Push, Pull it happened again
The loss of a love
The loss of a friend
It was a ring on my finger
A syringe in my hand

The end of an era
The pain comes again
My heart has been callused
My life forever changed
By the ring on my finger
The syringe in my hand

With pain comes healing
With life comes change
I have removed the ring
Threw away the syringe

I need to find me
Become my own friend
Without the strength of the ring
Without the power of the syringe

Drug Dream-

I got the dope and the beloved syringe.
I will hide in the closet and finally feel the rush again.
What’s that noise, damn, got to find a new hiding place.
Ok, I will hide in my studio.
Closing the blinds, drawing the curtains, stapling a blanket over the window with no curtain.
What, he is not supposed to be here yet.
Got to find a new hiding place.
In the car, trying to think of a place in Mineral Point with a one-person bathroom.
I got it, who uses the bathroom behind the library?
Ok, in the bathroom, ready to feel the rush.
Oh shit, I recognize those shoes.
I know I will head to the Gallery…solo toilet with a locking door.
What, there is a line for the bathroom at the gallery.
Strange that so many of my friends are waiting to use the bathroom at the gallery.
Ok, I will just go back to the car and shoot-up in the car on a back street with little traffic.
Damn, when did he start walking around town offering to wash peoples windows.
Ok, where can I go, I need to do this shot.
I know, I will go back to the house and do it in the shower.
I always loved shooting up in the shower.
Fuck, even the hot water heater is trying to stop me.
Back in the car, heading to the Kwik trip, they even have a sharps container in the bathroom.
Ok, got the syringe loaded and the sleeve pulled up, finally it is going to happen.
What the hell is that beeping noise?
I wake up having not really slept because my mind had been running around town all night.
I was so close…fucking alarm clock.

Every since my show I have been having vivid drug dreams. They have varied from me getting high to me trying to get high. I have to tell you, I have not missed having drug dreams and I have woken up everyday for the last week feeling like I have been high. I am having the same withdrawal symptoms I had following my first week of recovery. I am pushing through them and trying to tell myself this is all a part of the healing process.

I hate what I have done to my body, my mind, and my seemingly fragile emotional state. I hate that my choices in life have lead to this disability. My life is a double edge sword, I might not ever have painted without drugs and now I cannot paint without thinking about drugs. It is not a desire to get high, but I am smart enough to know my battle with drugs goes far beyond being sober for five years. In some respects, my battle with drugs has just begun and I am afraid the process of healing will never end.

It was hard to look at the gallery full of my art and believe that something so beautiful could have possibly been inspired by drugs and then I remembered that the collection was inspired by my sobriety, with my drug use playing the role of best supporting actress. I don’t mind paying emotionally or even physically for my addiction, but at some point I want some relief from the mental games. I want to sleep with out fear, but more importantly, I have to push through this torture and share my life, my story, my art, and hopefully save a life or two.

I have overcome many obstacles in my life and I can feel a slight breeze at my back. I am moving forward with optimism and confidence on my side. There have been times in my life that I thought I was going to die and several times I felt it would be easier to enjoy my last breath. I vividly remember being at peace with the possibility that my next injection could be my last contribution to this world.

I was never scared to die and even today, death is not a concern. I am concentrating on living my life, enjoying my life, and sharing my life with people that can most benefit from my journey. I am getting ready to embark on the adventure of sharing my story through art and by sharing my voice and story with people currently in recovery. A part of my upcoming art exhibit will include a stop at DACCO in Tampa, FL to speak with a group of people in recovery and the DACCO support staff. I am still not sure what I am going to say, but I feel confident in my ability to share a much-needed part of myself.

I want to let my fellow addicts know that they are not alone and in me, I hope they see a piece of themselves. I have been told that I am not the stereotypical I.V. drug user and to that I say…I am more stereotypical than you might think. The only difference between a homeless junkie and me is the fact that I have a home. An addict is an addict whether you sleep under an overpass or in a bed. We as addicts might have lived different lives, but we have shared the same journey. We have hurt the same, used the same, and in a perfect world we will be able to heal the same.

I am speaking out to shorten the divide, to lend my voice and my art to bringing to light the secret society of I.V. drug use.  

I shouldn’t be alive.

My body should not be this strong.

I wonder if my pupils will ever be go back to their normal size.

Should I eat or do another hit?

Do you think Walgreen’s believes that I buy TB syringes for my diabetes?

What would happen to my Mom if this dose kills me?

What will people say at my funeral…will people lie and say I was a Christian?

Have you ever been so dehydrated that your penis leaked semen, I have…must drink water.

Would one of my paintings cause a drug dog to alert?

How come people that smoke meth are so sketchy?

I wonder if my boyfriend has gotten used to sleeping alone?

Why is there a marching band in my backyard?

I am never alone when I am high; the shadows keep me company.

I have a sharps container, does that mean I have a problem?

I think I will make buttered pasta because I can swallow it without chewing.

I wonder what concealer is closet to the color of my skin?

Will my track marks go away?

I just love to wear long sleeve shirts.

What is it about my eyes that tell Jason I am high?

If I weren’t so dehydrated I would cry.

Why does waiting on my drug dealer make the clock move so slowly?

I wonder if my body is trying to suck up water from my daily shower.

Why do I love going to Wal-Mart at 4 in the morning?

Is a dose that makes you vomit too strong or just strong enough?

Will I die a drug user?

Can I live my life as a recovered drug addict?

How long am I considered an addict?

Will I ever get this monkey off my back?

I need to get my GED.

I just took the GED exam and passed it on the first try.

I need to go to college.

I just graduated with a bachelors of science in business administration with a 3.96 GPA.

College was much easier sober.

I was using the first two semesters and had to withdrawal to get sober.

Day one of sobriety…if I lick these empty bags will I feel it?

Day two of sobriety…I feel like shit and I know the only cure!

Day three of sobriety… I am sad and I want to get high.

Day four of sobriety…why can’t I stop crying?

Day five of sobriety…I love sleeping for 14 hours a day.

Day six of sobriety…I am angry and I fucking hate you.

Day seven of sobriety… I am strong enough.

Day eight of sobriety…I am sad and I want to get high.

Day nine of sobriety… food glorious food!

Day ten of sobriety…I am leaving.

Day eleven of sobriety…where are my friends?

Day twelve of sobriety…if I just had one hit, I would feel better.

Day thirteen of sobriety…I feel better today

Day fourteen of sobriety…I have made it two weeks…the fear sets in.

I am becoming the cause and not the effect of my life.

Will the world like the sober me?

Jason only knows me as a user, will he love the sober me?

I wish I could paint.

Was my creativity honest or another benefit to being a drug user?

I am starting to love the clarity that comes with sobriety.

I love sleeping with my boyfriend at night.

I am getting stronger.

I want to get high.

I need to define my triggers.

Oh shit, my number one trigger is life.

I need to develop coping mechanisms.

My Mom is proud of my success and she appreciates my failures.

I wish I could paint.

I am living life with new-found clarity.

I haven’t thought about getting high for at least a day.

I think I am going to paint today.

Wow, have I been sober for five years.

I would like to release you from your guilt and thank you for never giving up on me. I want you to understand that my choices had nothing to do with you. I did not care how you felt and I did not even think of you as I pushed drugs into my veins, you were not a second thought or even a third thought for that matter. My addiction was about me there was no room for you or anyone else in my addiction. Considering your feelings would have been like shooting water in my veins.

You are my Mom and I didn’t care about how my drug use made you feel. I know it hurt you and I still did it. I did it because it was about my life’s journey and me; it was my chosen path to dealing with my pain in life. I was not dealing with pain inflicted by you, so how could it be about you. You might ask, “What could I have done?” The simple answer is nothing, you did what was expected of you, and you did what most mothers do not have the strength to do. You stood back and let me use, you let me live, and you let me control my own destiny and most importantly you loved me…the real me, the addict in me and I never questioned your love.

You are one of the lucky Moms; I have lived to write my story. I have chosen to be the cause of my life and not the effect of it. I am going to live through my addiction in spite of what my daily cravings tell me. It took the death of Alisa for me to start thinking about you and after her death and seeing the pain and sadness that is still in your eyes today. I started thinking about you. I could not let my addiction, my selfish need for a higher state of consciousness be the cause of more pain in your eyes. I could not selfishly usher you to the gravesite of another one of your children, if I am to die, let it not be because I never considered your feelings and how my actions affect your life.

You are my mom and I love you! Your heart is now safe from my inevitable self-destruction.

I remember the first time I shot-up like it was yesterday. My nose was sore from snorting and I was not ready for the party to end. I had a friend that I knew who was already shooting up, so I called him and asked him to teach me how to do it correctly. At the time, he was my only other friend that was using I.V. drugs and he was more than happy to have a “partner in crime.” We would sneak off together and do a shot of meth, while hiding in a closet or bathroom just far enough from the prying eyes of our friends that would have shunned us for such a street-level choice.

I soon learned that my skills as a veterinary technician were going to be most beneficial to both of us. We lived in a shirtless, hardly- clothed environment in Florida and had several friends that would catch on quickly if there were not a certain level of skill involved in our hitting of the veins. My friend was impressed with my skills as a meth nurse and I explained how hard it was to hit the back leg vein of a cat. My vet skills transferred nicely to my becoming a master at finding an accurate hit on our comparatively enormous human veins.

I do remember one time going too low on my own arm and blowing a vein. The result of my missed hit was the most interesting bruise I have ever seen on an arm. Luckily, I was gay and the bruise was explained away as a mishap with a candleholder. I know, lame excuse right? I told my friends that I fell and one of the hurricane candleholders in my house stabbed me. They bought it hook, line and sinker…I think? At the time, it was good for some sympathy. Now it is only good for a laugh, a bit of self-reflection and an “Oh my!” - I was such a “crack head.”

To me shooting up was such a cleaner and longer-lasting high. I remember in certain social settings I would be offered a “bump” (drug term meaning a dose) and I would cringe at the awful burning sensation that was about to consume my nose. I never found a classy way to ask the person if I could take the bump in the bathroom and shoot it up. So, I would snort the bump off the end of a pen cap or, if I was partying with the “high- class set” the bump would be delivered off the end of a specially made bottle with an attached spoon.

I became such a snob about snorting meth. I had convinced myself that shooting-up was the only, and best, way to do meth. People who snorted it were in some way wasting a good hit. It was helpful to my psyche to feel superior in my delivery choice and, let’s be honest, that is the only difference. We were all drug addicts. Shooting up drugs has been labeled the lowest of the low in the drug world. Now for the truth, whether a smoker, shooter, or a snorter, a drug user is a drug user regardless of the delivery method. The delivery method is just a personal choice of how you choose to poison your body.

I live in Mineral Point, Wisconsin a town of 2600 and I was moved here kicking and screaming. I never understood the allure of a small town and I was sure that living here was going to be torture at its finest. My partner (Jason) grew up in a small town in the Midwest and after living in Florida and then moving to Madison, he found Mineral Point and decided that he/we had to live here. I was not interested. He would come home from a day trip, touting how magical a town Mineral Point was and how great living in a small town would be. All I could think of was, “Not on your life! Where would I shop?”
 
If I had only known then just how big of a role this small town and the people in it would play in my sobriety, I would have moved here years ago. I found in Mineral Point some of the best and most genuine friends I have ever had in my life. Keith Huie, Sandy Scott, Judy Sutcliffe, Tom and Kathie Kelly, Julia Dailey, Justin and Jessie Potterton, Cierra Wallace, Kendall and Stuart Brokopp, Ken and Geralyn Wallace and the entire Red Rooster breakfast gang are just a handful of the people that have truly made a difference in my life.
 
I worried about confessing my addiction to people that in my eyes might not be able to understand my struggle. I worried that I would become the subject of town gossip and be labeled as “city trash” bringing city problems to our small town. I soon learned that everyone became the subject of town gossip and it was very much an equal opportunity gossip mill. The gossip mill didn’t care whether you were a drug addict, the town tramp, or just the person that did not keep a tidy yard; you were going to be gossiped about and subject to the occasional glance of disapproval.
 
My normal routine of waking up and doing an injection of meth was soon replaced by breakfast and hearty conversations at the Red Rooster Café with a group of people that had no idea that they were getting me through the most difficult two hours of my day. I found solitude in my interactions with the disarming morning breakfast gang and soon began to look forward to seeing them… and being at the epicenter of the town gossip mill. I got all the dirt on the happenings in town and, most importantly, I got through the cravings, not by sitting in rehab, but by being surrounded by what I consider to be the greatest asset of Mineral Point – its residents.

In this small town that I once thought of as the ultimate end to my ability to be labeled a city guy, I found refuge from what ailed me the most, a fight with drug use that had already consumed more than half my life. Who would have thought in a town of 2600 people that so many of them would not only take interest in my journey, they were more than happy to become a part of my journey in the most loving and sincere manner possible, and became a part of my chosen family.

I am coming up on five years of sobriety and I just wanted to acknowledge the small town of Mineral Point, my home, and the unknowing battle ground for my recovery. Thank you for embracing me and helping me to find a place to call home.

When I say I offer no judgment on people that are currently using…I am simply saying that harsh judgment and ridicule have no place in the journey to rehabilitation. Being a drug addict can be an overwhelming admission and fear of judgment can often times lead people to hide behind their addictions and not seek help. The most feared addict should be the one hiding in the closet doing drugs or the one found dead with a needle in his arm and a tourniquet laying next to his body being viewed by a shocked family that didn’t know their beloved family member was a user.

Some people preach that admitting you are an addict is the first step. In some cases, that is true, but to who are you admitting your addiction to and does this person have the tools to hear it, accept it and move forward into truly being a loving and supportive role player in the process of your rehabilitation. I caution, choose wisely the receiver of your admission, some people are not cut out to be a part of your journey.  

Rehabilitation is about the realization that your time has come, you are at a cross roads in life, you have to decide if your drug use has gone beyond the party and has now become a way of life. In most cases, the recreational user becomes the daily user and the daily user is begging to become a statistic. I will be the first to admit that I had a blast doing drugs and in most cases I was still having a blast when I quit doing drugs. I did not quit because I hit rock bottom, I quit because it was time for me to move forward in my journey.

Recovery is about what you can become and not what you currently are…there is light at the end of the tunnel.

I am finding great comfort in all the support surrounding this show. I have enjoyed reading your comments on the blog and via private email. It is nice to know that so many people can relate to recovery in so many different ways. I have heard personal stories of triumph and some amazing stories about loved ones that have overcome their struggles with addiction.

I am moving into a deeper phase of the collection and I take comfort in knowing that all of you are here to support me. My recovery has been about layers and this collection is taking on that same feeling. I am allowing myself to go back to my first year of recovery. I am trying to rediscover the emotions that come within the first year and see if I can capture that rawness on canvas.

I just finished a piece called “Finding A Good Vein” …it is a simple painting with a flesh toned background, layers of black and gray lines and a single red line running through the middle. I love the painting and so far, it is the first in the collection that I have had an emotional response to. I remembered vividly trying to find a vein that had not given in to the daily abuse of intravenous drug use. Terms liked “collapsed vein” and “blown vein” were commonplace in my world and I get such a feeling of accomplishment knowing that my veins are renewed, my skin has healed, and more importantly, I am strong enough to allow myself to remember those lonely days of vein searching.