Whether you are placed into Substance Use Disorder (SUD) by continual self-inflicted activity, genetic/chemical imbalance in the brain (such as lack of vitamin B1), environmental upbringing/surroundings, or all of the above, you will have scars.
There are mental scars that are not visible, and there are visible scars that are seen on the body.
I will post 3 blogs named, SCARS. They will be posted over time and will not be in order. The posts contain real life learning experiences involving all types of people and myself. Each blog will educate the reader on the main bullets in the “Stop Addiction Before It Starts” page.
- The Pistol Whipping Scar
- The Captain Hook Scar
- The Lack of Control Scar
Note: Once you choose the path of SUD, there is treatment for internal scars: see Treatment for Wet Brain, Medical school opioid prevention, Governor Baker Helps Hospitals, and ARCR Research. Nothing can hide the body scars or the pain of environmental mistreatment by outside factors. Should you put yourself in harm’s way, you open up the gates of abuse. This abuse can be from the shelters, people in the subculture (people who need money and property for their habit), or your inability to maintain your physical control.
The Pistol Whipped Scar
A person who really wants recovery can not afford to let their guard down. The fact is that if you rub elbows with the Subculture, you either adapt or you die!
The shelter: It was the second to last shelter I choose to enter. The facility, located in Leoardville, Massachusetts is termed a “wet shelter“. The purpose of the wet shelter is to allow people who are homeless, depressed, alcoholic, drug addicted, or rapists, child molesters, and convicts who have served their time, to have a roof over their head. For an idea of what it’s like living in one of these places, see the post, Living in a Shelter or Safe House. Every weekday, a Housing and Homeless Services (HHS) representative will announce the rules for each of the categories of people mentioned above, as well as the availability of HHS case workers. Depending on the house or shelter, you are expected to go back on the streets by 8 am and be back at the shelter by 6 pm; if you are not back in time, the doors are locked and you are ordered out into the city.
I choose this shelter because of the location from the Metrowest Mall. At that time, I was holding down two jobs. One job was as a jewelry salesperson at one of the largest international retail stores, and the other job was moving cars. Since I still had a car, I would change into a suit in the morning and back into my shelter clothes in the evening.
My disguise: I learned from my previous experiences to dress and act like people in the environment. My clothes of choice were torn jeans (which had blood stains), a ripped Celtic shirt, and a blue winter coat (all provided my friend Mike Garrison). I would look at the floor, have minimal eye contact, and NOT talk. Speech, by any guest is a story in itself. I would always park my car two blocks away. See, if you had a car you would be in trouble sooner than later; as you read on, you will understand what I mean.
Fred’s Story: The first night I was at the Leoardville shelter, I was lucky to be assigned a bunk bed. My coat was being used as my pillow. Fred, who was two bunks over, looked directly at me and shook his head, no! I wandered over to Fred. He told me to hide my coat under my mat until lights out. No pillows were allowed and would be taken or stolen. We hit it off, and he taught me some ropes.
Fred had served 10 years for attempted murder. While in Chicago, Fred was a member of a biker gang. He had to make a run for guns and cocaine but made the mistake of stopping at a bar on the way back. After fighting the bouncer and police, Fred was arrested “after he was beaten to a bloody pulp.” Hidden by his Patriot’s hat, the deep scars on his face and skull told his truth, not including the effect on his memory and body functions. A sad event for a Chicago University graduate and race car mechanic.
Fred was recovering from a broken leg and got around the city on crutches. The hills of the city were brutal in the wind and snow. I decided to drive Fred to the hospital for meds, Dunkin Donuts, and the liquor store. Dunkin Donuts was the hangout for the shelter prostitutes for early morning business. Sally, a guest at the shelter, came to the car while Fred and I were eating. Fred’s crutches were a dead give away–see, we had a car. SO, I let my guard down.
Unknown to me, the word got around that I had transportation. The transportation had items of value.
When returning from work, I parked to change clothes and listen to a CD, my favorite motivational song, Tom Petty’s, “I won’t back down.” While in the car, I looked left and saw the barrel of a 38. I did what I was told and got out of the car and turned around. I said, “Take what you want.” His response was, “We will.”
But I messed up. After being trained and even teaching what to do and not do in this situation, I broke the rule. See more details in About the Project and the Author. I added, “Everything but that.” I had pointed at a backpack holding all my journals and a gift from my son. Instantly, I was hit with the butt of the gun.
Funny, they only took my money, cell phone, charger, and the black clothes I had for the jewelry job. They left the backpack. Shortly after, while wiping the blood from my face, a woman came to the passenger side. She said, “For $40, you can have the phone”. I said, “I have no money.”
I could not go back to the shelter or the local police because that would mean I showed up to the shelter after 6 pm. So I drove to Wildborough for the protection of the Wildborough police. See my post, Police can be Saviors. The next day was Thanksgiving Day, 2014. I called Mike and Liz Garrison, who allowed me to come to Nipmuck Ma to mend. Learn more about them in The Real People you Read About
A forever memory of that day is a scar on my head and a voice mail from those who robbed me. Mike and I listened to my messages and could not believe our ears. They stole my phone, then actually called that phone and left a Voice Mail!
Note: I never saw Fred and his scars again; Fred did not turn me in to the subculture–it was the prostitute. As a result of all this, I lost my spot for Leonardville housing. Though I traced the robber’s phone number through Verizon, I did nothing. This was an education of the organized government assisting the subculture; a tip of the iceberg. This is an example of housing and shelter roommates; the good and bad. I turned to friend’s that still had faith and a Nipmuck church, Monseigneur John, to reassure myself of my potential to give.