It is always darkest before dawn
Even in my most befuddled periods, I knew that I was looking for something that the world could not provide. A series of disastrous attempts at meaningful relationships seemed to indicate that this need could not be met on the human plane. Despite the disruptive influence of drugs, I had a moderate degree of success in my chosen career fields of journalism and advertising – but this did nothing to fill the vast, empty space in the core of my being.

When I was high in drugs, nothing mattered. However, there were brief periods of time – sometimes lasting as long as two or three months – when I did manage to temporarily loosen their bonds. This would usually happen after a prolonged stay at some rehabilitation center or the other. During those infrequent intervals, my sense of personal worth depended on the acceptance and approval of others. To attain these, I looked for well–paid jobs, the company of socially esteemed people, and the kind of possessions that others respect and envy.

Nothing lasted – the jobs, the cheap approval, the exalted company, the accessories…. I could keep no job for longer than a month or two. The acceptance I sought sooner or later proved to be conditional, shallow and fake. And possessions, to me, had only one real worth – eventual resale value.

I had to discover, over and over again, that there is nothing but superficial, temporary fulfillment to be had from these. Achievement of any kind rang hollow and false to me without the context of a deeper purpose. I had never been a very spiritually insightful person, but the gnawing suspicion that I was looking in all the wrong places was almost constantly with me.

I occasionally sampled religious and pseudo–spiritual ‘Remedies’ to discover that meaning. But apart form the fact that drugs were the only religion I knew and respected, I labored under some common misconceptions. Firstly, I was looking for a way to give spiritual meaning to worldly things. Secondly, I was unable to let a single of these things go for the sake of a spiritual life. In the end, I would give in to the irresistible urge to use drugs again. It was the only means of filling the void, even if only temporarily.

Surrender
The turning point came quite unexpectedly, and I had no idea that it had arrived till maybe half a year later, in retrospect.

I have mentioned that hopping from one rehabilitation center to another had become a way of life for me. In the inevitable course of events, I found myself at one of these again in the middle of 2003. I was in pathetic and almost terminal shape. Doctors had declared me incurable and on the verge of death. Discharging myself from a hospital in –––––– advice, I returned to this ‘Rehab’ with no idea of what to do next. Even the most depraved drug addict retains a spark of his instinct for self–preservation, and the notion of losing an entire limb or even dying did not appeal to me.

The course of treatment at this center was really no different from all the previous times – I was immediately locked up to prevent me from escaping while I underwent the inevitable ‘Cold turkey’ (addict slang for the crippling physical and mental symptoms that accompany withdrawal from narcotic substances). I weathered this phase the best I could, receiving limited medical assistance and with my basic needs provided for. As usual, it took me more than a week to start eating anything. However, I continued to spend my nights wide awake, unable to sleep because of the sudden deprivation of drugs and the relentless craving for them.

In the month that I spent in the ‘Lock–up’, a couple of fellow addicts with whom I had shared similar stays in the past came and went. Their tenures in the ‘quarantine’ room were shorter than mine, but I didn’t care much about that. Something had happened that hadn’t happened to me before – I had finally reached my wits’ end. The end of my physical and intellectual resources – there were no spiritual ones to speak of then. If something didn’t change now, I’d either die or spend the rest of my life as a crippled freak. In the language of the NA Fellowship, I had reached rock bottom.

I guess that the most important facet of this situation was that my ego had reached its lowest ebb, too – which meant that I was finally teachable. It was at this point that a person who played a significant role in bringing me to God began looking in on me…. not often, but I learned to look forward to his infrequent visits.

He was the rehab counselor, and this was by no means the first time that I had dealings with him. However, we had developed a sort of understanding in the past – that I thought he had nothing worthwhile to say, and that he thought that my mind was as closed as a tomb. I don’t know if he sensed that something in me was different now, but he did spend those occasional few minutes talking to me about a God that I had not suspected existed.

You must understand that, in almost every addict’s mind, God is either a vengeful or unconcerned Being who has power to punish or ignore. Sure, we’re often told of a loving and personally concerned God, but it makes less than no sense in the light of what is happening in our lives. Every now and then, some pompous preacher will come along and rain either scriptural fire and brimstone or sickly sweet spiritual nothings down on us. Alternatively, we will be told that God has forgiven us, and that makes even less sense to someone who cannot forgive himself.

This guy, however, did not preach – instead, he told me of his own struggle with his emotional and physical aberrations, and with belief in God. He did not advise. He did not expound. He did not try to spoon–feed me chocolate–sprinkled Bible truths. He described to me a God who is well aware of man’s struggle with sin, and sympathizes. He believes in a God who is victimized by man’s constant misrepresentation of Him.

He told me of how he delved into the study of the occult in order to find spiritual enlightenment, and how that, paradoxically, led him to Jesus. He had been what is commonly known as a ‘born Christian’ – in other words, the most ignorant and complacent of the entire bunch – but his own search had taken him beyond the illusion of a birthright on Salvation. Like me, he had been fed various extremist ideas of God till he couldn’t believe in anything anymore.

There is an interesting song, written by a rock band from the early Sixties, that accurately depicts the result of such a glut
“Open up the gates of the church and let me out of here
Too many people have died in the name of Christ for anyone to heed the call
So many people have lied in the name of Christ that I can’t believe at all….”
(‘Cathedral’ by Crosby, Stills and Nash)

His journey of confusion and doubt rung responsive bells in me. Finally, I asked him why he was suddenly sharing all this with me. Wasn’t a counselor supposed to be strong, all knowing and infallible? He sort of laughed at that notion, and then told me that he felt that I was, at long last, ready to surrender my life and will to the care of God.

I balked at that notion, of course. Surrender? Surrender and lose even the illusion of control? But when he asked me what I thought I really had to lose, I had no answer. I was a week into enforced abstinence from drugs, and without doubt on the verge of yet another relapse. I had no family that wanted to have anything to do with me. I had no job, and no prospects of keeping one even if I did find employment. I had lived off the streets, begging from and conning friends and perfect strangers alike. I had stolen, been locked up and only providentially escaped having a criminal record. Looked at squarely, the notions of ‘self respect’ and ‘dignity’ were absurd.

He took me through these stark and painful truths one at a time, and not all at once. Over the stretch of approximately one–and–a–half months, he laid the sum total of my life situation bare before me. I would spend sleepless nights desperately trying to think of one single redeeming factor in my life. There was none. I was not on my knees yet, but I was on my back with all pride’s wind driven out of me. And that, I now see, was how God needed me in order to work with me.

Eventually, I did turn to this guy for advice.
“What do I do?” I asked.
“What can you do that you haven’t tried a thousand times before?” he would counter.
“How can God help me?”
“How can you help yourself?”
“How do I know that God REALLY cares about me? Never mind the Bible promises – how do I know he cares about ME?”
“There’s only one way of finding out – ask Him yourself…”
Finally, I did.