My entire face went numb. I closed my eyes, experiencing the familiar, filthy rush of energy that rushed through my brain and body.
My phone rang, jolting me back to reality. My customer was outside. I grabbed a $50 bag of coke that sat waiting next to the scale, quickly sniffed another line, swallowed one more big drip down my throat, then walked out the door into the crisp winter air.
It was time to work.
The year was 2005. I had graduated high school just two years earlier. Many of my classmates from my predominantly white Connecticut town had gone off to college. Instead, I’d skipped academics and had gone straight into a different kind of existence.
I’d had a good childhood. I’d had such a promising life.
Now, a decade later, I braved the most dangerous streets in the country to sell drugs so I could support my own insatiable addiction.
To support this addiction, I sold narcotics to others like me to keep from getting sick…to keep away the pain.
I often wondered, “How did I get here?”
But then I pushed away this distracting self-reflection and continued down the path I’d chosen for myself.
Except…I hadn’t really chosen it.
In many ways, it had chosen me.
two
2018
U.S. opioid deaths: 46,802
“Mike, come on, man, what’re you doing in there?” the producer yells through the door. “You can’t just storm off like that.”
I huddle over a large marble sink. I’m locked inside a bathroom on the first floor of an enormous Los Angeles mansion.
Beads of sweat roll down my face and into my mouth. I splash water on my face, fighting to catch my breath.
“I’ll be right out, man,” I say to the producer. “Just give me two minutes.”
The year is 2018. At thirty-three years old, I’ve taken the social media world by storm. I’ve partnered with a world-famous multimillionaire social media celebrity and businessman named Logan Paul.
A few weeks ago, I’d moved into Logan’s $7 million house just outside Hollywood. I’d relocated to the West Coast to assist in the rebranding of Logan’s public image and his Maverick brand, which included a clothing line, a team of talent, vlogs, and other business ventures. The move away from Connecticut has been therapeutic for me…a way to bookend a story of pain, grief, and regret that had rooted itself firmly in the town where I was born.
On this particular day, we’re filming the pilot episode of a new Internet show and podcast, Impaulsive. We’ve been preparing for weeks leading up to this day. For our first episode, we’d booked a famous sex doctor. I’d mentally prepared for the show: what I was going to say, how I was going to act.
Everything was perfect.
Until it wasn’t.
I was on set in the middle of filming when the waves of an anxiety attack started to take hold.
“So how did you get into this?” Logan was saying to Dr. Shannon Chavez, the sex expert. “Sex is kind of a taboo topic…”
It became harder to breathe. The stage lights felt as though they were 500 degrees. My chest tightened. Sweat gathered on my forehead. My stomach tied itself up in knots. It felt as though my whole life might suddenly crumble around me in an instant.
“I’m so sorry, guys, I need five minutes,” I said. I stood up and rushed off set as the cast and crew glowered at me, not knowing why I was leaving.
“Did Mike just have a breakdown?” I heard Logan say jokingly behind me as laughter broke out from the panel. I raced toward the exit door of the studio. The sounds of the show faded to silence as I closed the door behind me, the giant spotlights replaced by darkness.
I ran into the bathroom and locked the door.
Now, here I am.
I splash more water on my face and take deep breaths.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes look sad.
Why? Why is this happening? Will this ever go away?
My nerves are hard to control. Eight years after getting clean from drug addiction, the damage I caused is still there. It manifests itself in uncontrollable anxiety attacks and a revolving cycle of negative thoughts.
I ask myself, “Is this because I used drugs, or is this the reason I started using in the first place?” My brain is foggy, and sometimes I can’t fully recall the horror—the visceral details—of being a drug addict.
It’s not easy to remember exactly what it felt like to be thrown from a car and experience the flesh tearing off my body. It’s difficult to remember seeing my friend get beaten in the face with a black 9mm pistol until blood coated the basement wall of a Bridgeport traphouse. I can’t fully recall the agonizing details of waking up sick from heroin withdrawals and pulling old bags out of the garbage, trying to scrape enough residue together for a bump to make the pain go away.
I can’t remember.
Maybe I don’t want to remember.
In the eight years since I’ve gotten clean, the life I used to live has become an antiquated tale—something only a few of my current friends in L.A. even know about. My fans are aware of some of the skeletons from my past because of surface stories I’ve told in online content. But they don’t really know much at all.
My closest friends, like Logan, know a little more from our late-night chats over lobster dinners in Beverly Hills or on first-class flights to the United Kingdom or Saudi Arabia. But even the dearest of my new friends don’t know how deep the rabbit hole goes.
It really is quite astonishing, the trajectory of it all.
I’ve lived in L.A. for a short time but have already begun to leave a major mark. I’ve made a name for myself, building my own YouTube channel from nothing into millions of subscribers. I’ve received offers from MTV for a television show. I’ve had agents interested in selling the movie rights to the very book you’re reading right now.
My life now plays out inside massive houses in the Hollywood Hills, partying with the elite. My roommates and I have a private chef who cooks us whatever our hearts desire. Life has quickly become something you might see on an episode of Entourage.
To be honest, I’m not exactly sure how I got to where I am today. It involved a lot of putting one foot in front of the other. Trying new things with confidence that I’d succeed. Looking to always be better than the day before.
At times, people ask me, “How the hell did you do it, man?” I don’t always have the easiest answer for them. I usually say, “It’s a mixture of God and working really fucking hard. Connecting with like-minded people. Staying positive when every sign says otherwise.”
Whatever the formula, my career is on a meteoric rise. Week after week, I continue to blow past all expectations, including my own. I create and build incredible relationships for both myself and the Maverick brand. I get millions of views per week on videos I make for my YouTube channel on a range of topics, from interviews with Hollywood celebs to surreal poetry.
Around Los Angeles, I’m known as a positive, upbeat guy. Everyone from the hot new TikTok star to the door guy at Mastro’s seems to love it when I come around. I get free food at Catch because the owner is a fan, and the valet guy brings my car up before anyone else’s. I try my best to greet everyone I meet with a positive vibe. I take the time to hear people’s issues and try to help them through their problems. I want to brighten people’s days, and I seem to do pretty well at it.