CHAPTER 1
My First Shot

WHEN I GRADUATED from my New Jersey high school in 1979, I was an honor student and a junkie. I don’t mean I smoked a lot of weed or popped too many pills—I shot speed daily. Methamphetamine to
the chemist, crank in my hometown, crystal in modern terminology.

I hit a nerve in my right wrist as I injected before the ceremony. When the principal presented my diploma and shook my hand, I bit my lip to suppress the scream that surged from my belly to my throat.

Inside the leatherette cover, one note congratulated me for winning the most scholarship money, but another demanded repayment of sixty-two dollars from a candy sale, funds I had used to score a gram
of meth.

My classmates avoided eye contact when I staggered off the stage.
They giggled and prodded one another, excited to launch the next chapter in their lives. I slumped in the plastic chair, dread suffocating me as I contemplated flunking out of college. I almost failed last semester, skipping school so often, and UCLA’s gonna be so much harder.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and die of an overdose on a dorm floor. I snapped the folio shut. Jesus, is that my best option? How the fuck did I get here?

Ten months earlier, after snorting crank for three days, I had fallen into the turbulent sleep of an overdue crash. I clawed my way to consciousness, then focused on the clock radio’s fluorescent 7:08.

“Cindy,” I shouted toward my sister’s room. “Is it AM or PM?”

“Goddammit, I’m sleeping. Because it’s morning.”

I threw off the sheets, struggled to a sitting position, and waited for the dizziness to subside. As I stood, I planted my hand on the bed for balance. Trudging to my mirror, I examined the dark roots setting off my Nice ’n Easy blond hair. Smeared mascara framed bloodshot eyes above sunken cheeks. I held up my hand and watched it shake.

Shit! I look like that old drunk at the Silver Fox who spends her days chained to a barstool.

I shuffled to the refrigerator and grappled with the Pepsi tab before I collapsed on the sofa and lit a cigarette. Like every other morning, I snatched my purse from the Formica coffee table and dug for my drug kit. No crank. Just a few black beauties. Warm tears spurted down my cold face. It’s okay, it’s okay. You have the beauties.

Weaker than meth, but at least these pills delivered an amphetamine high. Should I break them open, discard the time-release ebony granules, and snort the powder for a more intense rush? My nostrils ached from overuse, so I swallowed two.

As I waited for the energy burst, I smacked my cheeks. Pull it together. You need meth. This early, Bubba’s your best bet. If you look trashed, he’ll send you home.

I spent the next hour constructing Mary Beth. Shower, blow out, hot rollers, another black beauty, frosted blue eye shadow, maroon shorts, and a breast-enhancing halter top. Scrutinizing my image again, I straightened my shoulders, tossed my hair, and practiced a laugh. Relief! A façade sufficient to hide the depths of my deterioration. I drove my brown ’73 Valiant to Bordentown’s four block city center.

High school dropout Bubba worked as a midlevel drug dealer. At twenty, he still lived with his parents in a narrow row house. I exchanged pleasantries with his mom as she spread her famous ham salad on Wonder Bread. “Help yourself to a sandwich if you get hungry later.”

Bubba beckoned me over and we walked a couple blocks to spend the day with Matt. His wife at work, the unemployed truck driver provided a safe haven in a tacit exchange for drugs. Proud of his chiseled body, Matt would use speed and then spend hours weight lifting.

As we approached the two-story brick apartment building, Bubba tugged at his loose pants. Naturally plump, too much crank and too little food had reduced his waistline. “Mary Beth, if I’m not careful, I’ll be crazy skinny like you.” “Hey, I put on a couple of pounds.” “Hmm, I’ve never seen a collarbone stick out like yours.”

Mary Beth O’Connor’s memoir From Junkie to Judge is available here.

This excerpt is from Mary Beth O’Connor’s new book, “From Junkie to Judge: One Woman’s Triumph Over Trauma and Addiction.” Reprinted with permission from Health Communications, Inc.

 

Mary Beth O’Connor has been sober since 1994. She has also been in recovery from abuse, trauma, and anxiety. Six years into her recovery, Mary Beth attended Berkeley Law. She worked at a large firm, then litigated class actions for the federal government. In 2014, she was appointed a federal administrative law judge, which position she held until 2020. Mary Beth is a director, secretary, and founding investor for She Recovers Foundation and a director for LifeRing Secular Recovery. She regularly speaks about multiple paths to recovery, to groups such as Women for Sobriety. Mary Beth’s op-ed, “I Beat Addiction Without God,” where she described combining ideas from several secular programs to create a robust recovery foundation, appeared in the Wall Street Journal.