RECOVERY MEANS LEAVING OLD LIFE BEHIND

I used to get high with a guy named Lee, and I still think about him
from time to time.

I don't think you could rightly call us friends; after all, friends
don't steal from one another and shoot dope in each other's kitchen
and then pass out and burn holes in the carpet with a smoldering cigarette.

But we were partners in crime, so to speak. In the war of active
addiction, we did our tours of duty. I got out and found recovery. I
don't know what happened to Lee.

I'd like to think he's happy and healthy and living back up in Boston,
where he was from. I like to picture him cleaned up, that shaggy mane
of hair cut respectably, playing guitar and living life without the
use of drugs. Given the odds against most addicts finding and keeping
recovery, that's probably not the case.

If I know Lee, he's probably right where I left him -- walking the
darkened streets of Myrtle Beach, S.C., sleeping on the couches of
acquaintances, working odd jobs to scrape up enough money for a bag of
heroin and conning and manipulating his way through life.

That's what we did -- lived to use and used to live. We sort of
watched out for one another -- we'd share a bag of dope if we couldn't
come up with the money to get two -- and we'd ride together into the
projects, where there's safety in numbers, especially for white guys
out of their element and up to no good.

But the drugs were always at the core of our relationship. If I had
enough money to buy two bag and Lee wasn't around, I'd keep them both
for myself, regardless if I knew whether Lee would soon go through
withdrawal. If I could get a free bag or two by giving our dealer a
ride, I'd split it with Lee ... but tell him I had to pay for it.

I didn't do those things out of spite or cruelty, just as I'm sure he
didn't steal my CDs and pawn them out of any sort of malice. We did
what we had to do, because the disease demanded to be fed, and it
didn't matter who we hurt or ran over to give it what it wanted.

Sometimes, I think it would ease my mind to track Lee down and see how
he's doing. But recovery teaches me that's a bad idea. Early on,
recovering addicts are taught that we have to leave behind old
playgrounds and playmates. Any recovering addict who thinks he can go
to the old neighborhood pub to see everyone, or hang out with the good
friend who still smokes pot and drinks, is a fool.

I don't need to test my recovery today, and those old playgrounds do
just that. I can't hang around bars like I used to, no matter how much
I love live music. I can't hang out with old friends, because the path
I walk today isn't the one they do -- and just as I choose recovery, I
have to let them choose to do what it is they want, even if it's
contrary to my new way of life.

There's a particular saying in the rooms of recovery that may sound
corny, but it's applicable: "If you hang out in the barbershop long
enough, you're going to get a haircut." If I hang out in bars and
with old friends, I'm eventually going to get high again. I know what
goes on in those old places -- the same thing going on when I was
hanging out there.

Today, I know that I can't go around those old friends, either. Not to
say hello (that's what the phone is for), not to see how they're doing
(the same things they've always done), not to share my recovery (I'm
not in the hero business, and more often than not, they'll get me high
before I get them clean).

The best thing for me to do is to keep doing what I'm doing -- the
next right thing. If I stay true to my program of recovery, continue
to attend meetings and work with my sponsor and other recovering
addicts, I'll stay clean for another day.