Writing |

The sun was coming up. Again. Not good.

I’d been up for three days on a bender. It was like a one-man bachelor party. To call me an addict is underselling it. I loved cocaine like Leo loved that chick in Titanic. Every night in my dreams — I see you, I feel you. I did lines so long I had to shuffle my feet just to finish. And the thing was — I was never finished until I didn’t have any left.

Somehow, I’d gotten through two days of work at my hedge fund, but I knew I couldn’t do a third.

I paced my Tribeca apartment, restless and raw, the city stretching out beyond my window. Porn, muted, played on my TV. I picked up my phone. Set it down. Did a line. Picked it up again to practice.

I tried to speak, but nothing resembling words came out. I tried again.

I sounded like an alien after two Rosetta Stone lessons. I can’t come to work today was the goal, but it felt like I had to assemble it in pieces — I can’t… come to… work today.

And I knew there’d be a response. Something I’d have to answer. There was no way I could do this.

I set my phone down, watched porn, then emailed in sick. In 2003, on Wall Street, that was code for I partied too hard last night. I didn’t care. I couldn’t speak. My hands shook as I typed it and hit send.

My life had been held together by lies, half-truths, and omissions. Iceberg, right ahead. I knew the ship was going down — that part was inevitable — but maybe I could still grab a lifeboat.

So… I did what every good addict does. I called my two-and-a-half drug dealers.

Not being able to speak didn’t matter; it probably helped.

First was Pierre. He was my guy. He delivered $100 bags of relatively pure coke. It made me jittery, which tells me there was some other shit in it, but it did the trick. He sometimes took over an hour though.

Then there was Bo. He sold $60s and fast. Not as good, but he delivered anytime — 3 a.m., no problem; 2 p.m. office visit, piece of cake. He was my backup.

And then there was Eddie — my half-dealer. He wasn’t a dealer at all. He was a sales trader I’d trade stock with, and he’d meet me after work for a handoff. Commission dollars for cocaine.

Each call was the same: Don’t sell to me anymore. Under any circumstances. In a week I’ll beg you to come over, but you need to cut me off. I’m going to die.

All three understood. All three wished me the best. Shockingly, they kept their word when I called them two weeks later. Who says there’s no honor in drug dealing?

But here’s the truth: I found cocaine in other ways. Cutting myself off didn’t stop me. It delayed me. It inconvenienced me. It annoyed me. But it didn’t stop me. And that’s my point.

Everywhere I look — TV, X, the paper — it’s all about blowing up Venezuelan boats to stop drugs and save lives. It’s bullshit. America doesn’t have a supply problem. We have a demand problem. Plain and simple.

I’m sure people will throw stones, so let me say this preemptively: in the history of drug users, no one has ever said, I really want to do cocaine tonight, but I can’t find any, so I’ll stay in and have a glass of wine.

People don’t do cocaine because it smells good. They do it because they want euphoria. And if they can’t find cocaine, they’ll find another way to get that feeling. And before anyone comes at me about fentanyl — I agree, it’s killing people. But it’s not coming from Venezuela. That’s just a fact.

You don’t stop addiction by blowing up boats or locking borders or making speeches. You stop it when the person who wants the drugs more than anything finally wants something else more.

I know this isn’t popular, but drugs don’t pour into this country because dealers are evil geniuses. They come because people like me were buying them. If there’s no demand, there’s no profit. And if there’s no profit, the drugs stop coming. Blaming the sellers is easier — it just doesn’t work.

If we actually want to help addicts, we should stop pretending the drugs are the problem and start dealing with the pain underneath them. That means making it easier to ask for help than it is to get high. It means treatment that’s accessible, honest, and human. And it means creating a world where getting sober doesn’t feel like stepping off a cliff with no net.

For me, it wasn’t fear or law enforcement or supply chains. It was the slow realization that I was about to lose everything — and that no amount of cocaine was ever going to save me from myself.

You can try to take away the drugs. You can’t take away the desire.

That part has to be dealt with face to face, in the mirror — usually at sunrise.