Everything’s Ruined— Pt. 3

I arrive home and the FBI and DEA agents were playing pool on my pool table

(Part 1 is here. Final chapter but not the end)

My roommate, let’s call him Dick, I had met Dick while living in my first apartment building. He was another DD who lived in the same complex. We worked together to better serve the northern SFV. Between all the college kids he knew and the substances I had access to we were a great team. There was just one problem, Dick was an asshole. Don’t get me wrong, he was very polite to me, but he treated his clients like shit. He would try to scam them if he could. He was all about making money of it while it was a way of life for myself.

Everything was fine at first. Then Nick got a real job at an internet porn site, tech support of course. While he was working there, he met a dude named Bob. He was in the same biz except he had the capital to buy in bulk. At first dick would be a middleman between Bob and I. Then he got lazy and had me meet Bob myself.

That was the end of Dicks side job.

I had stolen all his business. It was never my plan it just happened. I was always around, I treated people with respect, and my shit was da bomb. It would infuriate him when his friends called asking for me. Then Bob gave me a better deal because I was doing so good. When Dick figured out, I was getting a better deal he was pissed, but he couldn’t do a thing about it.

Ah yes, on top again. I was a drug dealer still, but I was licensed. I got my certification for being a pharmacy tech. Which was like a pedophile running a day care. Dumb decision #one million three hundred eighty two thousand… Now I needed a job. I was called in to interview at Save-On in Valencia. The pharmacist loved me. I was to start as a tech at 10.50 an hour. I had a shit eating grin on my face until he gave me the address of the drug testing facility. I ran to the head shop to buy some detoxifiers but there is no diluting my urine. I was the only person in that labs history to test positive for all 7 drugs tested for. I was hired at another pharmacy as an ancillary for 8.00 per hour. Of course, that was just supplemental to my real income.

I had moved up in the game. I only had to see about 3 people a day and was still making about a grand a week, tax free of course. I also had the backing of a major organization that handled any delinquent payments or loss recovery. I was only an associate because I wasn’t their ethnicity, but I was still very grateful to my syndicate and was very honored by their loyalty.

My house wasn’t what a 21 year old’s house in LA should look like.

3,000 sq ft, pool, spa, pool table, close to valley college. I had the master bedroom, of course. All I had was a bed, dresser and a safe. The house was originally lived in by my neighbor’s boyfriend. He was an apprentice plumber who worked 14 hours a day, and made less than I did. He was happy in his lifestyle and a bit self-righteous. I liked him. Then there was a girl who moved in the same time I did. She was an office assistant who had a tough time making it to work on time. She was frequently fired and then would get a job a week later, being the hot chick, she was/is. She also battled with demons. Many a night we would lie in bed together in somnolence. It was nothing sexual, had we not been roommates it might have been different, but it was a platonic relationship. The other roommate was the last to move in. She was really something. She seemed the most normal externally, but she was a freak. She would go to this club on Thursday and give/get all these numbers. Then all weekend long…. She is probably going to read this so I’ll just say that she was always looking for love. My advice is don’t fuck your female roommate. I never did because I saw consequences through other people. It doesn’t work.

Girlfriend number 3 please sign in.

She’s 6 feet tall, blond hair, blue eyes. She’s a student/waitress/alcoholic from Sylmar California and she can kick your ass in 2 seconds flat. Thank you.

She was hot and totally sprung on me. As many times as I tried to break up with her it never lasted more than 2 weeks. The sex was too damn good. I had this huge house with a huge room. She hinted all the time that she would love to move in but there was no way in hell. This girl had a voice like Fran Dresher from the valley.

I was mentally sound. I had a real job. I had sobered up to some extent. My personal relationships were great. Life was peachy. Or was it?

Working at a retail pharmacy may pay well, but it is probably the most stressful job you could have. It’s like this; Almost everyone that is picking up drugs falls into 3 main categories 1) sick 2) old 3) insane. Usually it was a combination of all three. All your customers have problems. Imagine you go to the doctor because you are sick. You call into work sick. You call your doctor and are informed you can’t be seen until next week. When you mention you are vomiting & shitting blood, they reluctantly tell you to come in. You sit in the waiting room for 2 hours before you are called into a private waiting room for 1 hour. The doctor finally comes in sticks a stethoscope to your chest and writes you a prescription. You take this chicken scratch to the pharmacy and are told it will be ready in one hour. When you come back in an hour the person behind the counter tells you that this drug is not covered by your insurance. You may pay $200 for 10 pills or go back to your doctor so he may write you a rx for a less effective drug. You are pissed. I am behind the counter making 1/2 of everyone else you have spoken with today and you are screaming at me. I understand why you are mad, but don’t yell at me. It’s your employer who chooses your benefits. It was SO stressful. I’ve seen chairs thrown, people sitting in front of the pharmacy entrance, people demanding to speak with the district manager. These Pharmicist primidona made 40 an hour. Did they help? No. It was Hella stressful, and behind you have an arsenal of products designed to make your day more tolerable. Do you try them?

Then I met her.

She worked the photo dept. She was the exact opposite of my current girlfriend. She was educated, funny, cultured, and interested. We both liked The Who, getting obliterated, and lived 5 minutes apart. I was sprung instantly. I dumped Blondie and tried not to look back. I dove into girlfriend 4 with reckless abandon like Mick Foley Jumping off the top of the cage. Life was sweet. Could this be that love thing that people talked about? It got serious really quick. One night she said to me she didn’t care what I did or if I was unfaithful, just tell the truth. I told her I would never do that to her. Of course, I eventually did.

Here’s where it gets good. After 2 years of steering clear of Ketamine, I found someone who could get vials for 25 bucks. My first order was 6 and I just went to town. I was completely fucked up that week. I still went to work, purple faced, red eyes, talking like I just had a stroke. All the syringes lying around didn’t help. One day I had shot a cc in my ass and went back out. This was more than usual but I wasn’t concerned. I go back to my register and this lady comes up and tells me her last name. I turn around to get it, and the next thing I know I’m on the other side of the pharmacy, my coworker grabbed me by my arms and I came to. she asked if I was alright and I ran to the bathroom and ate a sugar cube, which snaps you back immediately. I ran home and told them something didn’t agree with my stomach.

The next time I visited my ketamine hookup I prepared a vial into powder at his house. This guy was the lowest of the low. He was tweaked and on K. He had an apartment with his wife and her kid. This skinhead wife of his was 8 months pregnant and doing all the drugs we were. His father also lived with them. He had been recently released from prison after 20 yrs for committing a hate crime. I didn’t even ask. We would do lines and then the kid would play with the straw and the plate. It was depraved. After leaving the apartment I needed another rail to forget what I had just seen. The next thing I know I’m on the freeway doing about 25. Oh shit, I got to get off this thing. I exited the next exit and was stopped at the light off the freeway. I was going to pull into the 7–11 on the right as soon as this light changes… Is that a cop car behind us? I remember the lights coming on then my memory begins again handcuffed in the back of a cop car sitting next to my friend. My car was being towed away on a flatbed and I was going to jail for the first time.

The police were puzzled. How could someone be so disassociated one minute and then fine the next. I blamed my cold medicine. When we get to the station we are put in holding cells. They take our picture on the federal facial imaging recorder and then give me a cup to pee in.

“I chose blood”

I request a blood test. I know the law. They drive me to the hospital down the way. The cop that arrested me was actually a nice guy, He was being cool with me so I was cool with him. He told me that he wished everyone he arrested was as polite as me.

“Hey, you got your job I have mine.” I told him.

We get there and they were like you can’t test for drugs in blood. We drove back and I was given the cup again. In retrospect I shouldn’t have but I did. While Ketamine is untraceable in blood, the 240ml bottle of Hycodan I drank yesterday would have. I peed. I was then taken into the sleeping room. Where there were 10 degenerates passed out. This one Greg “the hammer” Valentine looking mofo was bleeding profusely from the forehead when they brought him in. He lied down and passed out immediately. I have never heard anyone snore so loud. Everyone was snoring. In a concrete box. It was easily the most maddening evening of my life. We were released on our own recognizance. We walked to the tow yard and got my car. The 10 vials in an Arrowhead water bottle were still there. We went home and got high. The next day at work my girlfriend asked me if I did anything interesting last night. When I told her she thought I was joking.

This began the legal battle. OK I probably could have fought it and won. I had been playing with the trigger for 4 years at that point and nothing had ever happened. It was 6,000 for a lawyer and about 3,000 to face the music.

California penal code AB 1000

Those found to be in possession of controlled narcotics that fall below federal guidelines may be eligible for a diversion program….

Basically, I take a class, go to some anonymous meetings, and pick up some trash on the side of freeway and it gets wiped off your record. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

On June 5 2001 as I got dressed to go to court, I had my first major panic attack. I mean, everyone freaks out but I started freaking out and then I started getting frantic. Then I was paralyzed with fear and terror. Then I woke up 5 minutes later with blood coming out of my orifices (nose, mouth, ears, eyes, no shit.) I tried to clean myself up but I was still shaking. I grabbed my court paper as I went to leave the house and I noticed the date I was ordered to appear. July 5th. July? JULY!! I had another month! I celebrated by snorting a huge line of ketamine/cocaine mixture (something I called KO)and taking a hand full of Ativan. Yep, that’s how fucked up I was back then. It was too much damn pressure.

People call, they call again, they call back.

People you would never talk to under normal circumstances. They want something and you are the only person that can get it. They know you can. They are throwing money at you. The only thing that will make them go away is getting it for them. So you call your friend who calls there friend and you get it for them. The more you buy the more you make, in theory. If you sell it all. Key word is “sell” not do yourself but “sell.” They take it and call you 2 hours later to tell you that it didn’t really work. They think they should get more for free. You tell them to eat shit and die. They start getting crazy. Now you have a reason to lock the door, carry a weapon, look over your shoulder. The level I was at I didn’t want these people to know where I lived, where my mom lived, what my real name was, or nothing. You had a cell phone in your name for your friends and a new prepaid phone every 3 months for business. In the meanwhile, I had a full time job. People recognizing me, asking for favors, wanting to meet me when I had a break. I treated my pharmacy job with respect and I was proud to do it. I had a responsibility to my job, to my family, to my girlfriend, to my clients, and to myself. To maintain where I lived, what I drove, whose name was on my jeans, the variety, the quantity and the quality. I could never be a man. I had to be THE man. Everybody knew of me, some had met me, but only a handful really knew me. How could you know me when I don’t even know myself? If you are making 50 grand a year and spending 55 grand, you are not making money. I was climbing higher up on a ladder that led to nothing, it was just farther you could fall. up some trash in the ghetto and its wiped clean.

I eventually did appear in court plead guilty and started through the system. I was on probation for 3 years but I was under the impression that I didn’t have to report to them if I was going to pay instead of Caltrans work. I went to these drunk driving classes. I went really, really high. These people all had received DUI. I had a DWI (driving while intoxicated). They all were drunks. I was a drug addict. If I could go down to the store and picked my poison I would have been fucked.

Meanwhile the madness continued in my personal life. I had accomplished my goal of trying every substance known to man. I especially loved Hycodan cough syrup. I was eating about 20 vicodin a day and was developing a buzzing in my ears. Amphetimines in the morning, tranquilizers at night. People were getting worried. I remember my window being shattered and a head popping in. It was my roommate. She had been banging at my door for an hour and there was no answer. She thought I had overdosed. I assured her I was fine as I fell back to sleep on my pillow with glass all over it.

The person who was worried most was my girlfriend. She was tired of me walking around semi coherent Ozzy style. She made an ultimatum; it was her or the drugs. I told her it was her but I kept doing the drugs. She would find a plate or syringe or cough syrup bottle. I would say I was sorry and even cry if necessary, but I didn’t slow down at all. Just like my parents taught me that it was ok to lie. I didn’t think there was anything wrong in what I was doing.

After 20 drunk driving classes it was finally my last one. About an hour before the end of class my roommate started paging me. Paging 911 123 187. Something was not ok but I never imagined that it could possibly be THAT.

(This was written recently as I glossed over it when it was originally written)

I was at the last class I had to take for my DWI I had received 9 months before. My pager vibrated. It was the number to my house, my roommate Courtney’s pager code and 911 for emergency. I received another text a few moments later with the code 187 added. That’s not good. I called after the class was dismissed.

“What’s up?”

“The FBI and DEA are here. They say if you’re not home in 5 minutes they’re kicking in the door to your room. You need to come home NOW!”

“… I’m on my way.”

I got in my silver grandpa car and headed towards home. Running was never an option. I knew what I did had risks. I had been waiting for this day for over 5 years and it was finally here. Weed was decriminalized for personal use, but I had pounds at home. As I parked down the street, I thought that this would be the last car I would get to drive for a few years. I was finally going to jail.

I’ll never forget that scene. I opened my front door to find an assortment of FBI and DEA agents playing pool on my pool table. Most had on their bulletproof vests and holstered guns. The rest were wearing wind breakers with the name of their agency. They look over at me and one asks, “Who are you?”

“I’m Hogan Torah..”

“You’re Hogan Torah!?!”

I opened up my rooms for the feds to search and then was taken into the back yard by the lead investigator. I was shaking like a leaf and probably ghost white. He got me a glass of water.

“Here’s the deal. We’ve been following around Bobby for the past 2 months. He came here a lot. Earlier today he sold me 8,000 ecstasy tablets. What we need to know is if you are giving it or getting it?”

“Getting it.”

“Where does he get it from?”

“Don’t know.”

“Why don’t you know? You seem to be his right-hand man. Which is why we were so surprised when you walked in. We have been raiding houses all day filled with hard core gang members with guns and priors for violent crimes. People jumping out windows, hiding in closets, fake ID’s. We were not expecting Hogan to be a 20 year old kid who looks like a Jewish Christian Slater. So you’re telling me Bobby never told you where he was going when he was picking up?”

“Correct.”

“Why didn’t he tell you?”

“I never wanted to know because I knew this day would come…”

I’m not a snitch.

I have never dropped a dime on anyone. Bobby had told me a few days ago about this deal. I advised him to be cautious as they were paying something absurd like 16 bucks a pill or something. At the time if you were buying a boat (boat = 1,000 pills) 6 bucks a pill was the average price. 16 a pill for 8,000 was illogical. I even asked him if he was sure this guy wasn’t a cop. And now the guy he told me about was in my back yard with a badge on his tactical vest asking questions.

Bobby was the equivalent of a made guy. He was a full member of the most powerful Asian gang in Los Angeles. Bobby was smart enough to be anything he wanted to be. He came from a very well to do family who owned donut shops all over LA, but Bobby didn’t want to get up at 3am to make donuts, he enjoyed being a gangster.

As I was asked other questions, I didn’t know the answer to I saw them pull out the 3 freezer bags full of weed I had in my closet. They pulled out my briefcase filled with Rx bottles of almost every drug imaginable that I had been collecting over the past 5 years. I knew I was going to jail. I accepted my fate.

They let my two roommates who were home come see me. I felt so bad. They were innocent college girls who hadn’t even been pulled over for speeding. They weren’t built for this. They said when they heard a knock on the door and saw a guy who sort of looked like one of my friends. When she opened it they all rushed in and pushed her down. The other roommate had just gotten out of the shower with a towel on when she almost walked into the shotgun pointed at her head.

The girls were crying. There was nothing I could say so we just held each other. They knew I was going away for a long time… Or was I?

I could tell by the agents’ body language something was happening. They were passing around a piece of paper shaking their heads laughing. Great, what did they find now.

“Is this yours?” I looked at the piece of paper. It looked familiar. I imagine a smile crept across my face as I realized what it was.

“Yes. That is absolutely my medical marijuana prescription.”

Prop 215 had passed a year ago. As soon as I could find a doctor who would I got a prescription for weed. I never went to a dispensary but got it for this exact purpose. As the agents smirked at each other I got this feeling I may not be going to jail without having to flip (agree to give someone else up).

Sometime later I heard the garbage disposal running for a prolonged period. While the rest of the agents finished their pool game the lead investigator took me aside.

“Here’s the thing Hogan, we are the feds. The amount of each drug you have is under the federal limit. We aren’t going to arrest you tonight. Normally in cases when the amount of drugs is beneath our threshold we call the local cops and they arrest you. However, you have been cooperative, we believe you answered our questions honestly, your roommates told us about the kind of person you are. Those girls love you to death you know. You don’t belong in this life. You need to knock off this bullshit and get yourself back in school. You’re not a criminal. So while we’re not calling the police tonight, we are going to turn over what we have and let them deal with it so do expect them to contact you at some point. Don’t leave town for a few weeks in case we have some more questions. We will be watching you. Keep your nose clean.” And they left.

I touched myself to make sure I was really still at home. The girls grabbed me around the neck and buried their heads in my chest and we all had an amazing 5-minute cry. I later looked at the garbage disposal and noticed a bunch of stems. I think they put all the drugs in the disposal.

To recap. I lost my job, my livelihood, and my girlfriend in less than 24 hours. Then it got REALLY bad.

I had been raped. I was alone. I was useless.

My pharmacy tech license was worthless. All my hard work meant nothing. My crew was locked up. I had $200 the feds didn’t find. Everywhere I went I was followed and monitored. When I took my car in for service the mechanic asked if I knew there was a transmitter on my car. No one wanted anything to do with me. The people I had helped make rich turned their backs on me. I spent my last bit of change on dope and moved back in with my mother. The estate my family owned was sold after my father died. The home I moved back into was a 3 bedroom townhouse in Chatsworth my mother was freaking out because she finally had to face the reality. Her son was a criminal, junkie, lying, degenerate.

You can’t go from a $100 dollar a day 5 substance habit to cold turkey. I drank all my mom’s booze and ate the rest of my dead relatives’ meds and tried to forget about where I was.

I lived the Hollywood lifestyle. I used to treat several friends to steak dinner. Now I was stealing my mother’s change to try to hook up on Colombus st. I wanted to die but was too much of a pussy to do it all at once. I was killing myself a little every day. I would sit around all day using any substance available to take me away from this pain. My mom would come home and find me in various states of incoherency and start going nuts, crying and screaming. Brochures for rehab centers started appearing on the kitchen table.

One day I had found a $100 in a book. (Jews are weird like this, that whole holocaust thing.) I promptly bought 2 vials of Ketamine. That night I couldn’t sleep on account of the huge amount of narcotics in my body. At 5 in the morning I said,” Hey wouldn’t it be cool if I climbed to the top of a rock in Chatsworth park and shot up as the sun rose? The answer turned out to be no but off I went. Climbing up was no problem. I arrived as the sky started getting light. Once I was there, I did my dose. It was as much fun as you can have sitting on a rock with the person you hate most in your life, yourself.

It’s starting to get warm (it was August) and I decided to head home before my Mom and Sister woke up. I jumped of the rock and realized I was still completely fucked up. I stumbled around for an hour, falling down all over the place, developing the most hellacious cuts and bruises you can imagine. I’m lucky I didn’t fall of a cliff. After about an hour of wandering aimlessly I finally got my bearings. I could see where I needed to go, but I couldn’t get there for the life of me. I took every path, climbed over every rock, tried all directions but I couldn’t get to where I needed to be. After about 4 hours of being able to see my house, but not get there. I became frantic. It was about 100 outside. I was completely dehydrated and malnourished. I had been stuck on these fucking rocks for 5 hours and I had made no progress. I sat down and started crying.

Then I heard a voice. I was told, “Get up you fucking pussy. You aren’t getting out of this so easy. You better get off these rocks or I’m throwing us off.” The voice was me. Me with self-confidence. I was still Logan. No matter what happened recently, I was still the man. This was just another experience that if I managed to survive, would just make me that much stronger. I was already in pain. If I was going to die, I was going to die trying. I don’t know nor care how I got here, that is irrelevant. Fuck this rock, I’m out of here.

I walked to the lowest point of this elevated mass of rocks. Climbing was not an option; I was too weak and it was a sheer face. I saw a patch of dirt roughly 25 feet below. (uh huh) I remembered my training (hardcore backyard wrestling) and stepped off the rock angling my body towards my backside. I landed perfect. My feet hit and my legs collapsed absorbing some of the impact, my ass hit and I lied down with my head bouncing off the dirt, my back absorbing the rest. I was alive. I was not ok, but alive. The park trail was right in front of me. My road home.

I walked in my mother’s condo at about Noon.

They were relived I was alive but horrified at my appearance. That picture would be even cooler than me taking a shit. They asked what happened. I said I was depressed and went for a walk. My mother informed me I was going to Shady Acres tomorrow. It was either rehab or get the fuck out.

My mom and sis left for a while and I still had a half gram of Ketamine left. I did it all in one hellacious line. First, I watched some T.V. with my homeboy. We were chilling, talking, laughing, drinking and then after an hour I noticed that I was alone. I went to take a shower.

In the shower I was taken out of my body to speak with God and he told me that this experience that I was going through was just a test. My real life that I had been living before my dad died was being given back to me as soon as I opened the bathroom door. I turned off the water and felt the divine presence. I was ecstatic as I dried off. When I opened my bathroom door, I expected to have my real life that I was supposed to be living waiting there for me. Really. God told me himself.

I opened the bathroom door and everything looked the same. Everything was the same. I had really earlier almost died on top of some rocks, I was unemployed, the Feds were monitoring me, I had really lost my girl, everyone I loved was still dead. I am still 23 years old in my pajamas in my mom’s condo and now on top of that I was officially insane.

I screamed. Not just once. Not a scream I can even replicate under normal circumstances. A very few people have heard this scream, no one who has heard it will ever forget it. People who have heard this scream look at me different after experiencing this. This scream comes straight from my soul. Why did I scream this scream?

I had done it. My brain had broken.

I wasn’t coming down from this high. This time I was in a K-hole forever. Like that girl on FOX 11 news. I was not OK. I tried to call my mom too take me to the looney bin right then. Fortunately, I was too fucked up to work the phone. I broke into a neighbor’s house and stole her Valium (she eventually ODed, but that’s another story) I took a handful and went to sleep for a day.

I was woken up and put in the car. My mom was telling me what a wonderful place this rehab ctr was. I was going to get help and then start college again and then get a good job and pay her back from the money I had borrowed, and never need drugs again. I bailed out of her Chrysler Cirrus as soon as we were going less than 15. I was still all Valium out from the day before but at that time my mom weighed over 200lbs and couldn’t catch a cold.

I went to the closest safe place I knew. The Gallang residence. That’s when a Michelle saved my life….

If you think I am trying to prove how cool I am because of the shit I did, especially in this fucked up episode. You need to check your head. This was the worst part of my life. I can’t imagine it ever getting this bad again. My favorite word is redemption and I was determined to prove it.

I escaped the car and made it to my friend Michelle & Mellisa’s house (from this point on I can use names.) They took me in and let me mope for a day or two before they started whipping my ass into shape. They helped me write a resume, sober up, and feel happy again. It was purely platonic, but we helped each other a lot. My Mom knew where I was and was OK with it. I was 23 after all.

Finding a job is the hardest job of all. I was overqualified for all the little jo jobs out there. No one wants to hire you when they know you aren’t staying long. I was NOT going back to a pharmacy. I had a drug problem and I didn’t trust myself. I still don’t today. I’m better now but I would never want to tempt myself like that again.

Around this time, I started the drug offender classes. The first time I walked in the class I realized I knew about half the people. There was one guy especially who had used to come buy a lot who I would talk to. Timmy is 6'4" and just naturally strong. He’s all tatted up and just looks like trouble. Part of the program was mandatory drug testing and you had to go to one 12 step program meeting a week. I asked Timmy what AA program was in the area. He told me about this Narcotics Annon meeting in Pettit park. I checked it out with my friend Michelle.

I cannot even begin to explain how much those two hours a week changed my life. This meeting was led by a girl my age that I knew from way back when. She was a crazy mofo who never backed down from anything or anyone. About two-thirds of the people at the meeting were these kids from a group home. They had all been taken away from their parents for various offences of the law. If the parents can’t control them, they go to a group home. I thought my life was crazy. The stories that came out of these kids mouths were unbelievable, but truth is stranger than fiction. These kids had been through so much and they were all about 15. I had read the twelve steps before and thought it was a load of crap. What does god have to do with being sober. This group replaced the word God with “higher power.”

Okay, step one is to admit you are a drug addict, and your life is unmanageable. Yep, okay, I’m an addict and no longer a functional addict. Step 2 admit a higher power exists and can restore us to sanity. God? what the hell has he ever done for me? He’s the one who put me here. Screw God. Then I started thinking about it. All of it. Where I started, where I was now, where I was heading with all this. Hmmm… Ok I’ll believe for a second there is a higher power besides the court that can help me. Step 3 turning our lives over to this higher power. Alright god, I know it’s been a while and I’ve been kind of pissed since you took my father. So you are my higher power and I guess I’m asking for your help.

A funny thing then happened. It worked. Whenever I was about to fall off the wagon. I asked for the strength to resist and it worked. I can’t explain it really. I prayed and was given strength I never knew I had.

Step 4 is to make a fearless moral inventory of yourself. I thought back on everything. What were my faults? my compulsiveness and my drive to succeed in my definition of success. I had hurt some people, mostly in the form of broken hearts. What was just sex to me was more to some of these women (girls: give a guy your rules before he takes your panties off) I had disappointed my family. Scared people half to death that really cared by doing all this foolish stuff. I had been beaten, stabbed, had guns pulled, shot at, been jacked of tens of thousands of dollars, gotten friends involved because they just happened to be there. I had never wronged anyone else in the game so I had no one to hide from. I had lied to ones I loved and lost their trust. I had over 1 million dollars pass through my hands and where was I now? Sitting in a rec room in a park sitting around with a bunch of teenage druggies, listening, relating, and realizing that I was still alive and healthy. Thank God. I found my faith again through my struggles.

What it’s all about really is admitting you are wrong and that you need help. The drugs just weren’t working anymore. If I need to take drugs to be normal what’s the point? I had taken every drug I could and then again. It wasn’t fun anymore. I had seen too much shit. I had expanded my mind as far as it can go and at this point, I was just damaging it.

Damaged I was.

The quick-witted boy had transformed into a slow, slurring man that forgot what he was talking about in the middle of a sentence. The nitrous had damaged my nerves and muscle control at my extremities, I could only type with one finger. I still got scars related to my use, burns and stab wounds mostly. My right foot is completely flat because I broke it and was running around on it too much. I was damaged goods. I was broken. The only thing I could do about it was pray to god to keep me sober and try to exercise my mind.

I was dreading getting a job. Well, it was the looking part that bothered me. If there’s one thing I’m afraid of its rejection. Especially when it’s based on my appearance. Fortunately I had an inn at this sporting goods store that was opening. I was hired into the receiving dept. Now I helped to build this store, and it was hard work. I found it incredibly therapeutic. It was lifting and building and we worked as a team. I was making like 7 bucks an hour but it was somewhere to start. After a while the management realized my potential. After they fired everyone else in the receiving department for stealing and the supervisor left because his girly who worked in sporting goods done him wrong. I was made lead. I immediately hired 3 of my friends who I knew were more than capable of unloading trucks and putting tags on merchandise. It was good times. I was walking proud again.

I remained sober and finished my programs. My drug charge was dropped and my DWI was reduced to a misdemeanor. My mother was starting to trust me again. Her looks were no longer suspicious but proud. I gained weight and I could complete several sentences without slurring or going “Uhhh….” I continued to go to meetings even after it was no longer court ordered. People started commenting how much better I looked. Even though it was rarely discussed, everyone knew I was using previously. I would tell people about my life style change and they were mostly supportive. There are those that still remember me as a drugged-out hustler, but they can lick my ass. If you want to use the past to judge me, fine.

I realized that in order for people to disregard my past, I had to prove myself, to redeem myself, for my own redemption. Redemption. I love that word. I worked on it every day. I was the best person I could be from waking up until I slept. I did it for myself. I wasn’t just fronting if I ever told anyone I was feeling excellent.

However, there was one person I couldn’t show.

Martha. She was around for the worst. As stated in my previous journal, I thought this was the one. She didn’t give me another chance. She will still talk to me and I still drop her a note every then and again. She will never look at me like she used to. I’m not the crazy boy who accepted & loved her unconditionally, I was just that asshole that broke her heart. She didn’t ever believe a word I said. She gave me one instruction “don’t lie.” That was all I had to do, but it’s easier to say you went to a friend’s house than you were in a jacuzzi all night with 3 girls. But she knew, she just did. Nothing happened. I was faithful until I was dumped. Then when she came over 2 weeks later for the make-up she asked if I had slept with anyone else. Bad time for honesty. You dumped me. Sorry I’m not sitting around crying. Ever since I only speak the truth.

(2021 update. Jesus I was full of shit and being a butt hurt bitch. Again, I wrote this close two decades ago. Today Martha is head of the English department of University of California school)

I live my life as best as I can. I am not ashamed of anything I do. I don’t need to lie to impress people. I don’t ever want to lose a girl because I didn’t tell the truth. If I’m a slob or my dick is not thick enough, that’s cool. However, it works both ways. I need the truth and I can smell a lie a mile away. Lying to your lover is not okay.

And that’s the end of the story. I got married next but that’s a whole other story I may or may not tell. I did get into drugs later and got my old job back selling dope. That will be a story I tell. Thank you for reading my long ass story originally titled “Who am I” posted on my first website anotherlogan.com in 2004. All pictures taken by the author. All rights reserved.

(epilogue coming soon)