Bruised Fruit Hiding the Truth 8

Bruised Fruit: Hiding the Truth #8

"Live your daily life in a way that you never lose yourself." These words by Thich Nhat Hanh, the Zen Master and Buddhist known worldwide for his teachings on mindfulness, peace, and compassion, have stayed with me as I read his book, Taming the Tiger Within. Normally, I'm not the type for "self-help" books—the kind you find quoted on social media. But Hanh's wisdom is raw and has a meaning that doesn't feel "hippy-dippy" or forced. His words are grounding, especially as the seasons shift from fall to winter, and I'm taking stock of the life I've led.

Hanh writes a lot about anger and how to process it, especially the concept of balancing what he calls "a demon's hands and a Buddha's heart." That phrase spoke to me: appearing powerful yet keeping one's heart rooted in compassion and kindness. It's about channeling strength while remaining true to one's core values. This balance comes naturally for some, but I've struggled with it. Looking back at the years I lost to addiction, I realize that I wasn't a kind person when I was using. My anger and self-loathing spilled out in ways I didn't understand, and while I might've seemed "nice" sometimes, there was a deep rottenness underneath. I made decisions that hurt those who meant the most to me, and those decisions still haunt me.

People have told me for years that I have a "shit-eating grin"—a smile that can come off as mischievous or even smug. I can't help how my face looks, but I can control my actions and how I respond to judgment. It's something I've come to recognize, especially when people call me selfish, a worthless junkie, mean, or worse. I'll admit I am rough around the edges at times, but I've tried to soften in recent months. I'm learning that, as Hanh teaches, it's not just what you say but how you say it and that being accountable to my values matters.

My troubles started early. In high school, I got into a lot of trouble—1992 and 1993 were years I'll never forget. I was expelled halfway through my senior year in March 1993. I had given a younger student some powerful sleeping pills. He asked for them but took too many and fell asleep at his desk. He "snitched" on me to the principal at the time, prompting them to search my locker. They found LSD and more pills. This student broke the "code" of silence we valued back then, so I resented him for years.

But Hanh says, "At the moment you become angry, you tend to believe that your misery has been created by another person. But by looking deeply, you realize that the seed of anger in you is the main cause of suffering." I was directing my anger at the wrong person. In truth, I was furious with myself for bringing drugs to school and for making those choices. And once I realized this, letting go of that anger became possible. Forgiving him after all these years has felt like a weight lifted.

That expulsion was just the beginning. Because of the mess I'd made, plus many more bad decisions, I was forced to spend weekends at the old Greene County Jail during my first semester at New Paltz.

Unsurprisingly, I failed out my first year. Afterward, my parents decided I should leave the area. My uncle lived in Beaver Creek, Colorado, near Vail, and my dad insisted on driving me out there. This was just a few days before Woodstock '94, and I remember how hard it was to watch him drive away after he dropped me off. I was only 19, alone in a new place that felt like a ski resort on steroids.

Luckily, jobs were plentiful, and I landed one at Vail Associates, which they were called back then. I worked in the warehouse, and they even gave me a ski pass. But my sense of freedom didn't last long. While snowboarding in the backcountry, I dislocated my shoulder. The pain was like nothing I'd ever experienced, and the doctor prescribed Vicodin. That was my gateway; it was the beginning of a dependence I didn't see coming. I craved that warm, comforting feeling, and every time my shoulder acted up, I found myself asking for more pills.

A few months later, I took off to California with a friend, where I dove deeper into drugs. In Santa Cruz, I rediscovered cocaine, followed by black tar heroin. That was the first time I tasted black tar, melting it into water and snorting it—an experience that felt like it unlocked something inside me. Back in Vail, I didn't give it much thought, but every time I had pain, I was reminded of that feeling and wanted it back. My mid-twenties became a blur of chasing highs. I added crystal meth to the mix, and my work performance plummeted. I was a shift manager at Domino's, and one day, after staying up all night, I fell asleep at my desk. Locked inside the office, I was completely out cold, and one of the drivers called the manager. I was fired immediately. It was the first job I lost to drugs—but not my last.

As my addiction spiraled, I drifted around, taking odd jobs to survive. Eventually, I moved out to California with a friend, lured by the promise of "easy-to-get" heroin and cocaine. California was rough, ending with me getting arrested and experiencing homelessness for the first time, as I chronicled in an earlier column. I finally returned to New York on a Greyhound, miserable and dope sick. That was yet another one of the lowest moments of my life —trapped on a bus for days, ill and feeling every mistake I'd made.

Back in New York, I worked for my old boss at a pizza place in Colonie, where my addiction continued to deepen. I started smoking crack and moved into a cheap motel, blowing all my earnings on drugs. Every day was survival, a series of interactions with people whose lives mirrored my mess. My job performance deteriorated, and eventually, I was fired again. I had burned through everything I valued, but I didn't care at the time. I was on a path that seemed to lead nowhere but down.

When I finally returned to Hunter, I found work as a lift operator at Hunter Mountain. I'm preparing to start there again this winter, but now, for the first time, I'll be sober. As I sit here on November 6, 102 days clean, I realize what sobriety has given me—a chance to see my life and my community with fresh eyes. The Four Agreements have been a guiding light for me, especially the principle of being "impeccable with my word." I've lost so much trust over the years, but earning it back, piece by piece has been one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.

Today, I feel more grounded and present in my life and on this mountaintop I call home. I don't have much, but what I do have is a newfound respect for honesty and accountability. I've seen Hunter from both sides—wasted and sober. Now, I'm ready to build a life that's rooted in truth, dependability, and the strength to keep showing up. Here's to the climb forward, one day at a time.