In December, about a week after I came home too early from my family’s first attempt to do an intervention, I broke down. The euphoria of being off drugs had worn off, and all the things I’d been warned about were suddenly true: I was a loser, I had no way forward, I was not healed, it was too early – and with no euphoria to buoy me, I crashed, and hard.

I remember so vividly, standing at the foot of Cris’ bed, tears rolling down my cheeks, asking him if I could talk, because I didn’t know the way forward. We lay there, him listening, me trying to bend reality with my words, and failing, and being faced with the only possible reality that remained: loser – monster – selfish – arrogant – destructive – DAVE.

More tears – how could I have been so blind, so selfish, for so long? A burden on everyone, forcing myself on every situation, forcing my will on everyone I encountered, tolerating nothing but my own selfish self-destructive will, and shouting down any who stood in my way, I did not do drugs because I was hurting, because I was emotionally retarded – no, I did drugs because I was the hero, the man, the last man standing, while all others quit drugs, I controlled them, made them make me fly, made the world see that if I was so damned good sober, then I was so much better, chemically enhanced, high, rushing, moving on up.

I was wrong. And I fell for my own lies, far harder than any who were taken in by the reality that I created for myself. I had to, you see, I had to become the consummate liar, over and over again, to the most important person in my life: ME! If I couldn’t fool myself, then I could fool no one. So I became a craftsman, fabricating sweeping untruths that made the stuff of Hollywood seem pedestrian by comparison. That didn’t work, no one believed the big stuff, though I wished the big stuff were true, wished the hell out of it – it never held. So I went back to the drawing board and tooled on little lies – “I’m running late – there’s traffic!” or “Bank swallowed my card – can I borrow R300?”  or “Hey buddy, I’ve drawn my limit, can I get a gram, and pay you tomorrow?” These were good lies, they worked, so well that I started to believe them, and little by little my life and soul were tainted, turned black, stolen, by my own actions. And once I started to believe, there was no difficulty in looking you in the eye, and driving sincerity deep into you, as I spun one lie after another, to pay for my drugs. 

Sangfroid. Cold-blooded. Not to the world. No, there I exuded warmth, and complicit vitality. I played the part, I did my bit – but to myself, I was cold-blooded, cruel and unkind. That me is dead. And good riddance.

But the hardware remains. This body, these hands, a mind powerful, creative, talented and finally, free. Free from drugs, free from lies, free from the false reality it spun a million times a second to create, free from me-that-was, free from Tom and free from Cris and the damage we caused together.

Today was my birthday, but March 19 2012 does not mark my 38th birthday, it is instead the launch of Dave2.0, voted by me as ‘Most Likely To Be Unstoppable

The new me, the real me, the living me – all just…me. Healing, progressing, being.

Now is the time of my life!
© healing.me. 2012 All Rights Reserved.


  1. Dave, you made me cry!!! Ek het jou blog begin volg…en so ironiesis my drug van iets ander aard, maar ek vereenselwig my so baie met jou woorde, jou seer en so baie meer….weet jou healing me… help my…om healing-me-chantell…. New verion…on the way…in process… Dankie vir jou eerlikheid, nooit besef jy gaan hier diep in my hart werk nie.. luv you

  2. Chantell, ek't nou eers jou comment gesien, jou woorde laat my huil van blyheid, om te weetdat om my storie te deel jy in jouself vrede kan vind. Ek wens jou net meer vrede en liefde voor! Loves!

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