Is It Too Late?

By Maxwell Adler

In 2016, the kids I grew up with were graduating from colleges such as Vanderbilt, University of Michigan, University of Pennsylvania, and Northwestern. At the same time, I was graduating from an intensive outpatient substance abuse treatment program at the Center for Living in Midtown East, and I was living at home on Long Island. (People might live IN Dallas but they live ON Long Island.)

After failing one class, and withdrawing from two other classes in the last semester I was enrolled in school, I remained 27 credits, and an internship shy of fulfilling my graduate requirements from the University of Texas. At this point it felt like I f*****up beyond repair

Max, is it too late for you to get your shit together?”

“Yes, it’s too late” I replied to myself.

“But, you’re only 22.”

“With the liver of a 55-year-old, alcoholic, standup comic. Max, remember what the endocrinologist said about your liver enzymes last week?”

“You’re right. Neil Young is right. It’s better to burn out, than fade away.”

I was only 22, yet Neil Young’s adage about living hard and dying young, strongly resonated with me. Why bother trying if I’m already late to the ballgame? It felt like I had already squandered all of the opportunities that privilege and circumstance had afforded me. It was time to give up. It was way too late.

And goddamnit, the prospect of being late to anything scared the shit out of me. My family was never late. Except for technological trends. In fact, Adlers notoriously arrive early for everything. My grandpa would arrive at least an hour before the bell rang when he was picking me up from school or lacrosse practice.

Adlers show up at the airport before our plane is even listed on the departures board. My dad insists on arriving at the airport roughly two hours before any flight’s scheduled departure, and if we are flying internationally — forget about it. This usually meant we were leaving our house in Jericho at least three hours before a scheduled takeoff at either JFK or LaGuardia. In other cities, where Dad was less familiar with the local traffic patterns, we’d leave ourselves even more time to account for any unpredictability. Whoever is driving us to the airport will inevitably be asked by one of my parents what route they plan on taking. And the driver can expect feedback on their chosen route. My parents have never missed a flight. They like having a plan.

Me, on the other hand, had zero concrete plan for the future aside from drinking everyday until the tequila made me tired enough to fall asleep. I had no real friends because I had pushed away everyone close to me. And I started making a habit of being late. In my anxious mind, lateness was equivalent to the acceptance of failure.

And nothing felt like a bigger failure than the first time I missed a flight. It was 2014, and I was supposed to take a 8:55a flight from Austin to Los Angeles, where I would be going straight from LAX to a rehabilitation facility in Malibu. I got too drunk the night before with my college friends who were sending me off to rehab with one last “hurrah,” and I slept through my alarm clock. My mom assumed the worst when I was not responding to her phone calls that morning. Every voice in my head on that particular day was telling me “it’s too late!”

Cut to the present: I’m 25 and I’ve never felt so alive. And, I feel like I’m right on time. It’s hard for me to pinpoint what made me turn things around but it started with my parents. They found me a therapist who finally forced me to be honest. That same therapist recommended that I take Antabuse and he started me on an introspective journey. A journey in which I was able to validate my pain, and work through my fears.

And most importantly, my parents worked with me as I started taking small steps towards actually receiving a college degree. Graduating from college might seem like a superficial achievement to some, but my diploma represents my triumph over hardship. My diploma now proudly hangs in my parents apartment.

I’m no longer running from my problems with the help of alcohol, Xanax and cocaine, and now I feel every emotion so intensely. I cry all the time about both happy and sad shit. I laugh more than I’ve ever laughed. And I don’t hate myself anymore. I’m still working on learning to love myself because — like RuPaul says — if you can’t love yourself, how the hell you gonna love somebody else?

I’m still not truly content with where I am in life, but I’m trying and that feels good. After being laid off from Cheddar Business Network in April because of Covid, I recently started a graduate program at CUNY Newmark School of Journalism. The lay-off felt horrible but getting accepted to graduate school was dope. Some days, they last longer than others. And some days, I wish they would never end.

Before covid hit, I spent my weekends at concerts and house/techno clubs in Brooklyn with new friends that I made after I stopped drinking. I met a boy who I fell in and out of love with. I rebuilt a social life that I was proud of and made me happy.

I don’t think of myself as a success story yet, but I won’t stop you from attaching that label to me.

According to the National Survey on Drug Use and Health (NSDUH), 19.7 million Americans are battling a substance abuse disorder. In 2017, approximately 4% of the American adolescent population, age 12 to 17, suffered from a substance use disorder, which amounts to roughly 900,000 people. Of those who are suffering, a very small percentage get the help they need to recover.

To those roughly 20 million Americans, I urge you to never adopt a defeatist attitude. Never settle for mediocrity. Your disease is not an impediment to success. Don’t settle for other people’s definitions of success. The world’s best plumber can save just as many lives by improving sanitary conditions in homes, as the world’s best doctor can save in operating rooms. And never let the fear of trying keep you from playing the game. It’s never too late.