Chapter 10: Thirty Days A Champion

With my car sidelined down the street, rapidly gathering dust, dirt and leaves, I was grounded.  The tow truck incident had been a breaking point – the proverbial final straw that snapped my fragile mental state.  While not a traumatic event in itself, my malfunctioning car was the latest in a long line of things that hadn’t gone right – the effects of which, I found, were unbearably cumulative.  In the days and weeks that followed, I underwent a subtle transformation.  I was feeling vulnerable, as if the world itself had turned against me.  Now relegated to public transport for my commute to work each day, I left the house wrapped in my biggest jacket, my head covered with a beanie and my face concealed behind dark sunglasses.  Headphones permanently affixed to my ears sent a clear message that I did not wish to engage in irrelevant discourse, or crave any human interaction at all.

Slowly, but most assuredly, I began to change.

Like a celebrity on a burger run, I did not wish to be seen by human eyes - fearful of an unexpected encounter with an acquaintance or friend.  The waves of fear and sadness fell from my body, and I knew my façade would not bear close scrutiny.  Like cheap cologne, I bore the inexorable stench of failure.  The glasses hid my eyes, now permanently bloodshot from what had become a nightly weed habit.  At work, my familiarity with the job and my reliability ensured I never showed up on the managerial radar, my co-workers accepting my staunch silence and the air of anonymity I had carefully cultivated. 

Despite its repetitiveness and the incessant political game playing, work had become a solace of sorts.  I could do it on autopilot, and as long as I arrived on time, I was left to my own devices.  I had become a functional stoner.  My jacket, glasses and headphones were rarely removed - only within the safe confines of my apartment or around Mitch, whose eyes were beginning to look as world weary as my own.

I calculated that it would take a whopping six weeks to save up enough money to effect repairs on my car, but feeling desperate and very much alone, it might as well have been six years.  The sight of my magnificent mechanical chariot rotting, unused, seemed to taunt me every morning as I glumly embarked upon my daily death march to the train station

Like Clark Kent, I mastered the art of living the double life.  Every Sunday, I would iron a shirt, apply some eye drops and run a comb through my hair in order to attend dinner with my family – a weekly tradition, but one made me feel like a fraud.  Mum and Dad would ask about my life, and I would smile wanly and provide a stock standard response designed to evade going into any great detail.  I knew if I ever revealed the extent of my despair, they would overreact hideously, and for now, I just didn’t need that. If Sunday dinner was a lie, then it was indeed a magnificent one.  My parents expected nothing from me except my presence and it was wonderful, peaceful relief.

But those Sunday nights stood in stark relief to the rest of my week.  Work then home, work then home.  It was the same old routine, unbroken, five nights a week.  I knew at home all that awaited me was television, solitude and weed.  Finding this prospect unappealing, I began walking the length of Smith Street each night after work – a dicey proposition at best.  Long reputed as a dangerous night time locale, Smith Street was home to empty lots, failing retail fronts and the many unsavoury characters that spewed forth from the high rise government housing that surrounded the area.

Safely ensconced in my big jacket and beanie, I slowly ambled down the sidewalk, almost hoping that I would be accosted for money, attacked or violently stabbed to death by vagrants seeking cash or cigarettes.  As I walked, I would imagine the burning agony of an abdominal stab wound and the euphoric rush that accompanies blood loss.  If someone were to attack me, I was assured of feeling something.  Somehow, I had become so numb to the world around me that pain had become a preference.  I wanted it, badly, mentally challenging the universe to strike me down.  It didn’t matter how fucked up that was – at least I would feel.

Months passed and, as they say, fate protects fools; I proceeded home each night unmolested by everything except my thoughts.

Strangely, a wakeup call finally came - not from my troubling death wish – but something far more pedestrian – a revelation of truth.  Bravely discarding my customary disguise one Saturday afternoon, I ventured out to do my grocery shopping.  Plastic bags in hand, I stood patiently on the street corner waiting for the tram to arrive when I caught sight of a man that elicited both my sympathy and revulsion.

There he stood before me, unshaved and hair askew wearing rumpled clothes and sporting a look of hopelessness.  His eyes seemed empty, hollow, as if he had gazed into the depths of his own soul and found nothing but an empty abyss.

It took me a moment to realise that I was staring at my own reflection in a shop window.

The image was startling - that was how the rest of the world saw me – a pathetic stoner carrying a shopping bag full of Ritz crackers.  It was little wonder I was single – it was little wonder I was so miserable.

And there it was – in that split second of mundane activity I was closer to the truth.

I had been miserable, for a very long time.  I couldn’t even remember the last time I had laughed or experienced a moment of pure unadulterated joy.  Though my weekend pot smoking sessions with Mitch proved entertaining, they no longer brought the youthful sense of mischievousness they once did – it was simply what the two of us did as a matter of course.

Standing on that street corner, waiting for the tram, a window was briefly opened for me.  Peering through, I wondered if it was natural to be upset for so long.  I wondered if I was even capable of being happy once again. 

“What was wrong with me?”

“Was I broken?” 

“How long would this continue?”

“Had my addiction to weed brought me to this point?”

“Was weed the problem?”

“How do I make this stop?  It hurts so bad and I think I hate it!  I think I hate it! Make it stop!!!”

The voice inside my head was hysterical with questions. 

My male ego was wounded.  My father had conditioned me well, taught me to keep my emotions in check as they were bound to be a liability.  Despite these anachronistic values, this was still the role of a man, and it was an ideology that I saw reinforced by everything around me.  People, the media, other men – society had expectations of me.  Social norms that had to be adhered to lest I forfeit my hard earned masculinity.  Like a robot soldier, I had been programmed but it felt like these beliefs were choking me, impeding progress and blocking me from finding a solution to the pain I felt each day.  I was at war with myself, but something inside me knew that life didn’t have to be this way.  It didn’t have to be this hard.  I stood on the edge of a cliff, paralysed by indecision.

Standing at that tram stop that day, I decided that I wanted to be in control again.  I would have to surrender my ego.  I would have to admit my weakness.  But it was okay, after all, I reasoned, nothing could make me feel much worse.

Straightening my rumpled shirt, I stepped up to the cliff edge, closed my eyes and jumped.

***

The hallowed halls of Narcotics Anonymous were old and decrepit.   Located in the backstreets of Collingwood, the meeting took place in an ancient community hall; its walls adorned with handwritten notes seeking housemates and lost cats.  I entered the building with trepidation – not knowing what to expect.  My very presence there counted me among the broken.  It was an admission of guilt.  I was addicted to drugs – it might as well have been written on my face in big letters.  I wasn’t yet certain if too much weed was the sole cause of my turmoil, but it seemed as good a place as any to start.

Moving as quietly as possible I sat down as far away from the front as possible, fearful of being called upon to ‘share my story’ in some public display of self-loathing.  It seemed self-indulgent – I was already here.  Surely my presence was confirmation enough of my pathetic life.

Slowly the room filled, and the meeting began with various members sharing dreadful tales of addiction that had robbed them of jobs, families, money and health.  I listened quietly, uncomfortable with how much I could relate to these terrible stories. 

“I hate them – I fucking hate them” I thought as I watched these broken toys offer their sorry monologues. 

These were people for whom life had truly sucked.  Their stuttering lamentations painted vivid pictures of break ups and meltdowns, children forgotten and rent left unpaid.  As the minutes turned into hours, I began to realise that their loss was incalculable.  Compared to them, I was small time, merely addicted to weed and thoughts of death.  They were a vision of a possible future, one likely to manifest if I didn’t resolve to make some changes.  I hated them because I understood them.  Like a mirror, they reflected my loneliness, my sense of failure, my lack of control.  I hated them because they reminded me of myself.

“Bet you never thought you’d end up here” came a whisper from beside me as a young man with a shaved head sat down to my left.

“I’m Benny” he said extending his hand.

“Don’t get too many people dressed like you here” he remarked, eyeing the collared shirt I had worn to work that day.

“Yeah well…I live a double life you see”

“I hear that – I used to be an investment banker” he replied, subtly making light of his low key attire.

Benny looked only a few years older than me, but his face told a different story. 

Whispering in the back row, he explained how he had ruined a successful corporate career with his addiction to crack.  He had lost it all – his wealth, his woman and incidentally, his hair.  Now here he was, in a community hall, dressed in threadbare tracksuit pants talking to me.

He explained that every day staying clean was an immense challenge – the temptation was overwhelming, almost pathological, and foremost on his mind every second of every day.  I nodded in silent understanding – realising finally that only addicts can understand addiction.  I didn’t have much to say, so I let him speak, all the while contemplating how difficult it would be to set weed aside.

“You don’t have to go cold turkey – just start small – thirty days”

Reaching into his pocket, he fumbled for his keys and produced a colourful keyring bearing the Narcotics Anonymous logo and the number “100” emblazoned in gold lettering.  It was a reward, a token bestowed by other members for staying clean for one hundred days.  Each milestone was rewarded with a new keyring, the first of which acknowledged thirty days clean.

As Benny dangled the cheap plastic artefact before me, I was suddenly filled with desire.  An urge to rise above my depressing routine and try something different.  There was very little to lose – after all – I could always go back to smoking weed if I wanted.  And just like that, I decided that I would stay clean for thirty days.  How hard could it be?  I promised myself to try harder than my hardest.  I would be thirty days a champion.  Besides – I wanted that fucking keychain!

The next few weeks would prove impossible.  During the day, I was irritable, having nothing to look forward to after a harrowing day at work.  I wondered how I had coped with stress before I smoked weed.  What did people do with themselves?  I spent my evenings alone watching TV and eating cereal.  Pretty soon, I started to get headaches.  Cold sweats and shivering soon followed.  These episodes of physical discomfort were brief, but entirely unexpected.

Somehow I was convinced that the shakes were reserved for users of harder drugs, but I was soon advised otherwise by other members of Narcotics Anonymous who seemed well versed in the symptoms I could expect.  I continued to attend their meetings, mostly listening and reassured that I wasn’t alone.

What I needed was a distraction – something to take my mind off this excruciating quest.  It seemed so ridiculous that the path to self-improvement seemed so fraught with pain and frustration.

Serendipitously, the universe provided.  An all-expenses paid interstate work conference.  Rarely had my workplace paid such handsome dividends.  I would be able to occupy a full week in a picturesque Gold Coast resort, immersed in boring seminars and long winded speeches faceless higher ups.  I nervously packed my bags and left for the airport a man on a mission.  I no longer cared about staying clean – the true meaning of my quest had revealed itself – I needed to know that I could control myself.

My week away provided ample diversions with mandatory work related activities during the day followed by nightly ‘functions’ which usually involved copious amounts of alcohol.  Never much of a drinker, I was never intoxicated but thoroughly entertained by the horde of worker bees set loose near an open bar.  The results were scandalous, violent and even sleazy. 

In spite of the idyllic setting, the days did not pass quickly and I found myself frequently lost in quiet contemplation of the immense challenge before me.  Months of isolationist behaviour on my part meant that I had forged no meaningful friendships with my workmates.  I hadn’t bothered to connect with them – too busy brooding under cover of beanie and headphones.  For a moment, I wondered how I must have appeared to them.  What sort of impression had I made?  Probably just some angry jerk.

There was of course one obstacle of more immediate concern for me – two predatory Italian women who had flown in from our office in Rome.  They spoke little English and seemed intent upon luring me back to their hotel room.  Their incessant and aggressive sexual advances were at first flattering, consisting of choice phrases and lewd gestures.  But as the conference progressed, the two girls began utilising more blatant methods; attempting to forcibly undress me in a crowded auditorium and stalking me back to my hotel room.  Despite learning a not unimpressive amount of Italian in under three days, I, ever the coward, employed a tactic that had often worked so well – I hid.  First, under a blanket in an empty golf cart, then later, under a table.

The most rewarding day of the conference was the last one.  With no events scheduled, we were all permitted a free day to enjoy the resort and its facilities.  I used the time to catch up with an old friend.  Coincidentally, Craig and his family lived close by, and he generously offered to show me some of the local sights.  Driving through the narrow streets of the Gold Coast in his tiny car, Craig updated me on his new life so far.  He seemed different – relaxed even.  Living with his family had clearly done wonders for his mental state.  After days being chased by those terrifying women, I was elated to be in the company of a friend.  We stopped for lunch and coffee, ogling the local surf lads and swapping gossip.  We even paid a visit to one of Queensland’s premiere tourist attractions – the Giant Pineapple.

I wanted so badly to tell him about everything that had been happening – about the weed, about narcotics anonymous, about staying clean – but I couldn’t.  There I was, sat atop a giant fibreglass pineapple, and I still couldn’t open up.  I don’t know why.  I guess I was just scared.

Our brief visit ended with big hugs and backslaps a plenty as several tour buses whisked us back to Melbourne Airport where Mitch and Jesse would be waiting to retrieve me.

A few hours later, I walked across the airport car park, now underneath the glum Melbourne sky, regaling puritanical Jesse with tales of debauchery.  He listened intently, wide eyed with disbelief.  My thirty clean would soon be over.  My self-control regained, and with it, the tiniest sliver of self-respect.