Reflections on Drug Dealing, Breaking and Entering and Arson

This is a reflection on the three-part series I wrote last month. Publishing it is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

In Part one, I wake up, look outside, and see the burned out remains of my car.

In part two, I begin the backstory and reveal that I used to sell drugs and rob people. This was tough—people I know read this—family members and coworkers who had no idea I did these things. “What the hell am I doing sharing this?”

In part three, I break into a guy’s house and attempt to rob him of weed and money. I fail, as we walk away with very little—the guy burns down my car in retaliation, and we’ve come full circle.

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The young badass in 2009–yours truly

After my car was burned down, I said to my friend, who’s a bit older, who I look up to, “I’m gonna slice his face open with a razor.”

“No, you’re not.” He said without hesitation.

I didn’t say anything. I’ll show him, I thought. I’m gonna slice that mother fucker’s face open.

This was a pivotal moment in my life. My pride demanded that I retaliate, yet if I had, my life may look a lot different.

I’d been going down a bad path, and this was my last chance to change course—the last fork in the road before I seriously hurt myself or someone else.

I’m lucky my family and friends stuck with me through this time.

I’m lucky I had people who encouraged me to get my shit together.

There was a moment during the break-in when I made the mistake of speaking.

“Where’s the fucking weed?!” I yell.

“Sam, is that you?!” He yells back.

“Who the fuck is Sam?!” I say, trying to lower my voice, as I bop him on the head with my mini bat.

“Ow!” He yells, as he rubs his head.

Another time, I was driving around with Travis—he wanted me to get out and beat a kid with my mini Louisville Slugger.

I considered it because Travis got his jaw broken in this kid’s front yard a couple years before—perhaps a story for another time—but I didn’t. At the time, I felt like it made me a coward. The pressure from Travis, and myself was strong. I wanted to prove myself.

These two moments with this little bat helped me realize that I’m not cut out to be a criminal. Throughout my youth, I had the misguided notion that being a criminal was cool. Now I had empirical evidence that it was not. At least not for me.

Pretty quickly, I realized that my friend was right. I wasn’t going to slice his face open, and I wasn’t going to to retaliate.

Breaking into Ben’s house was a low-life thing to do. Years of bad decisions had piled up and led to this moment. I easily could have ruined my life.

For a few years I flirted with disaster. The two guys who were with me that day have been in and out of jail for a decade and a half. I don’t know where they are now. I don’t know how they would feel about me sharing this story.

I’m lucky I made it out relatively unscathed. Maybe I deserved to get my car burned down. My neighbors and roommate did not. I blame myself for what happened to us.

I’m not a violent person. I’m not a criminal. I was pretending to be something I’m not. And that pretending could have ruined my life.

Travis and Dylan had a tough road in life—the deck was stacked against them. I had good parents, they did not. I had a stable childhood, they did not.

They were my brothers—they have good in them. In a way I will always love them, but I had to get away. Slowly, and then all at once, I cut them off.

I’m proud of myself for making it out. Part of it was luck, and part was having enough self-control and discipline to not ruin my life. I’m grateful to my parents and teachers and friends and family for helping to instill that in me. I will do everything I can to pass that along to my children and whoever else I can.

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Writing and sharing this story has been therapeutic for me, but the amount of Resistance I felt was staggering at times. Some of my thoughts throughout the process:

My friends and family will read it. My manager will read it.

People will think I’m a piece of shit.

I’m violating the code we lived by back then.

No one cares about the stupid shit you did when you were nineteen.

What’s the point?

Does everything need to have a point?

It’s my story. Maybe it can help someone who’s going down the wrong path, or someone who experienced something similar and feels like a bad person, as I did for many years.

Maybe it will help me to tell the story.

The response has been overwhelming. Parts one, two, and three immediately became my most popular posts within hours of publishing. People have said things like:

“Thank you for bearing your humanity.”

“The authenticity is incredible!”

“This series is one of the most original and entertaining stories I’ve read on Substack.”

I’ve never received such support and encouragement for anything I’ve done in my life—all for just telling the truth. I guess truth resonates with people, especially when it’s a difficult truth to share.

Thank you to everyone who reached out with love and support.

I’m a tough critic of myself, and reading this series back is one of the few times I’ve thought this is pretty good.

I’ve been searching for the thing I have to offer the world my whole life.

Maybe it’s my story.

I’m going to keep sharing personal stories.

In fact:

I’ve started writing a memoir!

I will be publishing chapters here over the next year or so.

Thank you so much for reading!

Enjoy the rest of your day!

-Sam