My Story (Like Bill W's Story): Matt Andersen (9.3.23)

Rebellion ran high in the Utah town where my friends and I grew up…

There were those of us who saw the red-bricked, steepled buildings of Mormonism as prisons rather than sanctuaries. No smoking. No drinking. No coveting thy neighbor's ass. No tattoos. In our minds, we were barred from all the different experiences being human brought—not protected from them. We searched high and low for escape.

Eventually, we found it. We found it in the all night dance parties, in parent’s liquor cabinets, and in the ecstasy and acid that had been smuggled through socks, hats, and boxer briefs. The warnings from those men in the red-bricked, steepled buildings were wrong.

I was part of life at last.

It wasn’t just that I finally felt comfortable in my own skin (which was a miracle in and of itself), I also felt important. Wasn’t it true that all the greats drank and drugged? Elliott Smith. Bill Hicks. Alexander the Great. Capote. These were my people. This was my calling.

In 2011, I chased that feeling all the way to Seattle, Washington. And in less than a weekend of moving there, before my first college class even started, I had made friends with those who could get me drugs. We smoked pot every night and watched the stars shine from the edge of lake Union. We took acid and talked about cinematography, poetry, and politics. I had never made friends so easily. My mind had never been so at ease.

The world was our stage, and I had arrived.

The pursuit continued as far as we could take it, then a little more. Some of us ended up in hospitals. Some kicked off campus. There was infidelity. I pulled further and further away from the group to focus on my only obsessions at that point: getting a degree in Physics and staying high. What was the point of community? People were a roadblock, and I started taking my drugs to-go.

By 2014, the magic wore off. I needed more drugs, different drugs, higher doses of drugs. If I could hear my own thoughts, then I was in trouble. You’re failing classes, lying to your family, cheating, and you don’t even have anything to show for it. Maybe you’re not so great after all. In order to keep them shut off, I had to turn to heroin and methamphetamine.

Things don’t tend to get better once you start doing schedule one narcotics. I dropped out of school—less than a year until I would’ve gotten my degree—and ran up thousands of dollars in cash advances on my family’s card. Hallucinations haunted me as if I lived in a nightmare. The voices multiplied, getting louder and louder.

People feared for my sanity.

Family showed up unannounced, from several states away, to check in on me. Was I depressed? Struggling with school? My ability to lie was so fine-tuned at this point that; even though I was close to one hundred pounds, hadn’t showered in weeks (possibly months), and was covered in sores; I could still convince people I didn’t have a problem. That is, until it was impossible to deny.

By the end of 2015, my lease had ended, and the cat was out of the bag. Everyone knew what a sad state I was in. An intervention was held, but I stormed out into the streets with nowhere to go. I thought I could weasel my way out, but my ability to con had met its match. Everyone left, and no one returned my calls unless I agreed to treatment.

It only took a few nights. One at a 24-hour donut shop, one on a friend’s couch (before promptly getting kicked out), one at a homeless shelter, and one with a local aunt and uncle who were oblivious to my situation. Only when they found out, and threatened to return me to the sidewalk they picked me up at, did I agree to rehab. Maybe after some food and good night’s rest I could come up with a better plan.

The plane took me to San Diego. I managed to sneak a small bit of dope into the facility, and unbeknownst to me, it’d be the last time I got high. February 15, 2016. No one caught me, but I was apparently still delusional enough by the end of my stay that all parties agreed I needed much longer and intensive care. I was booked on another plane. This time to New Haven, Connecticut.

I was tired. None of my schemes had panned out, and I was getting further and further away from where I wanted to be. The best idea I could come up with was to just stick it out. I’d play along until they let me go. Then I’d be back off to the races.

So, I sat in on their meetings, and they all talked of God. I had tried that one before. The alcoholics in these church basements were no different than the Mormons in their red-bricked, steepled buildings. It didn’t work for me then why would it work for me now? In fact, I was still so delusional early on in sobriety, that there were times I believed I was God. How was that going to work?

Then someone introduced me to one of these alcoholics.

His name was Matt…which is my name. He had just started a doctorate in Physics, which was exactly what I had wanted to do. He was an atheist. Was I being punked? Here was someone I could see myself becoming, someone I respected, and they didn’t even drink! This brief flash of clarity may have been quickly supplanted by my selfish and delusional thoughts. But the seed had been planted.

As the days went on, it became more and more clear that I couldn’t trust myself. I was the reason I was here. If I did get out, it stood to reason, I’d do something stupid enough to get myself brough right back in again…or worse. So, I put my faith in others. I started doing things I never would have done previously. I went to meetings. I raised my hand. I made coffee. I set up chairs. I talked to three sober alcoholics a day. I even prayed to a God I didn’t believe in because my sponsor who prayed to a God he didn’t believe in told me to. In short, I relinquished control.

Almost frustratingly, things started to work. My values changed. Why the hell am I so excited that I got a job at Dunkin’ Donuts? What great person ever worked at a coffee shop? My ego was shattered, but it allowed space for selflessness to grow. I didn’t believe in God, but I came to believe in others. Alcoholics, addicts, friends, family, everyone; they gave me the tools I couldn’t give to myself. I developed the faith that I’d be ok if I allowed myself to be helped and supported by others.

But what was even more beautiful was when I learned that I could be the help and support someone else might need. I chaired meetings, spoke at them, secretaried for them, drove people to and from them. Sometimes I did all four in one night. I’ve driven to a Popeyes parking lot in the middle of the night to talk an addict off the ledge of relapse. My sponsor got me a job after the dozens I had applied to turned me down. To love and to be loved. Together, these two pillars formed the foundation of my sobriety.

Today, I’m not a Physicist with a PhD. I’m not a best-selling author. I’m not the King of Macedon. But I am sober. If I wasn’t, I wouldn't have met my wife, I wouldn't have found a home, I wouldn’t have gotten my dream job, or made the friends that I have. I wouldn’t have learned how to be okay with not being.

Matt writes The Spittoon here on Substack, you should subscribe.