I Inhaled Drugs for 10 Years. One Bleak Moment Turned My Life Around

I start almost every comedy show with the same joke:

"My name is Sam Miller I'm a comedian from Olympia, Washington, I'm 6 foot 6, 360 pounds. I got two kids, I've been married for 12 years, and I have been clean and sober for 15 years.

"People ask me: 'Sam, what was it like when you were drinking and doing drugs?'

"I pull up my shirt, revealing my extensive belly and a tattoo big enough for at least the first two rows to read it. I don't want anyone else to feel left out so I tell them.

"That tattoo says 'Let's Dance.' If any of you want to know if you have a problem with drugs or alcohol, just read your belly tattoo. What's yours say? My tattoo says 'Let's Dance', which is weird 'cause I don't even like to dance."

The rest of the set depends on how that joke lands. If people can handle candid humor about past drug use, they'll get a string of stories about booze, meth, jail, and homelessness, delivered with gusto. If not, I have plenty of good stuff on less challenging topics.

A lot of stand-up is about confidence. I say ridiculous things as if they are important facts, and it's not an act because I believe them to be true. I want people to know that while I am proud of my recovery, I am not ashamed of my story.

On June 10, 2008, I woke up under a tarp in front of the Capitol Theater in downtown Olympia, Washington. Six months earlier I had been fired from my firefighting job with the U.S. Forest Service, blown all my money on drugs, and ended up in an abandoned house outside a small mountain town.

Those six months altered my DNA. Thinking back, that life reminds me of getting Play-Doh as a kid. You have bright, perfect colors, safe in their containers. You make a red dog, a blue man, and a yellow house. Inspired and seeking something more exciting, you start combining colors. Occasionally you create true beauty, but mostly not. When it's time to put the Play-Doh back in the containers, it's all mixed up. It's not red, or blue, or yellow, it's a dull brown, and you can't undo the ugliness.

By the time I was back home in Olympia, my life was a brown mass of pain.

Waking up on the sidewalk in front of a hometown landmark was not an act of rebellion or the result of a life briefly gone awry. For me, it was as natural as breathing. Not everyone in my situation is an addict, but I can't separate my homelessness from my drug use.

I inhaled every drug I could find for 10 years, and I exhaled any semblance of a life anyone would want. My substance use was much more about running from my life than it was about trying to feel high.

Then, under that tarp in front of that theater, everything changed.

The sun came up, and when sunlight hits your tarp, everything gets blue down inside. I stuck my head out and saw a woman walking her dog. The dog lady gave me that look people give you when they're walking their cute little pup before work and they see you pop out from under a tarp. She gave me a look that cut me to my core.

I'd gotten worse looks, but something snapped. I was overwhelmed by certainty.

"I can't do this anymore."

I went back in time. If you asked me how I got under that tarp I couldn't tell you exactly. The first time I got high I was probably 12, I remember something snapped in my head. I thought: "Oh, I get it, all the happy people I know, the beautiful people on T.V., the rich folks up in Seattle, they must all be drunk or high. I will be high too."

It was amazing at first. I started noticing disturbing signs at around 15, but I could forget about the bad stuff by getting higher. That cycle continued. Near as I can tell, a thousand small decisions got me under that tarp. I was on the precipice.

I cannot for the life of me explain why that morning was any different than any other morning. I had woken up in much worse spots than under a tarp in front of a theater downtown. I knew I needed help. I went through the worst of the physical stuff at my mom's. A lot of sleeping, a fair amount of sweating, plus a little hallucinating took place in those first four days. Then I made a decision to get real help.

I found a recovery community that met me where I was at. I got sober in Olympia. A diverse array of people was there to help. There were lesbian gardeners, spiritual ex-convicts, semi-successful lawyers with very respectable haircuts, ornery housewives, retired sailors, and overworked chefs.

There were a few people there that I recognized from the jails and streets that I frequented. The similarities were much more apparent than the differences. We had all realized that we could not do it ourselves. I felt like I could breathe for the first time in my life.

As I sit here it's been 5,601 days since a mind-altering substance has entered my body. It has indeed been a bumpy ride. My first year sober was way harder than my last year getting high. I fully agree that methamphetamine is bad for you, but I was good at it! It sucks when the one thing you think you're great at is killing you.

My wonderful mom let me stay with her for about a month, and then I couch-hopped. At four months sober I met the woman who would become my wife. She had boundaries and made me wait, but eventually we got an apartment together. I was 26 and it was my first time ever paying rent and having someone date me for longer than two months. We have two kids now (one on purpose!) and I love her more every year.

The Forest Service didn't want me back, so I was a dishwasher, bouncer, warehouse worker, landscaper, assistant preschool teacher, bartender, college student, college graduate, chemical dependency counselor, homeless service provider, peer mentor, violence prevention specialist, and now, a full-time standup comedian.

I fell all the way into standup in 2014 after a few open-mic appearances. Much like recovery, comedy took root in me as something I am, not just something I do. It's full of successes and failures but things are generally going well. By next week I'll have been on the "Bob and Tom Show" twice, I've headlined a lot of comedy clubs and theaters, and in March of 2022, I signed a three-album deal with Stand Up! Records.

On April 23, 2022, I recorded a comedy special and an album at the Capitol Theater, outside which I'd awakened after my last night on the streets. It was sold out. Half of the people there were people that I'd met along the way. People who helped me.

My special is coming out October 20, my debut album, "Round Trip," is out October 27, and the next day I'm going back to the Capitol Theater for a release party and a screening of the special.

I've always been emotional, but lately there's extra. Since I quit getting high, I have to feel all the feelings, and it sucks sometimes. Sometimes I think about the darkness, chaos, and terror I was once part of. But when it gets hard, I ask for help, I talk to people, and one day at a time, we get through it.

Life is not perfect for me, but that's OK. I am thankful every single day that I am OK. For a guy like me, OK is a big deal.

Sam Miller is a comedian based in Olympia, Washington, whose first comedy album, "Round Trip," is coming out on Stand Up! Records on October 27, 2023.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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