Memoirs Of An Addicted Brain: A Neuroscientist Examines His Former Life On Drugs

Hardcover | October 4, 2011

byMarc Lewis

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A gripping, ultimately triumphant memoir that's also the most comprehensive and comprehensible study of the neuroscience of addiction written for the general public.

FROM THE INTRODUCTION:
"We are prone to a cycle of craving what we don't have, finding it, using it up or losing it, and then craving it all the more. This cycle is at the root of all addictions, addictions to drugs, sex, love, cigarettes, soap operas, wealth, and wisdom itself. But why should this be so? Why are we desperate for what we don't have, or can't have, often at great cost to what we do have, thereby risking our peace and contentment, our safety, and even our lives?"

The answer, says Dr. Marc Lewis, lies in the structure and function of the human brain.

Marc Lewis is a distinguished neuroscientist. And, for many years, he was a drug addict himself, dependent on a series of dangerous substances, from LSD to heroin. His narrative moves back and forth between the often dark, compellingly recounted story of his relationship with drugs and a revelatory analysis of what was going on in his brain.

He shows how drugs speak to the brain - which is designed to seek rewards and soothe pain - in its own language. He shows in detail the neural mechanics of a variety of powerful drugs and of the onset of addiction, itself a distortion of normal perception.

Dr. Lewis freed himself from addiction and ended up studying it. At the age of 30 he traded in his pharmaceutical supplies for the life of a graduate student, eventually becoming a professor of developmental psychology, and then of neuroscience - his field for the last 12 years. This is the story of his journey, seen from the inside out.

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From the Publisher

A gripping, ultimately triumphant memoir that's also the most comprehensive and comprehensible study of the neuroscience of addiction written for the general public.FROM THE INTRODUCTION: "We are prone to a cycle of craving what we don't have, finding it, using it up or losing it, and then craving it all the more. This cycle is at the ...

DR. MARC LEWIS is a developmental neuroscientist and professor of human developmental psychology, recently at the University of Toronto, where he taught and conducted research from 1989 to 2010, and currently at Radboud University in the Netherlands. He is the author of over 50 journal publications in neuroscience and developmental psy...

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Format:HardcoverDimensions:320 pages, 9.27 × 6.29 × 1.1 inPublished:October 4, 2011Publisher:Doubleday CanadaLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0385669259

ISBN - 13:9780385669252

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Customer Reviews of Memoirs Of An Addicted Brain: A Neuroscientist Examines His Former Life On Drugs

Reviews

Rated 5 out of 5 by from Amazing read I absolutely loved this book! I'm just starting to delve into the world of non-fiction and this was a great read. I loved the juxtaposition of the scientific explanations with the stories of drug abuse. It was a terrific book.
Date published: 2012-12-05
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Loved It This book was amazing! It was interesting to see how a drug can take hold of someone and then have the science behind it explained. I would recommend this to everyone.
Date published: 2012-10-22
Rated 4 out of 5 by from PERFECT FOR ANYONE If you happen to have a particular interest in the subject of neuroscience than, obivously this is a book for you. But the perfect thing about ths book is that you dont have to be a neuroscience major or anyone that has anything to do with it. This book wont make you feel lost, as an outsider of the field in the conplex terms of the human brain. Its a light read ( for the subject) and easy to grasp. Plus you will be surprised what you will learn about our make up. I would totally give this book to anyone ( coming from a 14 year old perspective)
Date published: 2012-05-09

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Read from the Book

The first time I got drunk was with Whitney Talcott. It was a March night and freezing cold. I had been at Tabor less than six months, and depression was now a palpable daily companion, a disease to be managed. There were good days and bad days, but the good days were just tolerable and the bad days nearly did me in. I hated this school. It was bigger than me, it was stronger than me, and it seemed as natural a part of the New England landscape as the rocky coves and stands of maple. I didn’t belong here. I had got here by mistake. My first two years of high school had been at a nice, normal suburban Toronto school a few blocks from my home. I might not have been the most popular kid in class, but nobody seemed to actively dislike me. I had a few friends. I got invited to a few parties. I had a girlfriend for a couple of months. And I could go home at night. That was the main thing. Here at Tabor, there was no home to return to at the end of the day—except the dorm. And I hated the dorm. I hated every whitewashed board, every hissing radiator, every creak in the polished hardwood floors. I hated my room, I hated my roommate. I hated the guy next door. And I hated my proctors, the senior boys whose job it was to supervise us and care for us while helping induct us into this bizarre paramilitary culture. Para-naval, actually. Tabor was a para-naval academy, but that didn’t mean much to me at the time. The naval terminology seemed a bad joke, an effort to reenact the Hollywood heroism of World War II. We would sometimes see men who looked like admirals strolling the pathways with the headmaster. Gold stripes on dark blue cuffs. There were special prayers at vespers, navy uniforms to be ironed and worn a few weeks a year, drill sessions with guns and a marching band. And yes, we were located on a body of water and there were a lot of boats: sailboats, rowboats, crew boats, a schooner out in the harbour. It was the boats that had attracted me in the first place, the previous spring in Toronto. “Marc, we’d like to talk to you about your options for next year,” my mother had said in her frank, slightly invasive tone. “What options?” I was beckoned to the kitchen table, where I sat down with both parents. The table was covered with pamphlets from different private schools, most of them in New England. “You seem a little bored with school,” Mom continued. “And maybe a bit discontent overall?” Those penetrating eyes—hazel and clear with mildly arched brows—scanned me for an accuracy reading. They gazed at me steadily from her pretty, mid-thirtyish face—a face surrounded by sprayed-in-place hair that became increasingly blonde as the sixties wore on. My mother seemed to wield her own sixth sense. She could look into me and find things. As usual, I soon felt I must be hiding whatever it was she was looking for. “I’m fine, Mom. Everything’s okay.” My dad sat beside her, hunched over and uncomfortable. His pleasant features, thin black hair, and solemn brown eyes would have been more at home at a meeting of the family-run leather business. Dad didn’t usually get involved in family discussions with an emotional theme, if that’s what this was. Maybe he was in the dark as much as I was. His half-smile tried to make light of things. But this was sounding ominous. “I know everything’s fine,” she said. “But remember we talked about boarding schools? And you said you might be interested? Remember, we’ll be moving to San Francisco in two years’ time. Going to an American school would save you a year of high school. You’d be able to go straight to college the year we arrive. So . . .” she smiled encouragingly, “I’ve done my homework and gotten these pamphlets from some very fine schools. And we thought,” with a glance at my dad, “that you might want to look at them.” It all seemed exciting, though too far off to think about. So I looked at the pamphlets piled up in front of me. We looked together, and my parents pointed out this and that feature of this and that school. I tried to pay attention, but my thoughts wandered like stray cats. I was preoccupied—some sort of creeping disorientation at the very prospect of leaving home. And beneath that, intangible but potent, a sense of dread. Were they trying to get rid of me? Had I done something wrong? Now Tabor was my world: there was nothing left to decide. Every morning I joined four hundred other teenage boys tramping along a wooden walkway between brick buildings in a cold mist, breakfast settling, the assembly hall looming, thinking about ways to avoid attention. Our headmaster, Mr. Witherstein, looked as though he’d stepped out of an old movie. He parted his hair almost dead centre, and he was grey and crusty like a venerable admiral himself. He waited for us at the lectern, beaming with unnatural enthusiasm. He delighted in the series of routine announcements that he would soon recite with such gravity. I took my assigned seat. Each seat back held a short wire rack containing a hymnal. I reached toward mine automatically, on cue. We opened our hymnals together, the rustle of pages filling the hall, and we began to sing. A mighty fortress is our God! A bulwark never failing. God had never appeared to me as a fort or a bulwark. Maybe that was because I was Jewish. Yet I didn’t mind the singing. It numbed me. There was a comforting anonymity in being a part of this mass, this sea of boys packed row after row in a heated auditorium. I was safe for now. Back at my dorm, it was survival of the fittest, and I wasn’t all that fit. A pecking order had consolidated in the early months, and I was pretty close to the bottom. At first my roommate, Todd, was the victim of some pretty vicious teasing by just about everyone, but especially Bill Reed, the handsome giant who lived in the room next door. Reed was a front-line football player, though still a junior, and for that alone he was universally admired. Todd put some sort of lotion on his face at night, giving it an awful vampiric whiteness, all the more disturbing with his black stubble poking through. He was soon known to one and all as Madame Butterfly. I was sympathetic at first, but I didn’t like him much. He was caustic, whiny, and sour. I tried to like him. I tried to be nice to him. But I secretly hoped that his victimization would keep me safe, give me some breathing space. Meanwhile, Reed had risen rapidly to power. His own roommate, Randy, was an absurd-looking, gangly outcast, with protruding ears, perfectly designed by nature for the role of village idiot. And he was Reed’s roommate! I felt sorry for Randy. What torments must he suffer? But I was relieved that Reed was surrounded by victim material. Although I knew that was selfish, I needed it to be so. I needed the playing field tilted in my favour. And then, to my horror, it tilted the other way. The dominance hierarchy heaved a final time and Randy and Todd ended up Reed’s lieutenants, his slaves. Randy brought him anything he asked for. He literally stood around, waiting for orders. Todd found his niche fawning over Reed from the sidelines, grinning at his savage jokes and heaping ridicule on his victims. I was next in line. “Hey Lewis!” Reed smiled at me almost warmly from the doorway connecting our rooms. His broad, manly features beamed with good humour. “Yes?” “Come on in. Join the party.” “Okay.” I couldn’t refuse. “Did you see what happened to my dresser?” “No . . .” “Take a look.” “I don’t see anything.” “Come closer.” He seemed so inviting. I wanted to believe that I was really being included. But I didn’t see anything unusual. “Closer!” “I don’t see . . .” “Bring your head right up to the edge here, ya dummy. You have to look at it from just the right angle.” I did as I was told, moving my face to within inches of the dresser surface. There seemed to be a pool of water there. “I see some water. How did that happen?” Then smash! His palm came down hard on the little puddle; my face was soaked. And whatever was running down my cheeks stung my eyes, which started instantly to tear. Aftershave? Hydrochloric acid? Liquid shame? My tears were the worst part. “How did that happen?” Reed echoed in mincing tones. “How did that happen?” His voice rose with incredulity while he danced around the room. “Did it make you cry, Lewis? Poor baby, we’d better call your Mama,” and they all erupted into laughter, Reed, Randy, Todd, and another guy. I looked through tears at Reed’s grinning hyena mask, curling now with contempt, and I wanted to slip through the floor. What was wrong with me?! I began to avoid my dorm whenever I could, to synchronize my comings and goings with those of the other boys, so Reed couldn’t get me alone. I made a couple of friends and that helped. There were other misfits who had no interest—and generally no place—in the jock-dominated hierarchy. By Christmas I spent a lot of time with Schwartz and Burton. Joe Schwartz was a junior like me, but he was leather-tough in some unique way. Self-sufficient and really smart. Burton was just a big teddy bear, gruff and mischievous, whom nobody could dislike. I got to know their friends, Gelsthorpe, Perry, and Norris, all seniors. These were the guys who would graduate at the end of the year, and they all lived in another dorm, Pond House. I spent a lot of time at Pond House, and I wished I could switch. But at night I had to return to my own dorm, with its sixteen boys, often creeping up the back stairs to avoid notice. Sometimes, before going to my room and facing Todd, I’d drop in on Lawrence Carr, one of the two black kids at Tabor. That’s two out of four hundred. The other one, Lavalle, was despised by all: he wore his bitterness like an armband. But Carr stayed above the fray and was left alone. In my eyes he was magnificent. “How do you handle it?” I wanted to know. “I take it all for granted,” he replied. His smile was gentle, chiding. “What did you expect, man? Tabor is no temple of brotherhood. It is exactly what it appears to be.” “Yes, but . . .” “Just wait it out. Keep your own council.” It seemed easy for him. When I finally learned how to avoid Reed’s displays of goodwill, trouble came from a guy named Roche who lived across the hall. Passing his door became an agony of nerves. “A Jew! A Jew! Excuse me! I mean ah-choo! Bless me! Hey Lewis, did you hear someone sneeze?” His voice rang with feigned bafflement. Roche was rotund and greasy, with small eyes and a blistering tongue. He sat chinless, unmoving, on a chair well inside his room, opposite the door, waiting for fresh bait to pass within range without his having to move from his lair. I was bait. Defenceless bait. “Don’t let them know they’re getting you down,” my mother advised on the phone. “If they don’t get a reaction, they’ll stop.” That was probably the worst advice I’d ever got from anyone. Or maybe I just didn’t know how to implement it. I couldn’t imagine how I might pretend that it wasn’t getting me down. It crushed me! Roche could see my face as I hurried by or see me looking down, avoiding his gaze. But I soon got more potent advice from an unlikely source, a boy named Miles. He was a loner like Carr, and confident like Carr—in fact contemptuous of the scurrying cruelty around him. I sat at the foot of his bed one night, looking at unfathomable pictures of his enormous home in the Deep South. “Lewis,” he asked, leaning regally against the headboard, “why do you let Roche pick on you?” He studied me carefully, trying to discern the peculiar defect that must be there. “I don’t . . . mean to. What choice do I have?” “What choice?” He snorted with mild disgust. “Lewis, your problem is that you have no common sense. You’re an intelligent kid, but you don’t know how to use it.” “What should I do?” If there was some workable trick, I wanted badly to know it. “Look at Roche. Does he have any weaknesses?” “Well, no. He’s got lots of friends in fact.” “Yeah, but is there anything about him that’s . . . that he’s not proud of? That he doesn’t want his friends to see?” “Just that he’s fat, I guess.”

Editorial Reviews

“Memoirs of an Addicted Brain . . . takes on all of human longing. Unlike many of his brain science colleagues and fellow addicts, Dr. Lewis can write. One moment, he is remembering the details of his life as an addict; the next, he is reconstructing, based on newer scientific findings, what the drugs were doing to his brain. The result is not just a book about a brain on drugs, but a picture of addiction as an unavoidable urge of human nature. . . . It's the way he drapes his scientific understanding of human chemical function over the frame of his own life that makes his memoir compelling.” —The Globe and Mail “In his book, Lewis seamlessly integrates the physiology and psychology of addiction with his own vivid, disturbing memories. It’s a fascinating and fact-filled glimpse into the world of needles and need.” —Georgia Straight “[Memoirs of an Addicted Brain] is compelling, and for readers grappling with addiction, Mr. Lewis's mechanistic approach might well be novel enough to inspire them to seek the happiness he now enjoys.” —The Wall Street Journal “Marc Lewis’s Memoirs of an Addicted Brain is a cracker. . . . The science is up to the minute. Lewis clearly knows his stuff.” —The Australian“Full . . . fascinating. . . . the picture of his brain activity with which Lewis furnishes us is at just the right resolution for an interested lay reader.” —The Independent