messenger

A Messenger in Rags

A couple of years ago, I got a message from above just in the nick of time. The weather was freezing that day, but I was determined to spend gift money on the after holiday sales. I spent it all and more, always having been good at excess.

I was heading for Starbucks and a hot cappuccino when I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk. He wore ragged clothes, was unshaven with deep, dark circles under his sad brown eyes. There were icicles on the hood of his dirty poncho. He held a cup of coins.

He returned my stare, then asked, "Don't I know you?"

Like moving through a time warp, I recalled his deep voice and dimples. It had been eight years ago and we had both been sick with tremors, nausea, diarrhea, and anxiety. Plus the feelings of ants crawling under your skin were all symptoms of withdrawal from addiction. It puts people on an even playing field, a respecter of no man or woman, garbage collector or physician.

"Donnie! It is so good to see you." I hugged him close, like I would one of my children.
He certainly seemed to have lost his way. We gathered up his belongings and headed for Starbucks. I ignored the stares yet could feel his shame. We found a quiet table. I ordered for both of us and watched his hand shake uncontrollably as he tried to drink the coffee. I steadied it with my own.

We talked as the memories flooded back, the nights at the center when we sat in pajamas at three in the morning, fighting the shakes, comparing our lives. There were a few of us that held each other while we cried, wiped up each others puke, and gave back rubs.
Donnie was a pharmacist that ran a local Methadone Clinic for heroin addicts. He was successful for five years and then one day he tried Methadone himself and was hooked like a fish on a poisoned line. He tried to doctor the books to cover his use. It worked for two years until the FDA caught on. I recalled the tears running down his face as he described the scene of his arrest. He was at home with wife, Sharon and their two small girls. TV cameras rolled as they shackled him in front of his family. He was guilty, but felt angry at the way it was handled.

I was at the Center because I had a chronic painful disease that had led me to physicians that dispensed pills, Vicodin, Codeine, Valium, Lorcet, the list goes on. It was easy to find physicians to prescribe them even though they were addictive. I worked in the medical field. I knew the dangers and ignored them. I didn't abuse the pills by doctor shopping, but as my tolerance grew, they didn't work as well. Then I started to wash them down with alcohol. That was when I knew I was in trouble. It was only a short time before I was drinking large amounts. When my husband discovered me drinking straight Jack Daniels at 6am, I was in a drug rehab center pronto.

Donnie and I became close because we checked in at the same time, suffered withdrawal together and had a lot in common. He was an avid reader of the classics and had a wicked sense of humor. As we became sober and alive again, we wrote poetry, studied the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and attended the same therapy groups. We both graduated with honors after 6 weeks and promised to stay in touch. I tried to call him several times without luck.

After reliving memories, I then asked about his current life. His wife had left him and taken the children. He had lost his pharmacist license and couldn't find a job. He owed back child support from another marriage and now he was homeless. Life was a bed at a shelter, working occasional construction jobs, and panhandling. Was he using? I didn't ask. I offered to take him home with me and to a 12 step meeting. He refused.

I did drop him off at a homeless shelter for the night, insisted on giving him a twenty, and he promised to meet me at an AA meeting the next day. I haven't heard or seen him since then. I wonder about the synchronicity of that "chance" meeting.
Sometimes God taps you on the shoulder; occasionally He hits you over the head. The day that I ran into Donnie, I had a glass of wine with a friend at lunch. Just one, I was never an alcoholic, I told myself. I also had a prescription for Valium in my purse. I had thought it will be okay, as long as I don't drink.

When you need a professional liar, just find a practicing addict. We excel at it. Then we feel the shame. The best part is your 12 step family always has time to listen. They applaud the most awful honesty, as long as it is truth, and then help you find your way home.

A Messenger in Rags

A couple of years ago, I got a message from above just in the nick of time. The weather was freezing that day, but I was determined to spend gift money on the after holiday sales. I spent it all and more, always having been good at excess.

I was heading for Starbucks and a hot cappuccino when I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk. He wore ragged clothes, was unshaven with deep, dark circles under his sad brown eyes. There were icicles on the hood of his dirty poncho. He held a cup of coins.

He returned my stare, then asked, "Don't I know you?"

Like moving through a time warp, I recalled his deep voice and dimples. It had been eight years ago and we had both been sick with tremors, nausea, diarrhea, and anxiety. Plus the feelings of ants crawling under your skin were all symptoms of withdrawal from addiction. It puts people on an even playing field, a respecter of no man or woman, garbage collector or physician.

"Donnie! It is so good to see you." I hugged him close, like I would one of my children.
He certainly seemed to have lost his way. We gathered up his belongings and headed for Starbucks. I ignored the stares yet could feel his shame. We found a quiet table. I ordered for both of us and watched his hand shake uncontrollably as he tried to drink the coffee. I steadied it with my own.

We talked as the memories flooded back, the nights at the center when we sat in pajamas at three in the morning, fighting the shakes, comparing our lives. There were a few of us that held each other while we cried, wiped up each others puke, and gave back rubs.
Donnie was a pharmacist that ran a local Methadone Clinic for heroin addicts. He was successful for five years and then one day he tried Methadone himself and was hooked like a fish on a poisoned line. He tried to doctor the books to cover his use. It worked for two years until the FDA caught on. I recalled the tears running down his face as he described the scene of his arrest. He was at home with wife, Sharon and their two small girls. TV cameras rolled as they shackled him in front of his family. He was guilty, but felt angry at the way it was handled.

I was at the Center because I had a chronic painful disease that had led me to physicians that dispensed pills, Vicodin, Codeine, Valium, Lorcet, the list goes on. It was easy to find physicians to prescribe them even though they were addictive. I worked in the medical field. I knew the dangers and ignored them. I didn't abuse the pills by doctor shopping, but as my tolerance grew, they didn't work as well. Then I started to wash them down with alcohol. That was when I knew I was in trouble. It was only a short time before I was drinking large amounts. When my husband discovered me drinking straight Jack Daniels at 6am, I was in a drug rehab center pronto.

Donnie and I became close because we checked in at the same time, suffered withdrawal together and had a lot in common. He was an avid reader of the classics and had a wicked sense of humor. As we became sober and alive again, we wrote poetry, studied the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and attended the same therapy groups. We both graduated with honors after 6 weeks and promised to stay in touch. I tried to call him several times without luck.

After reliving memories, I then asked about his current life. His wife had left him and taken the children. He had lost his pharmacist license and couldn't find a job. He owed back child support from another marriage and now he was homeless. Life was a bed at a shelter, working occasional construction jobs, and panhandling. Was he using? I didn't ask. I offered to take him home with me and to a 12 step meeting. He refused.

I did drop him off at a homeless shelter for the night, insisted on giving him a twenty, and he promised to meet me at an AA meeting the next day. I haven't heard or seen him since then. I wonder about the synchronicity of that "chance" meeting.
Sometimes God taps you on the shoulder; occasionally He hits you over the head. The day that I ran into Donnie, I had a glass of wine with a friend at lunch. Just one, I was never an alcoholic, I told myself. I also had a prescription for Valium in my purse. I had thought it will be okay, as long as I don't drink.

When you need a professional liar, just find a practicing addict. We excel at it. Then we feel the shame. The best part is your 12 step family always has time to listen. They applaud the most awful honesty, as long as it is truth, and then help you find your way home.

A Messenger in Rags

A couple of years ago, I got a message from above just in the nick of time. The weather was freezing that day, but I was determined to spend gift money on the after holiday sales. I spent it all and more, always having been good at excess.

I was heading for Starbucks and a hot cappuccino when I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk. He wore ragged clothes, was unshaven with deep, dark circles under his sad brown eyes. There were icicles on the hood of his dirty poncho. He held a cup of coins.

He returned my stare, then asked, "Don't I know you?"

Like moving through a time warp, I recalled his deep voice and dimples. It had been eight years ago and we had both been sick with tremors, nausea, diarrhea, and anxiety. Plus the feelings of ants crawling under your skin were all symptoms of withdrawal from addiction. It puts people on an even playing field, a respecter of no man or woman, garbage collector or physician.

"Donnie! It is so good to see you." I hugged him close, like I would one of my children.
He certainly seemed to have lost his way. We gathered up his belongings and headed for Starbucks. I ignored the stares yet could feel his shame. We found a quiet table. I ordered for both of us and watched his hand shake uncontrollably as he tried to drink the coffee. I steadied it with my own.

We talked as the memories flooded back, the nights at the center when we sat in pajamas at three in the morning, fighting the shakes, comparing our lives. There were a few of us that held each other while we cried, wiped up each others puke, and gave back rubs.
Donnie was a pharmacist that ran a local Methadone Clinic for heroin addicts. He was successful for five years and then one day he tried Methadone himself and was hooked like a fish on a poisoned line. He tried to doctor the books to cover his use. It worked for two years until the FDA caught on. I recalled the tears running down his face as he described the scene of his arrest. He was at home with wife, Sharon and their two small girls. TV cameras rolled as they shackled him in front of his family. He was guilty, but felt angry at the way it was handled.

I was at the Center because I had a chronic painful disease that had led me to physicians that dispensed pills, Vicodin, Codeine, Valium, Lorcet, the list goes on. It was easy to find physicians to prescribe them even though they were addictive. I worked in the medical field. I knew the dangers and ignored them. I didn't abuse the pills by doctor shopping, but as my tolerance grew, they didn't work as well. Then I started to wash them down with alcohol. That was when I knew I was in trouble. It was only a short time before I was drinking large amounts. When my husband discovered me drinking straight Jack Daniels at 6am, I was in a drug rehab center pronto.

Donnie and I became close because we checked in at the same time, suffered withdrawal together and had a lot in common. He was an avid reader of the classics and had a wicked sense of humor. As we became sober and alive again, we wrote poetry, studied the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and attended the same therapy groups. We both graduated with honors after 6 weeks and promised to stay in touch. I tried to call him several times without luck.

After reliving memories, I then asked about his current life. His wife had left him and taken the children. He had lost his pharmacist license and couldn't find a job. He owed back child support from another marriage and now he was homeless. Life was a bed at a shelter, working occasional construction jobs, and panhandling. Was he using? I didn't ask. I offered to take him home with me and to a 12 step meeting. He refused.

I did drop him off at a homeless shelter for the night, insisted on giving him a twenty, and he promised to meet me at an AA meeting the next day. I haven't heard or seen him since then. I wonder about the synchronicity of that "chance" meeting.
Sometimes God taps you on the shoulder; occasionally He hits you over the head. The day that I ran into Donnie, I had a glass of wine with a friend at lunch. Just one, I was never an alcoholic, I told myself. I also had a prescription for Valium in my purse. I had thought it will be okay, as long as I don't drink.

When you need a professional liar, just find a practicing addict. We excel at it. Then we feel the shame. The best part is your 12 step family always has time to listen. They applaud the most awful honesty, as long as it is truth, and then help you find your way home.

A Messenger in Rags

A couple of years ago, I got a message from above just in the nick of time. The weather was freezing that day, but I was determined to spend gift money on the after holiday sales. I spent it all and more, always having been good at excess.

I was heading for Starbucks and a hot cappuccino when I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk. He wore ragged clothes, was unshaven with deep, dark circles under his sad brown eyes. There were icicles on the hood of his dirty poncho. He held a cup of coins.

He returned my stare, then asked, "Don't I know you?"

Like moving through a time warp, I recalled his deep voice and dimples. It had been eight years ago and we had both been sick with tremors, nausea, diarrhea, and anxiety. Plus the feelings of ants crawling under your skin were all symptoms of withdrawal from addiction. It puts people on an even playing field, a respecter of no man or woman, garbage collector or physician.

"Donnie! It is so good to see you." I hugged him close, like I would one of my children.
He certainly seemed to have lost his way. We gathered up his belongings and headed for Starbucks. I ignored the stares yet could feel his shame. We found a quiet table. I ordered for both of us and watched his hand shake uncontrollably as he tried to drink the coffee. I steadied it with my own.

We talked as the memories flooded back, the nights at the center when we sat in pajamas at three in the morning, fighting the shakes, comparing our lives. There were a few of us that held each other while we cried, wiped up each others puke, and gave back rubs.
Donnie was a pharmacist that ran a local Methadone Clinic for heroin addicts. He was successful for five years and then one day he tried Methadone himself and was hooked like a fish on a poisoned line. He tried to doctor the books to cover his use. It worked for two years until the FDA caught on. I recalled the tears running down his face as he described the scene of his arrest. He was at home with wife, Sharon and their two small girls. TV cameras rolled as they shackled him in front of his family. He was guilty, but felt angry at the way it was handled.

I was at the Center because I had a chronic painful disease that had led me to physicians that dispensed pills, Vicodin, Codeine, Valium, Lorcet, the list goes on. It was easy to find physicians to prescribe them even though they were addictive. I worked in the medical field. I knew the dangers and ignored them. I didn't abuse the pills by doctor shopping, but as my tolerance grew, they didn't work as well. Then I started to wash them down with alcohol. That was when I knew I was in trouble. It was only a short time before I was drinking large amounts. When my husband discovered me drinking straight Jack Daniels at 6am, I was in a drug rehab center pronto.

Donnie and I became close because we checked in at the same time, suffered withdrawal together and had a lot in common. He was an avid reader of the classics and had a wicked sense of humor. As we became sober and alive again, we wrote poetry, studied the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and attended the same therapy groups. We both graduated with honors after 6 weeks and promised to stay in touch. I tried to call him several times without luck.

After reliving memories, I then asked about his current life. His wife had left him and taken the children. He had lost his pharmacist license and couldn't find a job. He owed back child support from another marriage and now he was homeless. Life was a bed at a shelter, working occasional construction jobs, and panhandling. Was he using? I didn't ask. I offered to take him home with me and to a 12 step meeting. He refused.

I did drop him off at a homeless shelter for the night, insisted on giving him a twenty, and he promised to meet me at an AA meeting the next day. I haven't heard or seen him since then. I wonder about the synchronicity of that "chance" meeting.
Sometimes God taps you on the shoulder; occasionally He hits you over the head. The day that I ran into Donnie, I had a glass of wine with a friend at lunch. Just one, I was never an alcoholic, I told myself. I also had a prescription for Valium in my purse. I had thought it will be okay, as long as I don't drink.

When you need a professional liar, just find a practicing addict. We excel at it. Then we feel the shame. The best part is your 12 step family always has time to listen. They applaud the most awful honesty, as long as it is truth, and then help you find your way home.

A Messenger in Rags

A couple of years ago, I got a message from above just in the nick of time. The weather was freezing that day, but I was determined to spend gift money on the after holiday sales. I spent it all and more, always having been good at excess.

I was heading for Starbucks and a hot cappuccino when I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk. He wore ragged clothes, was unshaven with deep, dark circles under his sad brown eyes. There were icicles on the hood of his dirty poncho. He held a cup of coins.

He returned my stare, then asked, "Don't I know you?"

Like moving through a time warp, I recalled his deep voice and dimples. It had been eight years ago and we had both been sick with tremors, nausea, diarrhea, and anxiety. Plus the feelings of ants crawling under your skin were all symptoms of withdrawal from addiction. It puts people on an even playing field, a respecter of no man or woman, garbage collector or physician.

"Donnie! It is so good to see you." I hugged him close, like I would one of my children.
He certainly seemed to have lost his way. We gathered up his belongings and headed for Starbucks. I ignored the stares yet could feel his shame. We found a quiet table. I ordered for both of us and watched his hand shake uncontrollably as he tried to drink the coffee. I steadied it with my own.

We talked as the memories flooded back, the nights at the center when we sat in pajamas at three in the morning, fighting the shakes, comparing our lives. There were a few of us that held each other while we cried, wiped up each others puke, and gave back rubs.
Donnie was a pharmacist that ran a local Methadone Clinic for heroin addicts. He was successful for five years and then one day he tried Methadone himself and was hooked like a fish on a poisoned line. He tried to doctor the books to cover his use. It worked for two years until the FDA caught on. I recalled the tears running down his face as he described the scene of his arrest. He was at home with wife, Sharon and their two small girls. TV cameras rolled as they shackled him in front of his family. He was guilty, but felt angry at the way it was handled.

I was at the Center because I had a chronic painful disease that had led me to physicians that dispensed pills, Vicodin, Codeine, Valium, Lorcet, the list goes on. It was easy to find physicians to prescribe them even though they were addictive. I worked in the medical field. I knew the dangers and ignored them. I didn't abuse the pills by doctor shopping, but as my tolerance grew, they didn't work as well. Then I started to wash them down with alcohol. That was when I knew I was in trouble. It was only a short time before I was drinking large amounts. When my husband discovered me drinking straight Jack Daniels at 6am, I was in a drug rehab center pronto.

Donnie and I became close because we checked in at the same time, suffered withdrawal together and had a lot in common. He was an avid reader of the classics and had a wicked sense of humor. As we became sober and alive again, we wrote poetry, studied the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and attended the same therapy groups. We both graduated with honors after 6 weeks and promised to stay in touch. I tried to call him several times without luck.

After reliving memories, I then asked about his current life. His wife had left him and taken the children. He had lost his pharmacist license and couldn't find a job. He owed back child support from another marriage and now he was homeless. Life was a bed at a shelter, working occasional construction jobs, and panhandling. Was he using? I didn't ask. I offered to take him home with me and to a 12 step meeting. He refused.

I did drop him off at a homeless shelter for the night, insisted on giving him a twenty, and he promised to meet me at an AA meeting the next day. I haven't heard or seen him since then. I wonder about the synchronicity of that "chance" meeting.
Sometimes God taps you on the shoulder; occasionally He hits you over the head. The day that I ran into Donnie, I had a glass of wine with a friend at lunch. Just one, I was never an alcoholic, I told myself. I also had a prescription for Valium in my purse. I had thought it will be okay, as long as I don't drink.

When you need a professional liar, just find a practicing addict. We excel at it. Then we feel the shame. The best part is your 12 step family always has time to listen. They applaud the most awful honesty, as long as it is truth, and then help you find your way home.

A Messenger in Rags

A couple of years ago, I got a message from above just in the nick of time. The weather was freezing that day, but I was determined to spend gift money on the after holiday sales. I spent it all and more, always having been good at excess.

I was heading for Starbucks and a hot cappuccino when I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk. He wore ragged clothes, was unshaven with deep, dark circles under his sad brown eyes. There were icicles on the hood of his dirty poncho. He held a cup of coins.

He returned my stare, then asked, "Don't I know you?"

Like moving through a time warp, I recalled his deep voice and dimples. It had been eight years ago and we had both been sick with tremors, nausea, diarrhea, and anxiety. Plus the feelings of ants crawling under your skin were all symptoms of withdrawal from addiction. It puts people on an even playing field, a respecter of no man or woman, garbage collector or physician.

"Donnie! It is so good to see you." I hugged him close, like I would one of my children.
He certainly seemed to have lost his way. We gathered up his belongings and headed for Starbucks. I ignored the stares yet could feel his shame. We found a quiet table. I ordered for both of us and watched his hand shake uncontrollably as he tried to drink the coffee. I steadied it with my own.

We talked as the memories flooded back, the nights at the center when we sat in pajamas at three in the morning, fighting the shakes, comparing our lives. There were a few of us that held each other while we cried, wiped up each others puke, and gave back rubs.
Donnie was a pharmacist that ran a local Methadone Clinic for heroin addicts. He was successful for five years and then one day he tried Methadone himself and was hooked like a fish on a poisoned line. He tried to doctor the books to cover his use. It worked for two years until the FDA caught on. I recalled the tears running down his face as he described the scene of his arrest. He was at home with wife, Sharon and their two small girls. TV cameras rolled as they shackled him in front of his family. He was guilty, but felt angry at the way it was handled.

I was at the Center because I had a chronic painful disease that had led me to physicians that dispensed pills, Vicodin, Codeine, Valium, Lorcet, the list goes on. It was easy to find physicians to prescribe them even though they were addictive. I worked in the medical field. I knew the dangers and ignored them. I didn't abuse the pills by doctor shopping, but as my tolerance grew, they didn't work as well. Then I started to wash them down with alcohol. That was when I knew I was in trouble. It was only a short time before I was drinking large amounts. When my husband discovered me drinking straight Jack Daniels at 6am, I was in a drug rehab center pronto.

Donnie and I became close because we checked in at the same time, suffered withdrawal together and had a lot in common. He was an avid reader of the classics and had a wicked sense of humor. As we became sober and alive again, we wrote poetry, studied the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and attended the same therapy groups. We both graduated with honors after 6 weeks and promised to stay in touch. I tried to call him several times without luck.

After reliving memories, I then asked about his current life. His wife had left him and taken the children. He had lost his pharmacist license and couldn't find a job. He owed back child support from another marriage and now he was homeless. Life was a bed at a shelter, working occasional construction jobs, and panhandling. Was he using? I didn't ask. I offered to take him home with me and to a 12 step meeting. He refused.

I did drop him off at a homeless shelter for the night, insisted on giving him a twenty, and he promised to meet me at an AA meeting the next day. I haven't heard or seen him since then. I wonder about the synchronicity of that "chance" meeting.
Sometimes God taps you on the shoulder; occasionally He hits you over the head. The day that I ran into Donnie, I had a glass of wine with a friend at lunch. Just one, I was never an alcoholic, I told myself. I also had a prescription for Valium in my purse. I had thought it will be okay, as long as I don't drink.

When you need a professional liar, just find a practicing addict. We excel at it. Then we feel the shame. The best part is your 12 step family always has time to listen. They applaud the most awful honesty, as long as it is truth, and then help you find your way home.

A Messenger in Rags

A couple of years ago, I got a message from above just in the nick of time. The weather was freezing that day, but I was determined to spend gift money on the after holiday sales. I spent it all and more, always having been good at excess.

I was heading for Starbucks and a hot cappuccino when I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk. He wore ragged clothes, was unshaven with deep, dark circles under his sad brown eyes. There were icicles on the hood of his dirty poncho. He held a cup of coins.

He returned my stare, then asked, "Don't I know you?"

Like moving through a time warp, I recalled his deep voice and dimples. It had been eight years ago and we had both been sick with tremors, nausea, diarrhea, and anxiety. Plus the feelings of ants crawling under your skin were all symptoms of withdrawal from addiction. It puts people on an even playing field, a respecter of no man or woman, garbage collector or physician.

"Donnie! It is so good to see you." I hugged him close, like I would one of my children.
He certainly seemed to have lost his way. We gathered up his belongings and headed for Starbucks. I ignored the stares yet could feel his shame. We found a quiet table. I ordered for both of us and watched his hand shake uncontrollably as he tried to drink the coffee. I steadied it with my own.

We talked as the memories flooded back, the nights at the center when we sat in pajamas at three in the morning, fighting the shakes, comparing our lives. There were a few of us that held each other while we cried, wiped up each others puke, and gave back rubs.
Donnie was a pharmacist that ran a local Methadone Clinic for heroin addicts. He was successful for five years and then one day he tried Methadone himself and was hooked like a fish on a poisoned line. He tried to doctor the books to cover his use. It worked for two years until the FDA caught on. I recalled the tears running down his face as he described the scene of his arrest. He was at home with wife, Sharon and their two small girls. TV cameras rolled as they shackled him in front of his family. He was guilty, but felt angry at the way it was handled.

I was at the Center because I had a chronic painful disease that had led me to physicians that dispensed pills, Vicodin, Codeine, Valium, Lorcet, the list goes on. It was easy to find physicians to prescribe them even though they were addictive. I worked in the medical field. I knew the dangers and ignored them. I didn't abuse the pills by doctor shopping, but as my tolerance grew, they didn't work as well. Then I started to wash them down with alcohol. That was when I knew I was in trouble. It was only a short time before I was drinking large amounts. When my husband discovered me drinking straight Jack Daniels at 6am, I was in a drug rehab center pronto.

Donnie and I became close because we checked in at the same time, suffered withdrawal together and had a lot in common. He was an avid reader of the classics and had a wicked sense of humor. As we became sober and alive again, we wrote poetry, studied the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and attended the same therapy groups. We both graduated with honors after 6 weeks and promised to stay in touch. I tried to call him several times without luck.

After reliving memories, I then asked about his current life. His wife had left him and taken the children. He had lost his pharmacist license and couldn't find a job. He owed back child support from another marriage and now he was homeless. Life was a bed at a shelter, working occasional construction jobs, and panhandling. Was he using? I didn't ask. I offered to take him home with me and to a 12 step meeting. He refused.

I did drop him off at a homeless shelter for the night, insisted on giving him a twenty, and he promised to meet me at an AA meeting the next day. I haven't heard or seen him since then. I wonder about the synchronicity of that "chance" meeting.
Sometimes God taps you on the shoulder; occasionally He hits you over the head. The day that I ran into Donnie, I had a glass of wine with a friend at lunch. Just one, I was never an alcoholic, I told myself. I also had a prescription for Valium in my purse. I had thought it will be okay, as long as I don't drink.

When you need a professional liar, just find a practicing addict. We excel at it. Then we feel the shame. The best part is your 12 step family always has time to listen. They applaud the most awful honesty, as long as it is truth, and then help you find your way home.

A Messenger in Rags

A couple of years ago, I got a message from above just in the nick of time. The weather was freezing that day, but I was determined to spend gift money on the after holiday sales. I spent it all and more, always having been good at excess.

I was heading for Starbucks and a hot cappuccino when I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk. He wore ragged clothes, was unshaven with deep, dark circles under his sad brown eyes. There were icicles on the hood of his dirty poncho. He held a cup of coins.

He returned my stare, then asked, "Don't I know you?"

Like moving through a time warp, I recalled his deep voice and dimples. It had been eight years ago and we had both been sick with tremors, nausea, diarrhea, and anxiety. Plus the feelings of ants crawling under your skin were all symptoms of withdrawal from addiction. It puts people on an even playing field, a respecter of no man or woman, garbage collector or physician.

"Donnie! It is so good to see you." I hugged him close, like I would one of my children.
He certainly seemed to have lost his way. We gathered up his belongings and headed for Starbucks. I ignored the stares yet could feel his shame. We found a quiet table. I ordered for both of us and watched his hand shake uncontrollably as he tried to drink the coffee. I steadied it with my own.

We talked as the memories flooded back, the nights at the center when we sat in pajamas at three in the morning, fighting the shakes, comparing our lives. There were a few of us that held each other while we cried, wiped up each others puke, and gave back rubs.
Donnie was a pharmacist that ran a local Methadone Clinic for heroin addicts. He was successful for five years and then one day he tried Methadone himself and was hooked like a fish on a poisoned line. He tried to doctor the books to cover his use. It worked for two years until the FDA caught on. I recalled the tears running down his face as he described the scene of his arrest. He was at home with wife, Sharon and their two small girls. TV cameras rolled as they shackled him in front of his family. He was guilty, but felt angry at the way it was handled.

I was at the Center because I had a chronic painful disease that had led me to physicians that dispensed pills, Vicodin, Codeine, Valium, Lorcet, the list goes on. It was easy to find physicians to prescribe them even though they were addictive. I worked in the medical field. I knew the dangers and ignored them. I didn't abuse the pills by doctor shopping, but as my tolerance grew, they didn't work as well. Then I started to wash them down with alcohol. That was when I knew I was in trouble. It was only a short time before I was drinking large amounts. When my husband discovered me drinking straight Jack Daniels at 6am, I was in a drug rehab center pronto.

Donnie and I became close because we checked in at the same time, suffered withdrawal together and had a lot in common. He was an avid reader of the classics and had a wicked sense of humor. As we became sober and alive again, we wrote poetry, studied the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and attended the same therapy groups. We both graduated with honors after 6 weeks and promised to stay in touch. I tried to call him several times without luck.

After reliving memories, I then asked about his current life. His wife had left him and taken the children. He had lost his pharmacist license and couldn't find a job. He owed back child support from another marriage and now he was homeless. Life was a bed at a shelter, working occasional construction jobs, and panhandling. Was he using? I didn't ask. I offered to take him home with me and to a 12 step meeting. He refused.

I did drop him off at a homeless shelter for the night, insisted on giving him a twenty, and he promised to meet me at an AA meeting the next day. I haven't heard or seen him since then. I wonder about the synchronicity of that "chance" meeting.
Sometimes God taps you on the shoulder; occasionally He hits you over the head. The day that I ran into Donnie, I had a glass of wine with a friend at lunch. Just one, I was never an alcoholic, I told myself. I also had a prescription for Valium in my purse. I had thought it will be okay, as long as I don't drink.

When you need a professional liar, just find a practicing addict. We excel at it. Then we feel the shame. The best part is your 12 step family always has time to listen. They applaud the most awful honesty, as long as it is truth, and then help you find your way home.

A Messenger in Rags

A couple of years ago, I got a message from above just in the nick of time. The weather was freezing that day, but I was determined to spend gift money on the after holiday sales. I spent it all and more, always having been good at excess.

I was heading for Starbucks and a hot cappuccino when I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk. He wore ragged clothes, was unshaven with deep, dark circles under his sad brown eyes. There were icicles on the hood of his dirty poncho. He held a cup of coins.

He returned my stare, then asked, "Don't I know you?"

Like moving through a time warp, I recalled his deep voice and dimples. It had been eight years ago and we had both been sick with tremors, nausea, diarrhea, and anxiety. Plus the feelings of ants crawling under your skin were all symptoms of withdrawal from addiction. It puts people on an even playing field, a respecter of no man or woman, garbage collector or physician.

"Donnie! It is so good to see you." I hugged him close, like I would one of my children.
He certainly seemed to have lost his way. We gathered up his belongings and headed for Starbucks. I ignored the stares yet could feel his shame. We found a quiet table. I ordered for both of us and watched his hand shake uncontrollably as he tried to drink the coffee. I steadied it with my own.

We talked as the memories flooded back, the nights at the center when we sat in pajamas at three in the morning, fighting the shakes, comparing our lives. There were a few of us that held each other while we cried, wiped up each others puke, and gave back rubs.
Donnie was a pharmacist that ran a local Methadone Clinic for heroin addicts. He was successful for five years and then one day he tried Methadone himself and was hooked like a fish on a poisoned line. He tried to doctor the books to cover his use. It worked for two years until the FDA caught on. I recalled the tears running down his face as he described the scene of his arrest. He was at home with wife, Sharon and their two small girls. TV cameras rolled as they shackled him in front of his family. He was guilty, but felt angry at the way it was handled.

I was at the Center because I had a chronic painful disease that had led me to physicians that dispensed pills, Vicodin, Codeine, Valium, Lorcet, the list goes on. It was easy to find physicians to prescribe them even though they were addictive. I worked in the medical field. I knew the dangers and ignored them. I didn't abuse the pills by doctor shopping, but as my tolerance grew, they didn't work as well. Then I started to wash them down with alcohol. That was when I knew I was in trouble. It was only a short time before I was drinking large amounts. When my husband discovered me drinking straight Jack Daniels at 6am, I was in a drug rehab center pronto.

Donnie and I became close because we checked in at the same time, suffered withdrawal together and had a lot in common. He was an avid reader of the classics and had a wicked sense of humor. As we became sober and alive again, we wrote poetry, studied the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and attended the same therapy groups. We both graduated with honors after 6 weeks and promised to stay in touch. I tried to call him several times without luck.

After reliving memories, I then asked about his current life. His wife had left him and taken the children. He had lost his pharmacist license and couldn't find a job. He owed back child support from another marriage and now he was homeless. Life was a bed at a shelter, working occasional construction jobs, and panhandling. Was he using? I didn't ask. I offered to take him home with me and to a 12 step meeting. He refused.

I did drop him off at a homeless shelter for the night, insisted on giving him a twenty, and he promised to meet me at an AA meeting the next day. I haven't heard or seen him since then. I wonder about the synchronicity of that "chance" meeting.
Sometimes God taps you on the shoulder; occasionally He hits you over the head. The day that I ran into Donnie, I had a glass of wine with a friend at lunch. Just one, I was never an alcoholic, I told myself. I also had a prescription for Valium in my purse. I had thought it will be okay, as long as I don't drink.

When you need a professional liar, just find a practicing addict. We excel at it. Then we feel the shame. The best part is your 12 step family always has time to listen. They applaud the most awful honesty, as long as it is truth, and then help you find your way home.

A Messenger in Rags

A couple of years ago, I got a message from above just in the nick of time. The weather was freezing that day, but I was determined to spend gift money on the after holiday sales. I spent it all and more, always having been good at excess.

I was heading for Starbucks and a hot cappuccino when I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk. He wore ragged clothes, was unshaven with deep, dark circles under his sad brown eyes. There were icicles on the hood of his dirty poncho. He held a cup of coins.

He returned my stare, then asked, "Don't I know you?"

Like moving through a time warp, I recalled his deep voice and dimples. It had been eight years ago and we had both been sick with tremors, nausea, diarrhea, and anxiety. Plus the feelings of ants crawling under your skin were all symptoms of withdrawal from addiction. It puts people on an even playing field, a respecter of no man or woman, garbage collector or physician.

"Donnie! It is so good to see you." I hugged him close, like I would one of my children.
He certainly seemed to have lost his way. We gathered up his belongings and headed for Starbucks. I ignored the stares yet could feel his shame. We found a quiet table. I ordered for both of us and watched his hand shake uncontrollably as he tried to drink the coffee. I steadied it with my own.

We talked as the memories flooded back, the nights at the center when we sat in pajamas at three in the morning, fighting the shakes, comparing our lives. There were a few of us that held each other while we cried, wiped up each others puke, and gave back rubs.
Donnie was a pharmacist that ran a local Methadone Clinic for heroin addicts. He was successful for five years and then one day he tried Methadone himself and was hooked like a fish on a poisoned line. He tried to doctor the books to cover his use. It worked for two years until the FDA caught on. I recalled the tears running down his face as he described the scene of his arrest. He was at home with wife, Sharon and their two small girls. TV cameras rolled as they shackled him in front of his family. He was guilty, but felt angry at the way it was handled.

I was at the Center because I had a chronic painful disease that had led me to physicians that dispensed pills, Vicodin, Codeine, Valium, Lorcet, the list goes on. It was easy to find physicians to prescribe them even though they were addictive. I worked in the medical field. I knew the dangers and ignored them. I didn't abuse the pills by doctor shopping, but as my tolerance grew, they didn't work as well. Then I started to wash them down with alcohol. That was when I knew I was in trouble. It was only a short time before I was drinking large amounts. When my husband discovered me drinking straight Jack Daniels at 6am, I was in a drug rehab center pronto.

Donnie and I became close because we checked in at the same time, suffered withdrawal together and had a lot in common. He was an avid reader of the classics and had a wicked sense of humor. As we became sober and alive again, we wrote poetry, studied the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and attended the same therapy groups. We both graduated with honors after 6 weeks and promised to stay in touch. I tried to call him several times without luck.

After reliving memories, I then asked about his current life. His wife had left him and taken the children. He had lost his pharmacist license and couldn't find a job. He owed back child support from another marriage and now he was homeless. Life was a bed at a shelter, working occasional construction jobs, and panhandling. Was he using? I didn't ask. I offered to take him home with me and to a 12 step meeting. He refused.

I did drop him off at a homeless shelter for the night, insisted on giving him a twenty, and he promised to meet me at an AA meeting the next day. I haven't heard or seen him since then. I wonder about the synchronicity of that "chance" meeting.
Sometimes God taps you on the shoulder; occasionally He hits you over the head. The day that I ran into Donnie, I had a glass of wine with a friend at lunch. Just one, I was never an alcoholic, I told myself. I also had a prescription for Valium in my purse. I had thought it will be okay, as long as I don't drink.

When you need a professional liar, just find a practicing addict. We excel at it. Then we feel the shame. The best part is your 12 step family always has time to listen. They applaud the most awful honesty, as long as it is truth, and then help you find your way home.

A Messenger in Rags

A couple of years ago, I got a message from above just in the nick of time. The weather was freezing that day, but I was determined to spend gift money on the after holiday sales. I spent it all and more, always having been good at excess.

I was heading for Starbucks and a hot cappuccino when I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk. He wore ragged clothes, was unshaven with deep, dark circles under his sad brown eyes. There were icicles on the hood of his dirty poncho. He held a cup of coins.

He returned my stare, then asked, "Don't I know you?"

Like moving through a time warp, I recalled his deep voice and dimples. It had been eight years ago and we had both been sick with tremors, nausea, diarrhea, and anxiety. Plus the feelings of ants crawling under your skin were all symptoms of withdrawal from addiction. It puts people on an even playing field, a respecter of no man or woman, garbage collector or physician.

"Donnie! It is so good to see you." I hugged him close, like I would one of my children.
He certainly seemed to have lost his way. We gathered up his belongings and headed for Starbucks. I ignored the stares yet could feel his shame. We found a quiet table. I ordered for both of us and watched his hand shake uncontrollably as he tried to drink the coffee. I steadied it with my own.

We talked as the memories flooded back, the nights at the center when we sat in pajamas at three in the morning, fighting the shakes, comparing our lives. There were a few of us that held each other while we cried, wiped up each others puke, and gave back rubs.
Donnie was a pharmacist that ran a local Methadone Clinic for heroin addicts. He was successful for five years and then one day he tried Methadone himself and was hooked like a fish on a poisoned line. He tried to doctor the books to cover his use. It worked for two years until the FDA caught on. I recalled the tears running down his face as he described the scene of his arrest. He was at home with wife, Sharon and their two small girls. TV cameras rolled as they shackled him in front of his family. He was guilty, but felt angry at the way it was handled.

I was at the Center because I had a chronic painful disease that had led me to physicians that dispensed pills, Vicodin, Codeine, Valium, Lorcet, the list goes on. It was easy to find physicians to prescribe them even though they were addictive. I worked in the medical field. I knew the dangers and ignored them. I didn't abuse the pills by doctor shopping, but as my tolerance grew, they didn't work as well. Then I started to wash them down with alcohol. That was when I knew I was in trouble. It was only a short time before I was drinking large amounts. When my husband discovered me drinking straight Jack Daniels at 6am, I was in a drug rehab center pronto.

Donnie and I became close because we checked in at the same time, suffered withdrawal together and had a lot in common. He was an avid reader of the classics and had a wicked sense of humor. As we became sober and alive again, we wrote poetry, studied the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous and attended the same therapy groups. We both graduated with honors after 6 weeks and promised to stay in touch. I tried to call him several times without luck.

After reliving memories, I then asked about his current life. His wife had left him and taken the children. He had lost his pharmacist license and couldn't find a job. He owed back child support from another marriage and now he was homeless. Life was a bed at a shelter, working occasional construction jobs, and panhandling. Was he using? I didn't ask. I offered to take him home with me and to a 12 step meeting. He refused.

I did drop him off at a homeless shelter for the night, insisted on giving him a twenty, and he promised to meet me at an AA meeting the next day. I haven't heard or seen him since then. I wonder about the synchronicity of that "chance" meeting.
Sometimes God taps you on the shoulder; occasionally He hits you over the head. The day that I ran into Donnie, I had a glass of wine with a friend at lunch. Just one, I was never an alcoholic, I told myself. I also had a prescription for Valium in my purse. I had thought it will be okay, as long as I don't drink.

When you need a professional liar, just find a practicing addict. We excel at it. Then we feel the shame. The best part is your 12 step family always has time to listen. They applaud the most awful honesty, as long as it is truth, and then help you find your way home.