Hooked on Phonics — Welcome to the Palindrome
By Sean O’Brien
“Even when the condition is critical, the living is miserable, your position is pivotal” — Talib Kweli
“I’ve seen a lot of things in five years, I struggle just to hold back the tears, but every fucking where I go, I see the pathos that I know will spell the termination of us all… Do it” — Bad Religion
I have a reading problem. I’m not sure how it began, but for a guy like me, it’s a big problem. It hasn’t always been this way. I attended good Catholic schools and universities. Each institution was staffed with quality teachers and professors. They taught me to read and write quite well, whether a priest, a nun, or a layperson—English, Math, Social Studies, Sciences, History, Religion, Humanities, and the Arts. I excelled in all of them. I was always a good student, got good grades, and was academically inclined. Even today, I still consider myself an academic of sorts.
While I’m out, say clothes shopping, I’ll gravitate towards the men’s accessories section and select an overly eccentric and flamboyant ascot. Wrapping it around my neck, I’ll tie it a smidgen looser than most, so it billows out like an enormous cloud of smoke choking me, bordering on obnoxious. As I drift off into a paisley daydream, I imagine myself delivering a brilliant dissertation to graduate students on the peculiar political and historical similarities between the literary works of James Joyce and Leo Tolstoy. I cite clever quotes to support my thesis statement.
“If History is the nightmare from which we are trying to awaken,” (J.J.) I pause and pace to the other side of the packed auditorium and place my dominant hand on the underside of my slightly stubbled and chiseled chin. Gazing skyward into weighty anticipation, I continue, “Then what is the cause of historical events?” (L.T.) Silence and a child-like wonder kidnaps the audience as students salivate on my every syllable.
“Power,” I declare, “Power, my friends.”
The room erupts. Some students pat me on the back, women fawn, fan themselves, and blush, while others offer me their praise. “Bravo, Dr. O’Brien, bravo,” and “You’ve done it again, sir, spectacular!” As I accept my standing ovation, accolades, and cheers, I ascend on the stairs, gliding towards the exit. Floating, like Muhammad Ali.
From the corner of my lazy eye, I spot the Dean of the English department furiously clapping and nodding in approval. He looks like a drunken bobblehead; I think to myself, pull yourself together, have some decorum for crying out loud.
My imagination implodes back into reality as I bump into a display and continue to saunter up to the register like I’m Jackie O. I glance at the ascot’s price. $17.99, hmm, that’s cheap, I thought, must be on sale. Feeling a bit over-enthused and briefly allowing myself to again disassociate from reality, I decided to share my thought with a fellow consumer.
“17.99 for this ascot, what a bargain,” I say to her as I shove the price tag in her face. She reacts a little surprised like I’m some sort of lunatic for trying to exchange some harmless small talk. She returns my conviviality with a frown.
The slouching cashier behind the register straightens up at my presence. He clears his throat and, in a condescending manner, snidely corrects me.
“Sir, this ascot is $71.99, not $17.99. It’s a Brooks Brother.”
“Your face is a Brooks Brother,” I tell him.
He raises an eyebrow and asks, “what does that even mean?”
“You know what it means, buddy, just ring it up.”
And gift wrap it ya little bitch I mumble under my breath.
My character defects and shortcomings are often glaring, heavily outweighing my positive assets. I’m often unbalanced. However, I am intelligent, well-read, street smart, and somewhat well-traveled. I can float seamlessly in and out of various social circles and levels of conversations with ease. People tend to like me and are attracted to me. It’s been the bane of my existence. Call it the ole Irish charm or call it my New Yorker attitude. Either way, I sell fast talk to slow thinkers. Unfortunately, I’m also a drug addict, an alcoholic, and now, a convicted felon. But a sober one, at least.
Over the years, I’ve been told by several medical professionals, therapists, and addiction counselors the same thing, “Drug addicts are often brilliant people, practically geniuses,” they’d say. Well, I haven’t found one Mensa meeting in any of the rehabs or prisons I’ve been to, and there’s been a handful. Oddly enough, though, they’ve all offered G.E.D. Programs, remedial classes, and mutual aid fellowships.
I don’t gamble, but I’d bet my reading problem started in elementary school. It must have. Again, I could read and write quite well, especially for my age. Shit, I was hooked on phonics by the age of eight.
My third-grade teacher was a nun named Sister Mary. She and the other nuns in our school belonged to the passionate order of Catholic nuns. They prayed the Holy Rosary incessantly. Each class, Sister Mary would pass out these little index cards. Each index card displayed three words. This was a reading exercise we were expected to perform during class. When your turn came, you were to stand and read the three words out loud. Stand straight, shoulders back, chin up, eyes forward, and project were Sister Mary’s instructions.
One afternoon I received an index card that included these three words –
read — this — café
When my turn came, I reluctantly rose.
“Do I have to, Sister? I’m not feeling that well today,” I told her. I was telling her the truth; I wasn’t feeling well. My vision was blurry, my eyes hurt, and my head throbbed. I had told ma that morning, but that shit didn’t fly in our household. In our household, you never got to stay home from school. It was unheard of.
“Well, Mr. O’Brien, no, you don’t have to, but you will earn an F,” was her stolid response. That was better than “only if you don’t want to burn in hell,” which was one of her signature responses. Begrudgingly, I complied. I blinked with effort a few times, trying to unblur my vision. As I tried to focus on each word on the card, the letters appeared to be dancing with each other, playing musical chairs. I couldn’t concentrate. I looked up from the card and glanced around the room. All eyes were on me. Shit. Panic set in and attacked me like a demon.
“Read the words on the card Mr. O’Br-“
“dear shit face,” I blurted out. The room exploded with laughter, all but Sister Mary. She was livid. She glared at me as my classmates hooted and hollered. I was sent directly to the principal’s office.
After a series of verbal admonishments from our principal, I received a handful of thwacks from the dreaded apparatus: a severely warped wooden ruler. After my physical beating and verbal assault of “You disrespectful, disgusting and dirty little heathen. You’ll act properly in this school. You’ll repent,” I was sent to speak with our schools’ counselor, Ms. Powers. I liked talking to Ms. Powers. She was soft-spoken, smelled good, and was pretty. However, I didn’t do much talking. I learned at an early age that it is best to keep your mouth shut in situations like these. After a series of prodding questions, none of which included my thoughts or feelings on child abuse, I was handed off to our school’s reading specialist, Mr. Frey.
Mr. Frey had an unspoken reputation amongst the students. Most of us didn’t like or trust him. I was no different. Although I was still too young to fully understand sex and sexuality, I knew something about him was off. We all knew. He was creepy. He certainly shouldn’t have been working with kids.
It was 1982, and Mr. Frey dressed as it was 1972. Not the cool bell-bottom jeans and platform shoe style 70’s, but the sleazy gang bang style 70’s. He wore tight polyester pants, which showcased his balls and penis, with fake satin shirts half-buttoned, displaying his pectoral muscles and wiggly chest hairs. He had a swarthy complexion, and his face was littered with acne. It looked as if he repeatedly stabbed his face with a dinner fork. Taut black curls hugged his oblong-shaped head. Prickly black stubble masked his mug in a shadowy beard. His lengthy and untamed nose hairs repelled and co-mingled with his thin and wispy mustache. It looked as if a malnourished caterpillar had died on his upper lip. If Mr. Frey had been viewed from afar, say from outer space, he would have easily been mistaken for a life-size Velcro strip. Furthermore, he wore these enormous prescription glasses that I’m certain created such phrases as “he looks like a child molester” and “that serial killer look.” Regardless of the season, he was always sweaty, always glistening. He looked like a coked-out 70’s porn star. And there I was, sitting alone with him in a tiny room. Terrific.
After a series of reading tests and inappropriate hand placements by Mr. Frey, I was again passed off. This time to an outside private specialist. Thankfully one with no secret porno ambitions. I was quickly diagnosed with a form of dyslexia. Ma was advised not to worry and was informed that this could be corrected in a short time with some effort and cooperation on my part. However, the specialist warned that relapse was always possible with recovery from any disorder. That my dyslexia could possibly return later in life, and much worse. More concerning to him, however, was my poor eyesight.
“You can’t squint your way through life, young man,” he said.
Sure I can, I thought. This guy doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. My squinting abilities are spectacular. What a hack.
My mother, however, agreed with the man and I was yet again handed off. This time to an optometrist, Dr. O’Rourke, who diagnosed me near-sighted and prescribed me glasses. I felt like they were running a train on me at this point.
My new glasses made me look older and more respectable. The perfect cover, I thought. Being my reading disorder was now addressed, I felt one of my more effective weapons in my arsenal of chicanery was now neutralized. The onus of responsibility to search for another subtle but equally disconcerting substitute was on me; I was forced to. I decided on implementing an insidious literary device. Instead of using my first and last name, Sean O’Brien, I’d simplify and start using and signing all my schoolwork with my initials, S.O.B.
It wasn’t long before I was sent back to the principal’s office with an initialed grade A paper.
“Please explain this, Mr. O’Brien,” Principal Solonski demanded as her shaky hand and fingers pointed at my new signature.
“I don’t understand, Principal Solonski,” I replied, “those are my initials.”
She leaned in over my shoulder with terrible coffee and cigarette breath, eyes crossed and squinted, “your initials?”
“Yes, ma’am, S.O.B., Sean O’Brien. What did you think it stood for?”
The year was 1985. The crack-cocaine epidemic in New York had exploded. Streets, neighborhoods, and households were riddled with drugs, violence, and insanity. Playgrounds and schoolyards were littered with empty crack vials. Pools of blood gathered in broken and sunken concrete. Large enough to swim in. The murder rate was at an all-time high. Crime skyrocketed. The atmosphere infected our souls.
Dad was a decorated Vietnam veteran. He was a Staff Sergeant in the 125th Infantry Division of the United States Army. He did one tour in Vietnam. He was awarded four Bronze medals and one Purple Heart. As with many returning Vietnam Veterans, dad had difficulty adjusting to civilian life after the war. He didn’t bring the Vietnam war home with him; he did, however, bring another personal battle home. He suffered from untreated post-traumatic stress disorder as well as the unknown effects of commonly used chemicals such as Agent Orange. He also suffered from increasing episodes of severe flashbacks. The Veterans Administration wasn’t much help. In the ’80s, they really didn’t know or understand what PTSD was or how to treat it. And they certainly didn’t cop to the idea that agent Orange was even used. With no help available, eventually, dad started self-medicating with alcohol. When the booze stopped working, he turned to cocaine. When cocaine stopped working, he turned to crack cocaine. A Voltairean tragedy of sorts, without the comedy. To survive the Vietnam war with real bullets, bayonets, and bombs, only to come home and die to the enemy within.
Ma did the best she could. She did an excellent job raising my two sisters, Jill, Allison, and me. Even today, as I sit here and write these stories, with all the bad decisions I’ve made and the things I carry, I’m in awe of her. Her strength, perseverance, and grit. Thank you, ma. It couldn’t have been easy raising a family of three while dealing with a husband who spiraled down into a hell of which she had no understanding. All on a teacher’s salary. Thankfully, all three of us kids were gifted and did well, to varying degrees. However, due to the madness, confusion, loneliness, and sadness living and growing inside me, my first year of high school was a blood-curdling nightmare.
I was accepted to and attended Iona Preparatory school in New Rochelle. It was one of the top Catholic preparatory schools in New York. Unfortunately, this coincided with dad being in the throes of his rapacious and problematic addiction issues. He had lost his job working for the city of Yonkers. To support his addiction, he began his pursuit of criminal activity. He stole city-owned property, a construction tractor to be specific, and was caught. It was big news in our area. His face and name were plastered all over the local news and made the front page of our local newspaper, the Herald Statesman. I wandered off any path I ambled upon. I became lost. And I soon enjoyed being lost. I embraced it.
It was difficult for me to make any friends at school. My old friends from grade school had jumped ship. I was now the new kid at school, the frosh who got fucked with anyway, whose father smoked crack, was a thief, and who was now in county jail awaiting a possible prison sentence. I was no longer the kid who was decent at basketball, a budding boxer, a creative writer, intelligent, and witty whose dad was a decorated Vietnam veteran war hero, had a good city job, and a loving Irish Catholic family. Any identity I was forming shattered. I felt as if I was left with less than I had when I was born into this cold world. So I isolated and withdrew as a means of surviving and coping. I fought and drank. I fucked you up if you popped off, and if I didn’t, you fucked me up. I didn’t care, but someone was getting fucked up. I don’t recall too many adults reaching out to me either, offering help, guidance, or just a fucking ear to listen to my hurt, anger, and loss. I expected more from them. My anger, hurt, and loss grew at a rapid pace like a fifth-grader going through puberty.
My sophomore year, I transferred to a school closer to home and more familiar, Sacred Heart. My home Parish. I already knew a lot of students and teachers there. It wasn’t a top prep school like Iona, but it was still a decent Catholic school where I could get a good education. It held its own. So did I. We fit well together.
I continued to do well academically. However, I still found myself being sent to detention, the principal’s office, and now, the Dean of Discipline, Father Fogler’s office. I was fond of Father Fogler. In addition to his Dean duties, he taught Chemistry, Theology, Philosophy and coached the debate team. Father Fogler was a man of God and a man of reason, science, and logic. I liked that. I could trust that.
I entered the Dean’s office as my recent offense had been being accused of chewing gum and being disrespectful to Sister Molly.
“Take a seat, Mr. O’Brien,” Dean Fogler instructed. “How are things at home?”
“Terrible,” I replied.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, son. I’ll continue to pray for you and your family. However, the hardships you endure at home are not a permission statement for you to not follow the rules and be disrespectful to staff. Sister Molly reports not only were you chewing gum in class again, but you also acted disrespectfully. Is that correct?”
“With all due respect,” I started but was quickly interrupted.
“That’s an unnecessary phrase, son; I’d encourage you to not use it. It cheapens your argument.”
I shook my head in agreement and continued, “No, that is not accurate, Dean.”
“Please explain.”
“Yes, I was chewing gum, again, as you so diligently pointed out. However, I did not act disrespectfully. I wouldn’t do that, sir. Ma would kill me, you know that. After being confronted about chewing gum, Sister Molly asked if I had brought a piece of gum for everyone, and I had. She tried to call my bluff and ordered me to hand them out. I got up, went into my backpack, and retrieved thirty pieces of chewing gum, which I began to hand out. She didn’t like that and got cross with me.”
“Well, Mr. O’Brien, that was very altruistic of you. However, I simply cannot have one student breaking the rules, much less thirty.”
“I understand that sir,” I replied. “However, I did not open that door; Sister Molly did. Chewing gum is against the rules. I was chewing gum. I broke the rules. I get that. However, I was not disrespectful towards sister Molly. Lying and not following a direct order is disrespectful. I did not lie to her or disregard her direct order. Therefore, I can’t see how I was disrespectful, sir.”
Dean Fogler slowly shook his bulbous head. That thing must have weighed 80 pounds. “Touché, well done, son. A sound argument.” He sat down in his mahogany chair and crossed his legs. “Okay, this is what we’ll do. Life is about choices, Mr. O’Brien, so I’ll give you a choice. For your atonement, you can either do 30 days in detention or simply report to my office tomorrow at 3pm.”
“What’s at 3pm,” I asked.
“I want you to join the debate team. My debate team.”
“Bribery? Is that ethical, Dean?”
“I teach debate, son, not ethics.”
As much as I like Dean Fogler, his tactics, and the formal contest of debating another person, I didn’t see myself following through with all of the debate team’s demands. I still preferred dreaming to doing. So, to avoid further trouble, I chose the thirty days detention. Dean Fogler was sure to tell me how disappointed in me he was. A theme that would follow me for decades. However, detention turned out to be propitious as it was there that I discovered my love for the bass guitar.
The detention proctor was our history teacher, Mr. Stellar. Mr. Stellar was a musician. He was a bassist. Thirty minutes into our detention, Mr. Stellar rose from his desk of ungraded homework assignments and walked over to his closet. He quietly removed a Fender precision bass guitar from its hard-shell case, returned to his desk, and sat back down. He began running through fingering exercises. I was mesmerized. He played it so fluidly, so effortlessly. He made it sing, and even though it wasn’t connected to an amplifier, I could hear every note. I loved the deep full sound it produced. I loved its presentation. It was bigger, thicker, and longer than the guitar. It looked like a man’s instrument. And it only had four strings. Less is more. I liked that.
I decided to take a risk and raised my hand. Mr. Stellar smiled, still playing the bass, and said, “No questions, Mr. O’Brien.”
I started waving my hand at him as if I was drowning. I felt I was. He stopped playing and reminded the class, “Folks, this in detention. There is no talking and no questions. And if anyone needs to use the bathroom, well, you’re out of luck. You should have gone earlier.” Then he went back to practicing.
Screw it, I thought and blurted out, “I just have one question, Mr. Stellar. It’s about the bass.”
He stopped playing and looked up. “The bass? Okay, Mr. O’Brien, shoot.”
“Is the bass easier to play than the guitar,” I asked.
He smiled as he had been asked this question a thousand times before. “Well, son, no, it is not easier to play than the guitar. It is different, though. Now, it might be a bit easier to pick up and learn than the guitar is; however, I guarantee it is much more difficult to master than the guitar is. It’s far easier to entertain people with a guitar than a bass. Any nitwit can pick up a guitar and learn to sing and play some folk song, impress some girls. But try entertaining an entire audience with just a bass. You have to be pretty good to do that. You have to know how to treat her, how to make her sing. You have to find her sweet spots.”
“That makes perfect sense,” I agreed and nodded.
Mr. Stellar went back to practicing, and I went back to dreaming. From that moment on, I decided I would be a bassist and not just a person who plays bass. There’s a difference. And it’s enormous.
Later into that school year, a handful of us who were budding musicians were allowed to get together during our lunch period to play music under the tutelage of Mr. Stellar. This was where the misfits fit in. It was where I spent a lot of my time honing my craft. It became my foundation and my refuge.
I wasn’t angry with God. I had an excellent religious and spiritual education and understood God’s perfect will and permissible will. And that we humans primarily operated in His permissible will. That life was going to be hell and an ongoing shitshow. But I had music and writing to distract me, so bring it, I thought.
By the next year, I was playing in original bands. These bands toured, recorded, and released records. By the time I was 17, I had released two records and was touring. It was the whole late 80’s, early 90’s CBGB New York Hardcore scene. Sure it was violent and chaotic, but it was also exciting and inspirational. It was family, and it was mine.
I graduated high school in 1991. I managed to win the Music and English awards. Instead of going into college directly, I continued touring and recording full time. It wasn’t uncommon for me to be playing in four bands at a time. It consumed me, and me it.
Yep, sex, drugs, rock n’ roll, and reading. I did it all. Dig it. I played shows at V.F.W. halls and bowling alleys in front of seven people, three of them being my two sisters and my first girlfriend, Dierdre. I played at record stores and iconic clubs like CBGB, Emo’s, the Fillmore, the Underworld, and the Mean Fiddler. I played open-air festivals in front of thousands and thousands of deranged fans, an ocean of people. It was incredible. I’ve watched Slayer, Iron Maiden, Venom, from the side of the stage play to 100,000 people. Mind-blowing. I stood on stage while friends and acquaintances bands like Sick of it All, Agnostic Front, Cro-Mags, Murphy’s Law, Dropkick Murphys, The Mahones, and Madball rocked 30,000–60,000 people routinely. I realized some boyhood and teenage rock star fantasies for sure. Life was amazing, but it also had its dark side. So did I.
The downside to touring is its arduous demands. It’s not all sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll. In fact, that’s maybe only ten percent of it. On my first real European tour, I had brought an economy pack of condoms. 30 trojans. I used two of them. And by used, I mean I gave those two condoms to two bandmates who used them, not me. If I wanted to operate in reality and practice safe sex, I should have bought a box of rubber gloves for myself.
Touring is mostly loading, unloading, sound-checking, waiting, arguing, fighting with, and searching for bandmates who mysteriously disappear for loading and unloading. It’s dealing with evasive and unscrupulous promoters, lost hours on endless roads, and expansive skies traveling from show to show and country to country. Being a habit creature, I quickly fell into familiar and comfortable patterns. I prayed the rosary and meditated. I sipped Irish whiskey from an initialed flask. I smoked a lot of weed and ate a lot of psychedelic mushrooms. And I read for hours, for days, for decades. I enjoyed reading books geographically similar to the area I was playing in or traveling through. I was my own location scout for my reading interests and exploration. I read, I rocked, I smoked, and I drank.
As my music career progressed, so did my palette for literature and my appetite for self-sabotage and destruction. I graduated slowly at first, from social drinking and using, to misuse and abuse. Then suddenly becoming chemically dependent or addicted.
As the years pressed on, as they always will, my addictions did as well. I was plagued with bout after bout of drunken debauchery, disappointment, and incomprehensible demoralization. My addictions had eventually consumed me and had taken everything: family, friends, music, girlfriends, God, professions, vocations, soul, spirit, and shelter. By that point, my soul had been homeless for years, and I soon found myself physically homeless at the age of 33. And not the couch surfing at different friends’ houses or sleeping with different women for housing type of homelessness, but the subway grate, cardboard box, elevator shaft type of homelessness. I get to the bottom of every bottle and every situation. Being homeless and addicted in N.Y.C. was not easy, especially in the winter. It was hell, which I knew well. I was a low-bottom type of addict. But I did have priorities, and getting high was number one, two, and three.
After numerous attempts at getting and staying sober, I finally achieved a quality sobriety. I slowly started to rebuild my life and repair my relationships. I returned to school and pursued lofty academic and educational goals. I achieved and maintained a near-perfect grade point average (not that that matters, it doesn’t). I became a member of the Dean’s list and the Phi Theta Kappa Honor Society. I worked as a teacher’s assistant for children with special needs and as a youth advocate and program director for at-risk, inner-city kids. Life was slowly, then suddenly great again.
I started a new band, Vigilant Hotel, with an old friend, Nicky Squids. I rejoined Maximum Penalty, a New York Hardcore band with whom I used to play before my addictions took that from me. Maximum Penalty played a bunch of festivals throughout the States and Europe. Vigilant Hotel saw some minor successes and major label interest. Indeed life was great, but great is the enemy of better, and I wanted better. That’s what addicts want: better whatever, and more of it.
In late 2009, I reconnected with an old friend through social media. She lived in Austin, TX. She and I had met over a decade earlier when a punk band I was playing in, Electic Frankenstein, had come through Austin on tour. We had played the original Emo’s on Red River. Every city has its quintessential rock club: New York had CBGB, and Austin had Emo’s. She and I had stayed in touch through the years; however, distance played its part.
In February of 2010, I flew down to Austin to visit her. After that week, she and I decided to start long distant dating. One month she’d fly up to New York and stay the weekend. The following month I’d fly down to Austin and do the same. That went on for a while until I decided to leave New York and move to Austin. Give love a shot. The New York I grew up in, the New York I knew, had changed. It wasn’t the New York I knew anymore, and that was okay. People change, places change, and things change. Either hold on and get dragged or let go and move on. I let go and moved on. On to Austin. I didn’t know many people in Austin when I moved there, but that didn’t matter; I was a New Yorker, and I could get along with anyone, anywhere.
Our relationship quickly progressed, and we decided to get married. We got married on October 29, 2011. In classic Irish Catholic fashion, I knocked her up that night, as our son, Killian, was born nine months later, July 27, 2012. A perfect little boy. I went out and bought us a house in Lockhart, a rural town about 20 minutes south of Austin proper and the ideal place to raise a boy. I formed a new Irish punk drinking band in which I played bagpipes, called Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead. I was attending Texas State pursuing a Creative Writing degree. I began working in recovery as a Peer Recovery Support Specialist. I climbed the company ladder there and got promotion after promotion and raise after raise until I secured the Director of Recovery Support Services and Director of Training Services position. Second only to the Clinical Directors. Life was better, and it didn’t seem to be slowing down.
Somewhere in there, I suffered a terrible motorcycle accident because, well, I don’t ride motorcycles. I’m from New York. I ride subways. I drove my step-fathers’ in-laws Harley off a culvert in Hammond, Louisiana. The bike and I dropped about ten feet. The motorcycle was rugged; it suffered only minor damages. I was not. I shattered my left clavicle and broke all my ribs on my left side. I was briefly hospitalized and shortly after had reconstructive surgery on my clavicle. The doctors replaced my shattered clavicle with an eight-inch metal rod secured safely with seven screws. I was placed on a heavy dose of narcotic medication. Painkillers.
Although I explained to the doctors I was in recovery and did not want to take the pills, they explained that I wouldn’t heal properly if I didn’t. If I didn’t take medicine, I most certainly wouldn’t heal properly and would incur further issues down the line. That made sense, sort of. So, against my better judgment and with the guidance of my sponsor, I took them. However, I also knew that common sense and rationale meant nothing when dealing with the insanity of addiction. I tried working a program of recovery through it. I worked with my sponsor, went to meetings, worked the steps, and took commitments. I had a lot to lose and knew it. I did not want to lose my son, stepdaughter, wife, family, friends, band, career, house, and sobriety. You see, my body and mind cannot tell the difference between narcotics for pain and narcotics for pleasure. I don’t have that ability. Soon, my once arrested drug addiction was rereleased. It had been locked away for a while, so when it hit the streets, it was hungry and pissed. However, my once arrested reading problem would also resurface unbeknownst to me.
Welcome to the Palindrome. Name no one man. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde had returned. Two men enter one man leave. For the first few months, I remained level headed. I managed to keep my struggles under the radar. However, within six months, it was as if I was speeding out of control, going 432 miles per hour in the world’s fastest racecar. I didn’t sleep, and I didn’t wake. From noon to noon, I drank and used. I’d pop Vicodens by the handful, often against my will. When my pills ran out, I’d steal uppers, downers, and in-betweens from anyone I could. Despicable, yes, I know. That person is me, part of me, for better or worse. Until death due me part. My shadow self.
I couldn’t sleep one night (big surprise. It’s almost impossible to sleep on five Adderall’s). I was reading the same line in a novel over and over and over. It was maddening. I couldn’t stop it. My one good eye was apathetic, and my other eye, lazy and blurred, retired. I was stuck in Molasses Swamp. Drowning. I started searching my house for sleeping pills. I knew she had to have some somewhere. I needed something to take the edge off. I needed something to help me sleep. I needed something to help me wake. Something. After a short search, I came across some Xanax in a lockbox which I quickly infiltrated. I took three. I fell into a deep sleep. I suspect this event is what triggered my long-dormant reading disorder. Mother’s little fucking helper. Motherfucker.
My then-wife didn’t have substance abuse issues like mine (perhaps substance misuse issues, but that’s another Oprah altogether). She can more or less safely take controlled substances as prescribed. I cannot. Despite all the prior evidence I had, all the personal, professional experience and knowledge I possessed, I still duped myself into believing maybe, just maybe, I, too, could take narcotics safely.
Delusion.
You see, any normal person prescribed a bottle of Vicoden will look at the directions, and they’ll read: “Take one pill every four to six hours as needed for pain. Take on a full stomach with eight ounces of water.”
I’ll receive the identical prescription and directions, and they’ll read: Take four to six pills every hour as needed for pleasure. Take on an empty stomach with a fifth of whiskey.”
A reading problem. Not a drug problem.
The whole thing was sad. It went from magic to tragic. I dragged her, my stepdaughter, and my son through hell. I destroyed all I loved. I tried time and time again to get and stay sober, to no avail. I went to meetings, I went to rehab, nothing. All the lies, masks, and facades I created along the way weighed me down. They trapped me and kept me sick. They did their job. I did not. It was like I was pregnant. Nine months into my return to chaotic substance misuse, I gave birth to an eviler me. A darker shadow self. A demon. One I had never met before, one I had yet to know intimately. I moved quickly from prescription drugs to illicit and dirty street drugs. I fell back into a street lifestyle and rolled with some dangerous and unsavory people. I committed some crimes to support my drug addiction, pay my car note, pay my mortgage, pay my sons’ daycare, and other bills I was responsible for. I was out of my mind. Nothing I did was cool. I robbed everyone I loved of the person they loved.
On October 7, 2017, I was arrested and charged with four aggravated robberies. Four first-degree felonies. One first-degree felony in Texas carries a five-to-99-year sentence. I was looking at twenty to three hundred and ninety-six years imprisonment. No joke. The media and the cops dubbed me the “Roman Candle Robber” as I was accused of robbing places and individuals with a lit roman candle and a hammer. It became a highly publicized case due to my creative and novel approach to robbery. However, before those charges, I had only two lowest-class misdemeanors out of Jersey City, N.J., in 2007. That didn’t matter to the D.A. It was an election year, and she was running for office. She needed someone to hang. Why not the Irish guy from New York?
I had no idea that the law was looking for me. Six agencies were looking for me. They had a warrant for my arrest. Apparently, someone had called crime-stoppers and dropped a dime on me, giving my name as an anonymous tip. Although I still consider that person, whoever they are, a rat, I do thank God they did what they did. That person probably saved my life, saved my son’s dad’s life. I could have ended up killing somebody, or someone could have killed me. So I’m grateful, but I’m also clear they’re a rat. Yeah, you, you’re a rat. Remember that. The entire ordeal was a personal hell I’d be clawing my way out of for years and probably decades to come. “Don’t mess with Texas.” I messed with Texas. Hard.
Wanting to stop using, needing to stop drinking and using, and not having the ability to do so is one of the cruelest forms of torture I have ever experienced. The bottom level of hell. Even today, with a handful of years sober (2022), it’s still hell. But as an old friend of mine, Biker John, once told me, “Sean, when you’re going through hell, don’t stop, just keep going.” So I keep going.
I’m not sober because I’m locked up either there’s plenty of hooch and other drugs floating around this dump. And it will probably get worse as I will most likely have to do some prison time. Right now, they’re offering me 45 years aggravated to run concurrently. That means I would have to do 22.5 years to come up for parole. I’ve lost just about everything. However, I have just enough to start over with my new sobriety date. I’ll reconnect, re-establish and rebuild relationships with those I love and those who genuinely love me. And I’ll make new ones. My God is a God of restoration. He guarantees it.
My sister, Allison, and some other friends have sent me books as I’m reading again. The librarian here is my bestie. There have been a handful of books that have touched me deeply. They’ve made me cry, laugh, think, meditate, explore and hope. They’re doing their job. And so am I.
Recently, our cell block had a mass shakedown. When shakedowns like this happen, they’re mainly looking for drugs, hooch, and weapons. Still, they’ll settle for any type of contraband like extra bedding, extra clothes, and extra books. Yeah, books. I know, ridiculous. The rule is you’re only allowed to have two books at any time, regardless if they’re yours, or the libraries, or even a friend who loaned them to you. I read between two and five books at a time and had over a dozen books in my bunk area at the time. So when the law came storming in for a shakedown, I had to think quickly and make some decisions. I had a handful of books that I just couldn’t, wouldn’t part with willingly, so I hid them in my mattress, or what Travis County Sheriff’s office calls a mattress. It’s subjective, I guess.
The most humiliating part of that shakedown was not the fact that I had to stand there naked for nearly two hours in a cold cement room full of sixty other men, most of whom were out of shape, but the fact that I had to hide my books in a mattress.
Upon returning to the cellblock, a handful of us were detained. We were individually questioned about the contraband found in our respective cells and bunk areas. That evening, the Sergeant on duty was a tall and lanky Irish fella, Sergeant McDonald. He liked me. Probably because I was Irish, not a troublemaker, but also wouldn’t take shit from anyone. I’d catch a corner with you if I had to but took every precaution to stay out of trouble. Sarge looked out for me. He’d give me extra trays at chow, let me help clean up around the dorm, and gave me extra yard time, but he still had a job to do. He could have written me a case and sent me to lockdown over those books, blemishing my immaculate jail behavior record. Something that silly could jam me up significantly down the line, in prison. As I was escorted in handcuffs into a tiny drab-colored room, I was seated at a table that had six books laid out. It was the handful of books I had hidden in my mattress, the six books I could not, I would not go without. Sarge stood there, menacingly tall, shaking his oblong shaven head in disappointment, a movement I was used to. Slowly, a mischievous, boyish grin started on his face. Almost laughing, he looks at me and asks, “O’Brien, what the fuck, you stupid Irish degenerate fuck! You’re willing to risk going to lockdown over some books? What the hell is your problem?”
I sighed and glanced back at him with shame in my eye and guilt in my gut. Guilt says I did it; shame says I am it.
I blinked my eyes hard, tried to focus, and blurted out, “Sarge, I have a reading problem.”
“If I can be an example of getting sober, I can be an example of starting over.” — Macklemore
