Guest Author - Susan Hubenthal
LETTERS
Written April 1, 1998
Where do I start? I mean, I never thought of myself as a writer. To be
honest, if you are reading this in the form of a book, well, let’s just say that would be one of my few accomplishments over the last several years.
I have been tormented over the last five years with an addiction. As I
will later reveal to you, addiction is all of the clichés you hear on TV during
the debates with all the experts arguing over clinical definitions and
progressions. One thing, however, that I feel has not been addressed
strongly enough is, “What is the face of addiction?” You see, I always
thought that the face of an addict was easily recognizable. You know, long,
greasy hair, no or badly decayed teeth, perhaps a Led Zeppelin T-shirt.
This book is about realizing that the “face of addiction” has no definite
image. It is me. An over weight, liar, thief, and betrayer. It’s the guy whom I
met in my second stint in the rehab that has a job counseling mentally
retarded people and is charged with delivering their medication. I used to
really believe that I was always strong enough to stay one step ahead of
becoming an addict.
During my years of drug use and abuse I used to lie to everyone and tell
them that I was a graduate student or that I played college football, or that I
was a tour manager for a heavy metal band that toured the country. I also
used to throw around big words such as “innocuous”, or “morose”,
“quandary”, “quagmire” and my recent favorite, “catharsis.” That word
“catharsis”, however, has honestly begun to actually mean something
special to me other than being able to interject it into a fabricated
conversation with someone to show them my “face of denial”—the face that
has ruled my entire life and tortured my mother, the very person to whom I
have decided to dedicate this book.
I used to think that pain was purely physical and, as such, could be
controlled. How, do you ask? Well, that’s easy—-Morphine, Demerol,
Percocet, Vicodin, Darvocet, Tylenol #4 and my least favorite Tylenol #3.
That was my last resort because it never actually got me high. You see, I
have ingested or had injected into my body, all of the above medications.
And each and every one of them treated my pain to some degree. However,
the majority of the time, the pain was not physical. Hey, listen, there is no
way to sugar coat it; at times, a back injury which I sustained in college and
bouts with the gout have left me wincing like a child, completely overcome
with the omnipresence of pain.
But, you see, that became (pardon the cliché) “a crutch to lean on” and
boy did I do a lot of leaning. When deciding to actually write about what I
hope will turn into this book, I search for a notebook on which to write, and
a pen. In doing so, I stumbled across a folder that contained ever-present
reminders of my addiction. Inside were treatment slips from various clinics
and hospitals in the city of Las Vegas. They all tell a similar tale. Aram
Karakashian, 27 year-old male, suffering from sciatica nerve pain and/or
gout. And the diagnosis was, usually, always the same: take medication and
follow up with so and so.
I got to where I had it down to a science—what to say, how to perfect a
hobbled walk. I even learned the medical jargon that I thought gave me a
definite edge over the doctor’s prescription pad. You see, that’s what it was
all about—not the pain, not the fact that I knew I was never going to pay the
bill for being treated. It was only about one word, preferably Percocet being
prescribed illegibly on a blank pad.
As I have stated, the word “catharsis” has taken on a new meaning as of
late. I honestly hope that this book can perhaps help me finally come to
terms with what I am, an addict. It’s not about pills, however, it’s about
cocaine and heroin and crack and staring at the face of death in various
seedy motel rooms located in various states. It’s about the chase.
The End
