47. The Beginning of the End
On December 14, 2019, I found myself entangled in a regrettable incident that now stands as my last criminal encounter with law enforcement. The details of that night are somewhat hazy due to a deadly combination of Xanax and beer consumption throughout the day. I had gotten into a car wreck somewhere on Route 207, nestled between Goshen and Campbell Hall. In the immediate aftermath of the collision, panic set in. In possession of around 300 Xanax pills and other assorted medications (that were not prescribed to me), I faced a dilemma that was exacerbated by the sudden appearance of a good Samaritan who had stopped to check on my well-being. I insisted that all was fine. I gestured a quick thumbs up and motioned for her to depart, mindful of the impending legal repercussions. My car was wrapped around a telephone pole, and I was giving this lady a thumbs-up as if everything was fine… INSANITY. It was a cold, rainy evening. My attempt to dissolve my stash of drugs in a large puddle near the crash site was unsuccessful. My thinking was totally clouded by the alcohol and drugs, and I stupidly didn’t take the pills out of the bags they were in, so they just floated on top of the puddle; much like a rubber duck floats in a bathtub full of water. For those unfamiliar with the area, Route 207 is a narrow road with a 55-mph speed limit and a State Trooper Barrack that looms just two miles away. The ominous "whoop whoop" sound of approaching police cars confirmed the severity of my predicament and minutes later, multiple State Troopers arrived at the scene.
The interrogation unfolded swiftly as the police officers inquired into my activities that fateful night, probing about any alcohol consumption. One officer claimed to detect the unmistakable scent of alcohol on my breath, leaving me with my back against the wall. I decided honesty might be my best option—though it was a selective truth. Confessing to a mere two beers earlier in the evening, I conveniently omitted the six or seven additional beers I had consumed. The next thing I remember is being in a police station, my memory failing to capture the journey there. My pants were soaking wet from the rain and my unsuccessful attempt at hiding my stash of pills in the gulley puddle. With one hand uncomfortably restrained to a bench with a pair of handcuffs, I remember shivering like crazy. I asked the officers when they were going to take me to jail, anticipating the prospect of dry clothes. Astonishingly, the officer informed me that I was going to be released on my recognizance with a scheduled court date, sparing me the anticipated incarceration. I guess I should mention that I was already a participant in drug treatment court, an alternative to incarceration, a consequence of a similar arrest six months prior that had led to a brief jail term. Participants in drug court, bound by a strict contract, were prohibited from any arrest. This stipulation mandated immediate reporting to our drug court counselor in the event of any police contact at all. My crash was on Friday night, so I knew I had a weekend before getting into contact with my counselor was going to be possible. I found myself released from the police station around five o'clock the next morning. Stranded without a car due to the wreckage, I phoned a close friend for a ride home. Emerging from the police station, soaked and chilled to the bone, anxiety gnawed at me as the uncertain future loomed ahead.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, that arrest served as the catalyst for a profound turning point in my life. Little did I realize that without that pivotal moment, my trajectory might have been drastically different, more than likely ending with premature death. Exiting the police station, I braced myself for the storm awaiting me at home—anger and disappointment hanging in the air like a dark cloud. Once inside, I hopped in a warm shower and fell asleep shortly afterward. Upon awakening, I packed a bag full of clothes and prepared myself for another trip to yet another detox facility. At this point, I found myself unprepared to embark on the journey to sobriety. Doubt lingered, casting shadows on my belief in the possibility of achieving and maintaining a clean lifestyle. Despite my initial skepticism, I acknowledged the profound disappointment and anger I had caused my family and wanted to try to begin fixing that to the best of my ability. I didn’t have the slightest idea of what was in store for me in the coming days. I entered the detox facility with the expectation of a brief stay, anticipating three to four days at most to cleanse the alcohol and drugs from my system. If my time there had indeed been that short, I doubt I would be penning these words today. Life often unfolds in mysterious ways.
Join me for the continuation of this journey in part two next week… and remember, if you’re struggling, or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope. If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.
