Introduction

 

The Good Little Druglord is an ode to redemption, recovery, and the mother/son bond—an ultimately UpLit memoir about a gay Mormon drug-dealing narc for the federal government.

As a drug-dealing meth addict, I embraced my “darkness,” claiming my place among the worst of God’s beasts until my deeper humanity was challenged, when someone died because I failed to act. It was the call from the dead boy’s mother, begging to know what happened, that shattered me.

I wrote this book to let that grieving mother know what happened to her son, and to let my own mother know what happened to her son. I also wrote this book for those struggling with identity, and for those who care about them. 

I believed I was a decent human, until I was confronted with the reality I was not. I believed I deserved every horrible thing that had happened in my life: abandonment, molestation, and beatings. I deserved to go to prison or be murdered by the volatile Russian Mafia meth supplier to whom I owed thousands of dollars.

Like many others, maybe you, I spent too many years of my life engaged in a futile battle for self-love and acceptance. As long as I believed I was the cause for the lack, it would always feel like chasing rainbows (or running from them in my warped Mormon case). I picked up beliefs in my childhood from my parents, society, and religion that shaped a false identity. 

It was my fault my depressed mother didn’t love me, so I tried to be the best little Mormon boy I could be. When that failed, I became her worst fear: a hedonist, raging faggot, drug-dealing narc. I rejected the authentic parts of myself, and forced the “acceptable” to be effective until it wasn’t, leading to an implosion.

It took me nearly twenty years to get here, journaling to find my way as I fought to be loved. I wore this story like a badge of honor in recovery, like a masturbatory glory piece. I wallowed in victim-y stuff, abating shame, but now, the shame is healing. 

I’ve shared my narrative, not just for the collective but to remember myself. It has become my superpower: Never forgetting my addiction makes whatever happens today a bonus, no matter how low I feel.

There are other accounts of addiction, religious abuse, sexuality, and even gay boys and mothers, but few are wrapped in a riveting tale about a drug-dealing narc for the federal government evading the Russian Mafia. It’s identity and acceptance wrapped in a thriller.

Perhaps by the end, there may be hope for a drug-addicted loved one, or yourself if you need the help. I hope this story helps you see that you and those you care about can live through your worst fears and nightmares. You, too, can be a mother-effing dandelion fighting to grow through the cracks. You, too, can also make peace with your mother, or her memory. 

My mother proudly walked me down the aisle at my very gay wedding and applauded when I kissed my new husband. 

By the end of this, you’ll want to hug your mother, too.

Sorry about the cussing.