When God is your dealer...

Here's how to say no.

I daydream a lot during recovery meetings. Not because I’m not interested or too good fo — okay, okay... sometimes, I’m just bored. But isn’t that fair? Recovery programs are about as cash-strapped as they come. They don’t have the resources to tailor treatment to each individual. And certainly, every one of us in the meeting room is at a different stage of their recovery. Sadly, some of us even circle back and start again.

So, meetings generally take a one-size-fits all approach. There isn’t much in the way of trauma counselling. But there’s always helpful advice and insight for the raw recruit: Cultivate a hobby, steer clear of ‘slippery people',’ find a wholesome podcast, and when a craving comes a-creeping, try splashing your face with ice-cold water.

When I started my journey, this was critical information. I needed this. How many times was I waking up in the night, holding my breath with all my might? I had just hit a loaded pipe in my dreams. Even after I woke up, I kept holding my breath, bitterly. I figured at least I’d get some kind of rush from oxygen deprivation.

Reading a book — Gabor Maté — really did help.

Even more crucially, those early meetings helped me understand that I wasn’t the only one experiencing these terrible feelings. Recovery loves company. The thing is, meetings are pretty much mired in the newbie stage. There isn’t much for people who are ready to embark on an odyssey into their own mind — and to try to figure out, what it is, exactly, that broke you.

So yeah, I still attend meetings. These days, it’s mostly for the company. And yes, I daydream a lot. And here’s the dark, shameful fantasy that most often comes to mind:

What if, in the middle of a meeting, everyone’s favorite drug descended from the heavens, on golden platters, borne by angels? There may even be a choral accompaniment. I know, I know… this is a most perverse and insensitive dream. I imagine many attendees would flee the room in a panic. But surely, someone — maybe even someone who’s been clean forever — would partake of this gift from the heavens.

And here’s the saddest confession: I’d probably be one of those people. In fact, I suspect I’d clean up after whomever left left anything on their plate. Why let good crack go to waste?

So, how far, exactly, am I in my recovery? Not far at all, according to this abiding daydream.

But wait, if that heavenly bounty should descend on us during a recovery meeting, I think I might have a solution. There’s a little trick you learn early at meetings. It’s called, ‘Playing the tape forward.’ It involves moving past the payoff and imagining how the rest of the situation would likely play out. Because, you know, reality doesn’t end the moment you take that first hit.

So, let’s imagine I smoke all the crack God so kindly delivers. Then I scrape together whatever leftovers I can find on other people’s plates. Next, I’ll be on my hands and knees cobbling together whatever errant stones may have fallen on the floor. Along the way, I’ll smoke lint, anonymous grime from people’s shoes and the calcified specks of someone’s ancient apple fritter. If there’s anyone left in the room, they’re staring in horror and I’m asking them what the fuck they’re looking at.

Finally, when I’ve smoked the entire floor clean, I’ll have no choice but to make a call for more. In this case, I guess the only way to reach the heavenly dealer would be through prayer.

“God,” I implore. “It’s me, De Quincy. Can I get some more? I’m dying down here.”

Silence.

Next, I launch the most obnoxious campaign you could imagine to get the Divine Dealer’s attention. One desperate prayer after another. I make sure His phone never stops ringing.

“Come on, God. I’ll do anything.”

And maybe — just maybe —

“FIVE MINUTES,” chimes the voice of God.

Hallelujah!

I set my watch for exactly five minutes. When it passes, and with no sign of the divine dope, I make another call.

“Where are you, God?” I pray.

Nothing.

“God,” I call back. “It’s been six minutes, 13 seconds. This is very unprofessional!"

Silence.

“God damnit!” I pray. “You said five minutes EIGHT minutes ago. What the f—

And suddenly, I hear the chorus. Horns too. A great golden platter bearing dope descends from the stained ceiling tiles above.

Love you, God.

Then I dig right in.

Of course, as any addict knows, there’s never enough. Soon enough, I scrape up the last bit of dope, conduct yet another floor sweep, scrape my pipe until it breaks in two — and make another call to the top floor.

But this time He isn’t picking up. I guess he’s pretty grossed out. The meeting room is now empty, save for me. And I’ve locked the door, because I’m more than a little paranoid, causing me to sweat profusely. In fact, I had to take off all my clothes. My fingers are burnt and black. I wonder how I’m going to explain all this to mom.

Whatever. I keep calling and calling: “God, are you there? It’s me, De Quincy. IT’S AN EMERGENCY. PLEASE PICK UP.”

I guess he’s well and truly done with me. Well, fuck him. Surely, there’s another place where a flat-broke junkie living with his mom could score.

Aha!

It’s time to call downstairs.

“Hello Hell? It’s me, De Quincy.”

And hell’s minions are only too happy to oblige. The only catch is that they don’t deliver. I’d have to go there.

So, let’s play this tape a little further. I’m sinking into a rotten easy chair in a pocket of hell, picking off bedbugs, and browsing a vintage edition of Penthouse. Is that Loni Anderson?

Suddenly, the door swings open. It’s the Devil himself.

“Got any more dope,” I ask.

“That depends,” he says, unbuttoning his jeans.

I think we’ve played the tape forward enough, don’t you? When I awaken from my reverie, I look around the room – all these eager faces, so earnest in their recovery – and I thank God for not being my dealer. And I thank everyone in the room for teaching me the very simple technique of ‘Playing the tape forward.’

Granted, it probably won’t start raining heavenly dope in the middle of a recovery meeting. But I find ‘playing the tape forward’ incredibly useful at every stage of my recovery — and in all kinds of situations.

Once, while walking home, I passed one of those shady bars I used to be so fond of. They were playing, ‘Dancing in the moonlight’ on the old jukebox. And I got to wondering, what if I stopped in? I’d surely befriend someone. Then it wouldn’t be long before I was introduced to the dealer-in-residence. But what then? I’d smoke dope in the alley, run out of money in a hurry and have to sneak past my mother, who’s curled up like a dragon at the front door waiting for me to come home.

What do I tell the people who love me?

I ask myself that question whenever I find myself in the Valley of Temptation. Over time, I’ve even allowed myself to be one of those people.