I asked fifty-seven-year-old Richard, an addict since his teens, why he kept using. “I don’t know, I’m just trying to fill a void,” he replied. “Emptiness in my life. Boredom. Lack of direction.” I knew all too well what he meant. “Here I am, in my late fifties,” he said. “I have no wife, no children. I appear to be a failure. Society says you should be married and have children, a job, that kind of stuff. This way, with the cocaine, I can sit there and do some little thing like rewire the toaster that wasn’t working, and not feel like I’ve lost out on life.”
