Join Dr. Cali Estes of The Addictions Academy and The Addictions Coach and her husband Tim Estes as they disclose their intimate secrets and how to combat the stigma of addiction when you are a rock-n-roll drummer on tour and a prominent addictions specialist in the field.
Read on below for an excerpt from their best-selling book, I Married A Junkie, then click on the link to purchase.
Tap, tap… tap, tap.
I feel like I’m drowning, smothered, and something is keeping me under. I suck in some air and try to clear my thinking.
Bang, bang, bang!
Air, I need more air, and to figure out who is making that fucking racket!
I finally lift my head, look over and there’s a cop looking back at me, pounding on my car window and telling me, “Wake up sleepy head and roll down your window.”
I flail a little as I figure out how to roll the window down and as it slides down, he says, “Guy behind you called. He reported you’ve been here awhile, says you sat through three green lights before he called. And that was some time ago. What’re you doing snoozing in the middle of an intersection, at a red light? Where’s the dope? Where’s your heroin, bud?”
I blink a couple times with my mouth hanging open a little. I’m starting to come out of my underwater world, feeling a little less like my mind is wading through molasses.
“Huh? Dope? I…I’m f…fine, man. Just a little tired,” I stammer.
My thinking is starting to speed up, getting jumpstarted by the conversation I am having with the Man in Blue. How the hell did I fucking nod out at the light? And keep my foot on the brake?
Panicking some as the thought of the bags of heroin stashed in the car enter my clouded consciousness, I blurt out, “No, no…man. No heroin, I’m just really tired. I swear.”
“You’re sleeping at the red light because you’re tired? Right,” he says. “Outta the car.”
Just then the paramedics show up, strip off my shirt and stick those little electrodes all over my chest, so they can read my vital signs. I guess I check out as being alive and having some decent vitals, and the cop stuffs me in the back of his car. He turns and starts chatting with the medics.
I can barely make out what they’re saying but can see his lips and I can tell he’s asking if I’m on heroin. The paramedic says he can’t be sure, can’t really tell, so I start to work on my story. They come back over to the car and yank open the door.
“C’mon man, we know you’re on something. Tell us what’s going on, what drugs you’re taking so we can help you, we don’t want you to die at red light,” says the medic.
“I think I might be diabetic, it runs in my family,” I lie.
“You’re diabetic? You think, or you’ve been diagnosed?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never been diagnosed. But my brother and my mother are both diabetic and they pass out all the time,” I continue.
They shut the door again and I can see them talking some more, and the medic telling the cop I could be diabetic or just bullshitting, he doesn’t know. They start to pack up their gear and load their rig to leave.
The cop watches them for a bit, pondering. I know he doesn’t want to haul in another junkie and fill his afternoon with paperwork and sitting at a desk. He’d rather drive around in his car, drink coffee and hope for something more exciting to happen. Or for nothing at all to happen.
He opens the door and stares at me for a minute. I stare back, a little bleary-eyed, but the adrenaline if flowing a little now and kicking me back out of my nod.
He inquires slowly, “Do you think you can get this car home without fucking killing anyone?”
“Yes, yes sir.”
He pulls me out, turns away and gets in the driver’s seat, quickly pulling away and leaving me standing there amazed and a bit dumbfounded. He let me go, incredible.
The excitement of my surviving a near-incarceration and near-death experience leaves me feeling giddy, almost celebratory. I jump in the car and drive home.