surprise; long ago the ghosts of Methadonia told me to expect a deep depression and debilitating insomnia, but that paled in comparison to the ghosts in my head and the full-blown panic attacks that began erupting if I happened to somehow fall asleep.
Until this point I’d never had a panic attack, and it wasn’t until a few days later when I mentioned the symptoms to Randy and he told me what it probably was, as his sister had suffered from identical symptoms for much of her adult life. The attacks also, not surprisingly, seemed eerily similar to the desperate and terrified feeling that often overcame me as a kid during the middle of the night.
It wasn’t long before I realized the attacks only occurred when I fell asleep aware of my mother’s presence in the apartment. As a result, thanks to my evening employment, the After Hours Club and some Ambien I was able to completely rearrange my
sleep
schedule to coincide with my mother’s
work
schedule. Hence, moments after she headed out for work each morning I’d be heading in from breakfasting at Denny’s with the Club, and about an hour before she returned from work each afternoon I was already Rockin’ and Rollin’ at the cafe. I was still usually depressed as shit but thanks to the Ambien and the revised schedule I was never tired, and I think the only one happier about the arrangement was my mother.
Certainly, staying out all night with a group of pretty serious drug abusers in order to avoid my own relapse may sound counterproductive, but as far as my addiction was concerned I kept my head down and never looked up which was easy enough because although the Club did a lot of drugs—
they didn’t do dope
. That’s not to say they wouldn’t if given the opportunity, but most of them were too deeply immersed in the wonderful world ofcocaine and ecstasy and though I occasionally made myself available sexually, I never did any of the drugs…or at least any of the
real
drugs.
The After Hours Club consisted of about ten revelers, most of whom were a couple of years younger than I and included a few kids who were in college, a few kids who weren’t in college, three former strippers and a singer/songwriter named Edgar Feldman with whom I obviously shared some things in common—
besides
the strippers. In fact, the commonalities were almost uncanny. We both previously fronted bands that had self-destructed due to drugs, were mediocre guitar players, and had warrants out for our arrests.
On most evenings the club would end up in Bridgeport where the former strippers formerly stripped, presently lived, and usually bought their drugs. And though Toni, Michelle and Megan were no longer taking their clothes off for money, they still somehow managed to maintain stripper-sized drug habits. Each night several grams of coke would be depleted before Megan and Toni would get it on in front of me while I was beating on an old acoustic guitar and smoking like a Rasta. And though I abstained from the coke I was once again reminded of Randy and Jack and the time I’d spent at their apartment smoking crack and banging on the synthesizer while they were smoking crack and banging on each other. Needless to say, though I obviously didn’t play ball with the boys back then I did with the girls now—and I’m sad to report there was barely a blade of grass on
either
field.
So each night my evening progressed in much the same way: twenty minutes of free binge drinking at the Café, followed by an hour or so of slow and steady drinking at Calloway’s, capped off with a few hours of pot smoking and stripper sex. Not bad for a 28-year-old recovering junky still living with his mother. And I was actually
saving
money. Sad as it may be, until now I’d never saved a dime and hadn’t even had a checking account since college. And though certainly—by New York standards—my earnings were hardly impressive, while living in Stamford I wasn’t paying anyrent or bills and there was no
Until this point I’d never had a panic attack, and it wasn’t until a few days later when I mentioned the symptoms to Randy and he told me what it probably was, as his sister had suffered from identical symptoms for much of her adult life. The attacks also, not surprisingly, seemed eerily similar to the desperate and terrified feeling that often overcame me as a kid during the middle of the night.
It wasn’t long before I realized the attacks only occurred when I fell asleep aware of my mother’s presence in the apartment. As a result, thanks to my evening employment, the After Hours Club and some Ambien I was able to completely rearrange my
sleep
schedule to coincide with my mother’s
work
schedule. Hence, moments after she headed out for work each morning I’d be heading in from breakfasting at Denny’s with the Club, and about an hour before she returned from work each afternoon I was already Rockin’ and Rollin’ at the cafe. I was still usually depressed as shit but thanks to the Ambien and the revised schedule I was never tired, and I think the only one happier about the arrangement was my mother.
Certainly, staying out all night with a group of pretty serious drug abusers in order to avoid my own relapse may sound counterproductive, but as far as my addiction was concerned I kept my head down and never looked up which was easy enough because although the Club did a lot of drugs—
they didn’t do dope
. That’s not to say they wouldn’t if given the opportunity, but most of them were too deeply immersed in the wonderful world ofcocaine and ecstasy and though I occasionally made myself available sexually, I never did any of the drugs…or at least any of the
real
drugs.
The After Hours Club consisted of about ten revelers, most of whom were a couple of years younger than I and included a few kids who were in college, a few kids who weren’t in college, three former strippers and a singer/songwriter named Edgar Feldman with whom I obviously shared some things in common—
besides
the strippers. In fact, the commonalities were almost uncanny. We both previously fronted bands that had self-destructed due to drugs, were mediocre guitar players, and had warrants out for our arrests.
On most evenings the club would end up in Bridgeport where the former strippers formerly stripped, presently lived, and usually bought their drugs. And though Toni, Michelle and Megan were no longer taking their clothes off for money, they still somehow managed to maintain stripper-sized drug habits. Each night several grams of coke would be depleted before Megan and Toni would get it on in front of me while I was beating on an old acoustic guitar and smoking like a Rasta. And though I abstained from the coke I was once again reminded of Randy and Jack and the time I’d spent at their apartment smoking crack and banging on the synthesizer while they were smoking crack and banging on each other. Needless to say, though I obviously didn’t play ball with the boys back then I did with the girls now—and I’m sad to report there was barely a blade of grass on
either
field.
So each night my evening progressed in much the same way: twenty minutes of free binge drinking at the Café, followed by an hour or so of slow and steady drinking at Calloway’s, capped off with a few hours of pot smoking and stripper sex. Not bad for a 28-year-old recovering junky still living with his mother. And I was actually
saving
money. Sad as it may be, until now I’d never saved a dime and hadn’t even had a checking account since college. And though certainly—by New York standards—my earnings were hardly impressive, while living in Stamford I wasn’t paying anyrent or bills and there was no
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