Healing the Wounded Soul: Break Free From the Pain of the Past and Live Again

DOUGADDISON.COM

Chapter 1

WHY I COULDN’T CHANGE

ICOULDN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT on earth made me act the way I did. I wasn’t beaten or abandoned as a child. My family wasn’t poor or destitute. In fact, we lived quite well, and I had a good relationship with both my parents. My mom was the perfect combination of tough and loving. She took me fishing and taught me how to shoot, yet she was also there when I was hurt and needed her comfort. My dad was often gone on business trips, but we knew he loved us. He never laid a hand on me or my sister except to spank me once, which I unquestionably deserved.

So why was I so out of control? Well, for one, I was addicted to the meth I cooked. My stuff was good, so I would stay up for days at a time tweeking¹ while executing as much chaos as possible. I later learned the real reason behind all my destructive behaviors, but before I did, I took down not only myself but also many of those around me.

Meth fueled my already massive anger problem, so I lived in a constant state of over-the-top rage, which assisted me in my other occupation as a collector. When people owed me or someone else money, I would go get it—for a commission, of course. If the debtors didn’t want to give it up, I would take it by force.

Collecting was my one joy in life. I liked terrorizing and hurting others—especially bad people. I didn’t go after the nice folks. I never hurt or robbed someone who didn’t deserve it. I went after only those who had taken something that wasn’t theirs or injured people who couldn’t stick up for themselves. I hated those types with a passion. Unfortunately I found that some of the world’s biggest, meanest dudes were in that category, and though I thoroughly enjoyed going head-to-head with them, my bravado nearly cost me my life.

My violent disposition caused me to be arrested twelve times in one year. I was finally apprehended by a federal marshal and given a twelve-and-a-half-year prison sentence. But the last four months I lived on the streets before my arrest were the climax of a lifestyle of fury that almost got me killed.

RETRIEVING A FRIEND’S STOLEN GOODS

I hung my head out the passenger side of the truck I was riding in, my long hair blowing violently in the wind as we sped down the highway. We were part of a small convoy of two vehicles. Ours was in the front, leading the way. A mechanic friend of mine was driving, and a biker named Big Jim was sitting next to me. The stereo was blasting out AC/DC’s Back in Black, and we were all violently head banging along with the song. I was getting psyched up on purpose. This was not just a regular joy ride; I was packing (a gun), which meant we were on our way to do a job.

I had just made a new friend named Sammy. She was a drug dealer, and I was introduced to her when she needed to buy meth from a source who had really good dope. Mine was high-grade crystal, and when I gave her a sample, she was immediately interested.

Sammy was extraordinarily nice, and my heart felt for her because she had to sell dope to pay her bills. The more we hung out, the more I learned about her life. So when she told me the story of a certain biker dude who had ripped her off, I found myself quite irritated. They had cut a business deal. She had given him a bunch of household merchandise, and he had agreed to sell it for a commission. But after she handed it over, she never heard from him again.

Her story fit my narrative perfectly: poor, helpless girl gets taken by big, mean biker dude. This was a situation that was right up my alley. Immediately I offered to take care of it for her. She gladly accepted.

I had heard of this guy before. He was enormous and had a reputation for being extremely fierce. All the better, I thought. I will show him that he needs to pick on someone his own size—namely me. I don’t recall his real name now, but at the time I called him the monster.

Foolishly I never considered I would get hurt doing collections because I was just plain psycho in those days. My anger and rage were so intense they fueled me and made me feel like Superwoman, bulletproof and invincible.

So there we were, my friends and I, roaring off to do a collection on this guy. Sammy was in the vehicle behind us. When we arrived at the monster’s place, I knocked on the door and discovered he wasn’t home.

Suddenly he pulled up in his truck and came to a stop in the front yard. Big Jim and I strolled over to meet him. He stepped out, came toward us with a menacing walk, and stopped just inches from me. Looming over me with his huge frame, he stared me in the eye and said with a growl, What do you want?

Craning my neck as far back as it could go, I stared up at him and asked, Do you know a girl named Sammy?

He said, Who?

I repeated, Sammy. You have a bunch of her stuff, and you owe her money. I came to get what is hers.

His eyes turned into slits as he glared at me and said, I don’t know who you’re talking about.

I said, You don’t know who I am talking about?

He repeated, That’s right. I don’t know who you’re talking about.

It was a lame attempt to deny the truth. Figuring he needed a little help to remember, I reached behind my back, pulled my pistol out from my waistband, and shoved it in his face, all in one fast move. Do you know who I am talking about now, man? I asked in a low, threatening tone.

His countenance changed instantly. He turned from a monster into a sniveling little girl. I screamed, Get in the house! And he scrambled off, with us right on his tail.

A group of people were inside. When we walked in with the gun pulled, all conversation stopped. They knew something serious was going down. Looking at me in shock, the ones who knew me started muttering among themselves, What is she doing here? The ones who didn’t were asking the others who I was. I heard snippets of stories of my violent history being quickly shared among them.

I looked at the group and said, Well, now that you’ve got it all figured out, everybody stay right where you are. I quickly walked back to the front door, opened it, and signaled for the passengers in our other vehicle to come in, including Sammy.

When she entered the house, I turned to the monster and said, Do you recognize this woman? He blurted out, Oh, yeah. Hey, Sammy! How you doing? His tone was completely different. I shook my head in disgust. It always amazed me how much people changed when a gun was brought into the picture.

I’m glad we got that straightened out. Now where is her stuff? I demanded.

It’s not too far from here, he said, right down the street in my storage. He was being so compliant I didn’t have to threaten him anymore to get information.

Well, guess what? I said with a big smile on my face. You’re going to take us there right now!

And out the door we went. In less than five minutes we were at his storage facility. The monster rolled up two doors, revealing an enormous stash of goodies, including Sammy’s stuff. It was a treasure house. I told him he had to return all her items plus anything else she wanted.

It’s an interest payment, I said, for you having her property for so long. He sadly nodded his head as he walked away to execute the tasks. But before he could go, I stopped him again. And one more thing, I added with a big smile, I get to pick whatever I want too. He paused, and I saw him tense up a little bit. It’s my commission. I know you don’t mind, right? He didn’t argue but nodded his head in resignation and let me shop at my own convenience.

It was a good day but only the beginning of my bucket list. I had many irons in the fire that needed to be dealt with. Each one presented a new and dangerous situation that brought me close to death because unfortunately things weren’t going to go my way anymore.

One incident in particular signaled the beginning of the end.

LOSING MY HOME

I had just met a new guy whom I’ll call Lincoln. I was hanging out with an acquaintance named Lana, and she had some friends who needed help with a collection. When I offered, she said her friend Lincoln was already on it. Intrigued, I asked if I could ride along during the job. She agreed, so we drove down to meet him at the house of the people who owed the money.

We were parked around the corner when Lincoln pulled up. Instantly I knew we were in for a good time. He was driving a souped-up truck that he had rigged to crush cars. Lincoln used it to punish people who didn’t comply with their collections. Nothing persuades a person to pay his bill more than the thought of his car being folded in half!

We drove to the house only to discover no one was home. Just as Lincoln was turning around to go back, we heard the roar of a Firebird coming around the corner. It was the people we were looking for. When they saw Lincoln’s truck, they slammed on the brakes and threw their car in reverse, the tires squealing as they backed at high speed down the street. Lincoln took off in hot pursuit, and his truck caught up with their car, driving them into a ditch, but they punched their way out and sped down the road onto the freeway.

The chase that ensued was right out of the movies. Lana was covering her eyes, screaming, while I was yelling and cheering Lincoln on. I had barely met this guy but knew we were cut from the same cloth. We lost our prey that night, but the evening wasn’t a total bust, as I had met a new friend, one who would soon become my greatest adversary.

Months went by, and Lincoln and I got tight. I felt I had finally met someone who not only could keep up with me but also surpassed me in psychotic behavior. Then I made a fatal mistake. I fed him too much good dope, and he spun out of control and lost it on me.

One night I went to hang out with a high-level dealer. Lincoln wasn’t happy about it. When I returned, I discovered he had used his truck to maul the car I had parked at Lana’s. Not only that, but when I went down to the place where I had stashed the RV that I cooked dope in and lived in, the RV was gone. Lincoln was one of the few people who knew where it was.

Lincoln was an expert at both hunting people and hiding things. It took me a month to find the RV. When I did, I borrowed a big truck from a friend and took a guy named Marcos with me to get it. When I came to a stop on the road outside where it was being stashed, I told Marcos to wait until I drove the RV away before he left. But before I could get out of the truck, I noticed in my rearview mirror a foreign sports car coming up the road behind me. I didn’t think anything of it until I saw an AR-15 assault rifle hanging out the driver’s side window.

Lincoln, I said with disgust. The driver holding the AR-15 stuck his body sideways out the window, looking like a rooster cocking his head. Then the passenger door opened, and out came Lincoln, sauntering up to my window.

I came to get my RV, I announced.

He said nothing but suddenly cocked his fist back and hit me on the side of the face with a fierce right hook. My head snapped sideways; then I slowly turned back to look at him and said, You hit like a girl. I was shocked that he didn’t clock me again. Instead, he quickly headed back to his car. I knew he was going for his weapon.

I was outgunned, so I did the only thing I could. I threw the truck into drive and punched it. The street we were on was a winding back road that was very narrow. It was just like the mountain road in Hawaii that I had driven every day to school when I was growing up. Muscle memory kicked in, and I flew down that road as if I had wings instead of wheels. I quickly outdistanced the sports car, whose driver obviously didn’t have the skill to handle the amazing machine that was under him.

I completely lost them when I hit the highway that intersected the street I was on. Without slowing down, I flew out into the afternoon traffic like a cork coming out of a champagne bottle. Luck and skill enabled me to slide into a small hole in the fast-moving traffic. As the truck took a hard bounce into the lane, Marcos screamed, Whoa, girl, you know how to drive! I ignored his compliment. I was too focused on saving our lives.

Then I looked in the rearview mirror. The guy driving the sports car had zero guts. He had come to a full stop at the intersection I had just rocked through. I was putting real distance between him and us. At the next major intersection I jetted out into the opposite lane and took a left, cutting over the sidewalk. At that point he was nowhere in sight.

Marcos and I hid until dark, and then I drove back to where the RV was parked so I could get it. It was gone, of course, because I was dealing with no ordinary person; I was fighting against the mirror image of myself.

It took me another month to find out that Lincoln had sold the RV to a guy who lived in a literal fortress—a junkyard surrounded by a huge fence with a massive metal gate. I went down there with one of my closet friends and waited on the side of the property. As soon as someone pulled up and the gate opened, I jumped out and forced everyone in the car inside at gunpoint. When I walked into the RV my heart sank. All the expensive equipment I had owned, plus the cool décor, was gone, replaced by a bunch of tweeker junk.

I turned around, looked at the people who ran the place, and told them to get their stuff out. They were so afraid they didn’t even bother arguing with me about the fact that they had paid money for the RV I was now taking from them. Instead, they quickly obeyed and scrambled to grab their belongings. But I drove out of there no happier than I was when I went in. Even though I got my house back, I was totally enraged and wanted justice.

A month later things had gotten so bad I decided to leave town. I packed up every treasure I had in the RV and took off. At the very outskirts of the city the vehicle broke down. I hid it behind a skating rink and went to find a mechanic friend of mine to fix the problem. When we returned, the parking lot was full of fire trucks because the RV was going up in flames. Surprisingly it was not Lincoln who set fire to it but another guy I was warring with. I had taken his fancy sports car at gunpoint from a friend of his whom he let drive it. Burning the RV was his retaliation.

I immediately responded by going to his house and taking his beloved truck. But it wasn’t enough. The RV incident pushed me over the edge. I had almost made it out. Now here I was with nothing left, dangling at the end of my rope. I soon discovered that when you’re in that place, you make some very unwise decisions. Little did I know mine would come close to doing me in.

A COLLECTION GONE BAD

I decided to collect on every single person who owed me and to take whatever I wanted just because I could. Unfortunately I was owed by a bunch of stone-cold killers. One person especially would almost be the end of me.

My association with Mason was amicable at first. I actually liked hanging out at the clubhouse where he spent most of his time. It was on a large property at the edge of town that was totally fenced in and protected by vicious animals.

We did business, got high together, and had some good laughs. But one bad deal led to another until I was owed and angry about it. He had a classic truck of mine that he said had been mistakenly cut up. I loved that truck and was really upset when I heard what had happened to it. I kept pushing him and his fellow bikers to make good on my loss, but they never did.