited; we'd never really hung out before. He was gay. I give off a fuck me vibe to gay guys for some reason; maybe that was why.

What the fuck are you doing? I asked.

His eyebrows drew together, and he gestured to the door then switched to a bewildered expression and returned to his seat.

How long have you been awake? I asked.

He stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language then shook himself. Eight days, I think.

Eight days. That was a long time. After eight days, the shadow people became full-color people with lifelike textures. When I saw them, I could feel the fabric of their clothing, see the color of their eyes, and smell their sweat.

Before I could lecture him, he swung his backpack onto his shoulder and hurried from the office. I heard his car engine rev then fade as he sped away.

The sun was starting to peek through the office window. I didn't want to move, but I had to. My mom and stepdad would be awake soon. I couldn't have them find me sitting in the same place they last saw me when they went to bed. My ears rang—a dull crescendo in my head—and blackness shrank the edges of my vision as I stood. Most of my lower body was numb from sitting for twelve hours, and my glasses bored holes into the bridge of my nose and my skull above the ears.

I wish I was hungry; I wish I could eat. The last time I weighed myself, the scale read 112 pounds. My senior year of high school—the most fit I've been in my life—I weighed 176. I used to be a fit, strong athlete. Now I was the bleached skeleton hanging from a chrome-plated hook in Mr. Maldonado's high school biology class.

My body never felt hungry when I was constantly pumping my lungs full of crystal. All I needed to feel full was a banana, a Fudgsicle, or a glass of milk. Even then, I only ate because I knew I should.

A human body doesn't stop eating just because you stop feeding it. It'll eat up fat reserves, then it switches to muscle tissue. If some random shit from sleep deprivation didn't kill me, eventually organ failure would. My liver would keel over from the constant elevated body temperature, then I'd slip into renal failure. My body wasn't a Corvette anymore. It was a rust-covered shit box someone might push into a junkyard.

Crystal meth made me feel powerful, like a superhero. Sleeping was a nuisance, just like eating. Why'd I have to spend a third of every day lying in one place with my eyes closed? Shit, Hitler abused amphetamines; he damn near wiped out an entire section of humanity. Winston Churchill abused them to stay awake and plan Britain's actions in World War II. William Stewart Halsted revolutionized modern medicine while addicted to cocaine. I didn't have any plans to take over the world, but I did work a full-time job, attend college classes full-time in the evenings, then party every night with my friends.

That morning, my priority wasn't winning a Nobel Prize, though. Instead, I took a few deep pulls from a jug of milk and went downstairs to watch TV in my room for a few hours. I'd come back upstairs at a reasonable time and try to convince my parents I'd been sleeping.

Later, I found my mom loading the dishwasher. I know I made it to the kitchen; that's where my body was when I woke up. Something flipped the switch, and I crumpled to the floor like the characters in The Matrix when they unplug them in the real world.

Waking up after passing out is weird. I heard muffled noises that became voices while my vision was still black, like my brain prioritized hearing over seeing. It took a second to put the pieces together because I didn't remember the last several seconds before my brain shut off.

The first thing I saw was my mom's face blocking the ceiling behind it, her cheeks wet and eyes shrink-wrapped in tears. She cradled my head in her lap as she stroked my hair.

What's wrong with you, Zeb?

I opened my mouth to lie, just like I'd done so many times before, but this time I hesitated. She knew, and I knew she'd known for a while. Maybe she'd been waiting for something like this to happen. It would give her ammo to convince me to quit. I couldn't give her the satisfaction.

I'm sick, Mom. I need help.

Chapter 2

If I couldn't see a reflection of myself in another person, it made me feel invisible. It was a stark revelation when I was growing up; I was different. If I could have found a group of kids I fit in with—a group that made me feel safe and assured me I was doing things the right way—maybe the outcome would have changed.

But I didn't fit in. I never felt safe. I grew up with all the right tools and influence to mold a scared, lonely child into a stoic sociopath. My relationship with controlled substances began with a desire to be accepted.

My brain worked differently. It was always racing. When I was very young, I'd stammer and struggle because the words were coming faster than my mouth could say them.

According to my IQ test scores, I was a smart kid. I taught myself to read before kindergarten. I was six years old when I started joining my dad by his favorite chair. He'd read these special edition Louis L'Amour novels with brown leather covers; he got a new one in the mail every month through a membership he'd purchased. I'd peek over his shoulder and try to read as far as I could get before he turned the page. Usually, I made it about halfway down the left side.

Intelligence didn't make me popular, though.

I don't exactly remember when my stammer became a full-blown stutter. I think it was before I turned ten.

Once, I skipped into the living room where my dad was watching television to ask him if I could have some ice cream. I opened my mouth to speak but produced no sound. Come on! Make any noise and the rest will come out. Just say the first word!

Never mind, I finally said and then I turned to leave.

No, he said. Stay here until you say what you were going to say.

I clenched my fists so hard my knuckles turned white. I'm sure my dad was trying to help me overcome it with brute force, but it didn't work. Nothing worked. I clenched and unclenched my fists until tears of frustration burned my cheeks. An eternity of soundless struggles passed before I finally managed to chain enough meaningless noises together to start my sentence, finish my question, and flee.

Nearly all my social awkwardness and anxiety came from something I called the Moment. All conversations had an ebb and flow, and when one person spoke, the others would listen. When that person finished speaking, there was a small pause—a tiny moment when the entire group was silent. Most people only subconsciously recognize that moment. It's an organic component of any conversation. The moment when a person listened, I could become the speaker.

The Moment.

The Moment was destroying my life.

Every second with my friends, I waged a losing battle to capture it. Here it comes. The Moment. I just need to make enough noise for them to hear me. They'll hear me start talking, and everybody will stop long enough for me to participate. The Moment came. I opened my mouth and tried—then failed—to make a sound. Nobody noticed. The Moment passed, and the conversation sped away without me. I'd grit my teeth, and my eyes would brim with tears.

Sometimes it worked. I'd capture that Moment. I'd share, and everyone would laugh. It felt amazing. I made everyone laugh. I knew it. I knew I was funny! And I would be over and over if they just gave me a little more time to talk. A little more time to share.

I obsessed over what I'd said while I waited. I reveled in that moment, replaying it over and over in my head, basking in the satisfaction of finally being included. I'd ride that momentum and use it to soothe my nerves.

Nobody understood how it crushed my soul to be interrupted—how many times I failed to speak. The conversation inevitably moved away from my comment long before I could speak again. I wanted to attack anyone who interrupted me, strangle them, and smash their head into the floor over and over until they went limp.

Nobody understood what it was like to be trapped inside your own body, unable to speak. So I'd bite my lip, hide my frustrated tears, and keep trying.

I started wetting the bed around the same time I started stuttering. Most days I'd wake up around two with my bedsheets and pajamas soaked in urine. I'd immediately peel the soiled sheets and put them in the washing machine then sleep on the floor for an hour or two until my alarm went off at four thirty to do my chores and get ready for school. I had left them dirty before, but I got in trouble with my parents if they found out. Sometimes they'd yell at me; sometimes they'd spank me. They always seemed disgusted.

Bed-wetting gave me crippling anxiety when I slept anywhere other than my bedroom. My parents sent me to summer camp several summers in a row, and I slept in my underwear in a sleeping bag atop a cheap mattress in a bunk bed. Those nights when I soaked my sleeping bag, I'd sneak outside long before the sun was up and swing it back and forth until it air-dried then cover the wet spot on the mattress with it.

I couldn't just lie back down and let the mattress soak the sleeping bag, so I propped myself against the wall by the bunk bed and slept in a seated position until morning.

Sleepovers at friends' houses were complicated. The group of boys would usually sleep in bags in the living room. I tried to choose a spot as close to a wall, as far from a heavy-traffic area as possible. When I wet my sleeping bag, I would mop it up with a roll of paper towels, air out my bag in another room and put it away, then sit in a chair and wait for the sun to come up.

*****

I worked part-time as an Uber driver, and in my Uber app's driver profile, I mentioned I wrote a memoir. I was taking an older woman to the airport when she asked what my memoir was about. I told her it outlines my sixteen years of drug abuse and the years of recovery that followed. Her immediate response was, So which one of your parents was overly critical and never acknowledged your actions or accomplishments?

My third-grade teacher had a certificate reward system for the performance and behavior for her students. During our first day, she told us of the student who held the record of certificates, a record that was set twelve years prior. Fuck that guy. I marched to the top of that mountain, booted his ass from the peak, and assumed my rightful place in history. My parents didn't seem to notice.

I whizzed through my entire formal education. I never studied a day in my life, including every course I attended at university for my bachelor of science. For someone as obsessed with being the best at everything as I was, I couldn't have given less fucks about doing well in school. It was boring, and the class material was trivial.

I plodded through to my eighth-grade graduation with a 4.0 GPA—perfect grades in every class. My parents had already arranged my fate at a Christian private boarding school in Shelton, Nebraska—population of 971. They assured me high school was nothing like grade school. I'd have to apply myself and work harder than ever. The tone of that conversation felt like they wanted to see me do it my way and fail, just to knock me down a few pegs.

Against their advice, I enrolled in eleven classes the semester of my freshman year. I returned for winter break proudly brandishing a report card with ten As and one B+. My parents reviewed those scores while I eyed them like I was letting them hear my favorite song in the world for the first time. Please tell me you love this as much as I do.

My dad sat back in his chair and looked at me then stabbed his finger at the B+ and said, Well, what happened here?

I only lasted two years at the boarding school in Nebraska. I convinced my parents to move me home at the end of my sophomore year, but I was still sequestered thirty-five miles from the school I switched to. I lived so far away from my classmates, I might as well spend my free time working. My first job was waiting tables at a family restaurant, and I was immediately more serene than I'd ever been. I was a junior in high school, and I never felt anxious or out of place when I was working. I never stuttered or stammered when serving customers or interacting with my coworkers. I'd been waiting my entire life to join the workforce, and now my life could begin. But, just like everything else, I couldn't just do my job. I had to be the best at it. So I worked the maximum allowed thirty-two hours each week while taking my regular high school classes during the day.

In the summer of my junior year, I worked three jobs and roughly a hundred hours a week: full-time mowing lawns for the University of Colorado at Boulder, full-time waiting tables, and double shifts waiting tables on the weekends. Work was the clown makeup splashed liberally onto the face of loneliness. No time to be lonely if the throttle is wide open eighteen hours a day.

One evening during that summer, the conversation with my coworkers centered on what a straight-edge prude I was. People seem to take so much pride in being the one to corrupt something that was once pure.

Wait, Steve, a coworker, said to me, you seriously work three jobs?

Yeah, I said.

Don't you ever party or do anything fun?

No. I don't have time.

You don't drink? You've never done drugs? Like, you never even smoked weed?

No. Pathetic, right?

Dude, when we're done closing, you should lock up, and we'll get you high for your first time.

The restaurant closed at 11:00 p.m. I'd been working there long enough, the manager trusted me to lock up when the staff finished cleaning. The loading dock behind the restaurant was hidden from view by a wall of shrubs, and there wasn't a security camera.

When I was a child, I was warned of many things that would be a huge problem as I got older. I carefully tucked away the solution for getting out of quicksand, made sure not to crack my knuckles so I didn't develop arthritis, and never read a book in low light so I didn't ruin my eyesight.

Similarly, I was led to believe that random drug dealers would be an issue as well. I'd find them at the opening of every dark alley or at the edge of every school playground, leaning menacingly against a chain-link fence. That wouldn't be a problem, though; it'd be easy to decline free drugs from a creepy stranger.

Do the right thing. Just say no like I'm supposed to. That thought was joined by I'm so fucking lonely! and I would do anything to fit in.

Deal, I agreed, suddenly feeling like I ate cottage cheese that was two months beyond the expiration date.

It was a little before midnight when I locked the restaurant. Five of us gathered on the loading dock, and I tried marijuana for the first time. It was comical. Four people huddled around me like children gathering at the feet of a fairy princess sharing a magical story. They leaned forward, eyes alight, wearing half-smiles and expectant expressions as I took my first few hits.

Do you feel anything yet? Steve asked.

I paused. Maybe?

Oh, you're not feeling it, then, he said. You'll know when it's working.

I nodded. My eyes flicked about while I gnawed at