Джон Харгрейв - Mind Hacking [How to Change Your Mind for Good in 21 Days]

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My Story

The day I gave up drinking was the day the Secret Service stormed my living room.

“Stormed” might be too strong a word, since they asked if they could come in first. They were polite about it, two senior agents and a younger guy in his twenties. Maybe I should have said no, but I was still a little buzzed from lunch. It was the Friday before Labor Day, and I had polished off a couple of beers with some coworkers before leaving work early and coming home. I only drank on special occasions, such as weekdays.

At the time, I was running a humor website that was known for doing outrageous stunts to get publicity and promotion. One of my favorite pranks was getting a credit card in a celebrity’s name. It was surprisingly easy to do: you just called up your credit card company, told them you wanted to add an “additional cardholder,” and gave them a famous person’s name. Like, say, Barack Obama.

At the time I got the fake credit card with Barack Obama’s name, he had not been officially nominated as a candidate for the 2008 presidential election, but I could see it was likely he’d end up in the Oval Office. So I gleefully wrote up the story of my credit card prank, which brought in loads of traffic to our website. I had been taking bigger and bigger risks with my pranks, trying to outdo myself, and I thought pranking the president was pretty much the pinnacle.

I was right. The day after Obama received the official nomination, the Secret Service were on my doorstep. As they filed in, I led them to the living room, where two of the agents sat on the sofa. I sat on the love seat. The senior agent stood in front of my fireplace, facing me, his arms folded. None of the movie clichés applied: they were not wearing earpieces or sunglasses. Also, they were in my living room, which I’ve never seen in a movie.

“You may not realize that the Secret Service not only protects presidential candidates,” explained the agent sitting on my couch, “but we also protect the nation’s money supply. So by getting a credit card in Obama’s name, you’ve put yourself in the crosshairs of what we do .” He was in his mid- to late forties, with a receding hairline and dark, penetrating eyes.

“Identity theft carries a maximum of fifteen years in federal prison,” added the stocky agent in front of the fireplace, then looked around. “You’ve got a beautiful house here, a nice family.” He paused. “It would be a shame to throw all that away.”

I had been in some insane situations, but my heart was pumping alcohol-fueled adrenaline to my brain. Perhaps that explained the thought running through my mind, which was: I will not give them the credit card .

“We’d like the credit card,” said the stocky agent, his arms still folded.

My voice was shaking. “I can’t do that.”

“Yeah? Why not?”

“Technically, the credit card belongs to the credit card company,” I replied, citing a little-known legal loophole. “I can’t give it to you without their permission.”

“We’ll call them,” said the agent on the couch, dialing the credit card company on his cell phone. Apparently, they had anticipated this.

“One second,” I said, and walked to my computer bag, shaky-legged, to get my voice recorder. If I was going to give up my precious credit card, at least I was going to record the conversation so I could write about it on my website.

“What’s that?” demanded the stocky one.

“I need to tell you that I will be recording this conversation,” I answered, hitting the Record button.

They looked at each other, and with surprising swiftness rose to leave. “This interview is over ,” said the stocky one as they stormed out the door and drove off.

I watched them until they turned the corner, then breathed a huge sigh of relief. Then I calmly walked into the bathroom and puked.

• • •

That night was one of the worst of my life. My wife was furious that I hadn’t just handed over the credit card. We were both terrified, having no idea whether the Secret Service would be back later in the night to search the house or simply haul me off to jail.

“If they come back,” she said, “you know what they’ll find.”

I had grown increasingly dependent on marijuana, relying on it as the source of my creativity and inspiration, even as it had led me to take wilder and wilder risks. Now I had a young family, the Secret Service was on my doorstep, and I wanted to hold on to the weed even more than the credit card.

“I can’t get rid of that,” I said. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“You have to get rid of it,” she insisted. “Either the drugs go or I do.”

Did she say that? In my head, at least, she said that. Somehow I had the clarity to see that this was a moment of truth. If I continued with my drinking and drugs, it would ultimately be the end of my marriage, my family, and—as the Secret Service agent said—my home.

Inside, I was at war with myself. I wanted so desperately to be free of my addictions, yet I did not have the courage to give up these things I loved so much. I was furious with my wife, American Express, and the U.S. government. They put me in this position of hopelessness and despair. They were responsible!

I was nearly in tears when I finally snapped. “FINE!” I shouted. “If I’m throwing that away, then I’m also throwing away all the liquor!” It was the kind of all-or-nothing thinking that is common with alcoholics, but in this case it saved my life. I furiously grabbed bottles from cabinets, throwing them into boxes and loading them into the car.

That’s how I found myself in an alley behind my local supermarket, throwing away a thousand dollars’ worth of perfectly good liquor into a dumpster.

I can’t explain how difficult this was. It was the Friday night of a long holiday weekend, and while everyone else was starting the partying, all I could think was I will never have fun again . The thought was so painful that I had to redirect my mind, with great effort, from thinking about the long-term consequences of what I was doing.

I should really be giving this away to someone , my mind would think as I tossed in champagne from my wedding, bottles of grappa bought in Italy, and French wines I had been saving for a special occasion (like Thursday). The temptation to keep a few bottles to “give to a friend” was overwhelming, but I kept redirecting my mind, just focusing on throwing in the next bottle, and the next bottle, until all that was left was the marijuana.

I got back in the car and drove around town for a while, trying to summon the courage. Think of all the good times we’ve had with this drug , my mind told me. Think of all the crazy, hilarious ideas it’s given us. Think of facing life all alone, without its warm, comforting haze .

I finally pulled into an empty parking lot and gazed at a trash can. Maybe if I could redirect my mind to the physical movement of throwing away the drugs, I could get through this. No long-term implications, just the muscle movement of tossing the bag into the trash.

One moment at a time, I walked step by step to the trash can. My mind tried to stop me, but I kept redirecting it to the next moment, the next moment, and the next. With an overwhelming pang of sadness and loss, I threw the drugs away, my precious lost to the fires of Mount Doom.