David Carr has written a searingly beautiful account of his journey from junkiedom to normalcy. This book is written 20 years after the fact and a constant theme is the unreliable nature of his memory.
To be an addict is to be something of a cognitive acrobat. You spread versions of yourself around, giving each person the truth he or she needs — you need, actually — to keep them at a remove. Let’s stipulate that I do not have a good memory, having recklessly sautéed my brain in fistfuls of pharmaceutical spices. Beyond impairment, there may be no more unreliable narrator than an addict. Recovered or not, I am someone who used my mouth to constantly create one more opportunity to get high.
Here is what I deserved: hepatitis C, federal prison time, H.I.V., a cold park bench, an early, addled death.
Here is what I got: the smart, pretty wife, the three lovely children, the job that impresses.
He has written a book, “Night of the Gun”. That link also has some video clips of his daughters. There is pain in their voices and I don’t think this story is over yet.
Carr was in Eden House, a treatment facility in Minneapolis. He had twin daughters with his junkie dealer wife and was trying to get clean.
My counselor at the time was Marion, a large black man who affected mirrored sunglasses and an air of mystery. Three months into treatment, I had arranged all of the necessary passes to go to my sister’s wedding. The Friday night before the event, Marion called me into the office and told me if I went to the wedding, I should not bother coming back. I was livid, and my family suggested that I should walk away from this arbitrary place. I remember going down to Marion’s office later to tell him off, but then I stayed and did not go to the wedding. What had he said to me that changed my mind?
Marion pulled up on a motorcycle at a coffee shop in south Minneapolis in July of 2006 with the mirrored shades still firmly in place. I told Marion that I remembered going down to his office to tell him where he could put his “therapeutic no.” What had he said? He remembered what I did not.
“You were on the verge, and I told you, ‘Well, why don’t you just get those two girls high too?’ ”
Later, he gets custody of the twin girls from their mother, Anna.
I had won a tallest-midget contest with Anna, nothing more. Each of us had a history of relapse, and mine was far more extensive. The lie that I told myself — that I was made entirely new by my decision to lay off drugs — kept doubt at bay. If I really examined my fitness in all of its dimensions, I would have been paralyzed. It was a fairy tale that kept me alive and allowed me to make it come true. Everything good and true about my life started on the day the twins became mine.
Amen to getting clean and making fairy tales come true.