Dope, Dumpsters & Death's Door: How I Sank Into A Mile-Deep Pit And Found God There
By Ken Tamplin
Part 1: Losing Everything
My brother introduced me to dope at age 6.
And you might think that’s when my troubles began…
… but truthfully, dope was just a symptom of the real problem.
What was the “real” problem?
I’ll get there in a moment.
The funny thing is, back then my family looked great from the outside.
Beautiful parents. Lots of money. 4 kids. Big home by the beach in California. Anything we wanted, we could have.
But as is often the case with families, and really, anything that seems all perfect and pretty from the outside… the inside of our family was a mess.
My parents fought all the time.
And though I could have pretty much any material thing I wanted … what I couldn’t have or find was the “deeper” stuff; a sense of safety and security… a sense that I belonged… real self-acceptance.
So I spent much of my early life trying to escape.
To escape from mom and dad’s fighting.
Escape from school.
Escape from my own deep sadness and loneliness.
And it was in that context that my older brother introduced me to dope.
My brother was a dealer to his friends.
Which led to me smoking my first joint of marijuana at age six.
Right when I was graduating Kindergarten.
When most kids are busy learning how to ride a bike without training wheels.
And as you’ll see in future emails, that first “kiss” with dope was the beginning of a toxic relationship with all manner of drugs… a relationship which brought me inches away from death probably 7 or 8 times in the following years.
After marijuana at 6, I did my first line of coke at age 9.
And by the time I was in my teens, I was getting high on angel dust (PCP) and all kinds of stuff soft and hard.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
When I was 12, my dad left us.
And to be honest, he never really gave a _____ about me when he was around. So it “shouldn’t” have hurt so much when he left. Yet I remember that day so clearly, like it was a week ago. Lying on my bed and bawling my eyes out.
I didn’t want to ever see him again.
And also, I wanted more than anything for him to come back.
As for how a person can feel both things at once?
Beats me.
But, that’s how I felt.
Life doesn’t make sense sometimes. This was one of those times.
I remember lying there with red eyes, feeling like my world had collapsed. Like things could sink no lower.
Little did I realize… I had another mile left to sink, before my feet would really touch the bottom.
Well around the time my dad left my older brother went to prison.
Busted for dealing drugs.
(And this will play a bigger role in the story later on - but I had at this point taken over his business, and was dealing to all his old clients… yes, at age 12)
My older sister had run away from home.
So it was just me, my younger brother Lance (he was 6 at the time), and my mom.
Left to find our own way in a big and unforgiving world.
But the thing was.
My dad did not just leave my mom;
He had a grudge against her… and was determined to hurt her as much as he could on his way out.
And in that spirit he siphoned out every last penny from his and mom’s savings accounts. Took out a second mortgage on the house we were living in. Took out loans against the cars. All to show my mom that she “couldn’t live without him.”
Mom was forced to start selling off furniture.
And then when there was nothing left, and we were eating on the floor with paper plates, and a mortgage payment hanging over us that mom could no longer pay… we left. Mom bought the only car she could afford with what little money she had left - a beat up AMC Gremlin… and we started going from motel to motel.
Paying for one night, and staying until they called the cops on us and physically kicked us out… so as to remain at each motel as long as we possibly could. Then moving to the next dingy, roach-infested motel, to rinse and repeat the same humiliating process.
Looking back as an adult, I don't know how mom held on for so long.
She fought so hard for me and Lance.
And put herself through so much.
Desperately crying out to God for help every day.
While also actively searching, constantly, for a new place for us to stay, something to eat each night, and a better life for me and little Lance.
She loved us.
And to this day I am inspired to try to love others even harder, when I think about my mom's love for us in those desperate times.
But eventually even with all of mom's courage and heroic efforts we completely ran out of money.
So I started calling up my dad and begging him to pay child support:
“Dad… Lance and I are really hungry… can you please give mom some money so we can have more to eat next week? Dad…”
I hated having to beg and grovel.
Like, absolutely hated it.
But at some point the aching in your stomach gets so bad you don’t even care anymore. And you cave and find yourself pleading and groveling in front of the very person who pushed you into the slimy, stinking pit you’re wasting away in.
Sometimes he would give mom some money. Sometimes he wouldn’t. Depended on what his mood was when we called him.
One day the aching got so bad, that when Lance and I were out walking we saw a Winchell’s donut house down the street… and a thought drifted into my head, then out of my mouth:
“You know Lance… I bet they throw out all sorts of stuff at Winchell’s… and if we come back at night and check out those dumpsters, maybe we’ll be able to find something to eat.”
So we did that.
Lance (he was 7 at the time) and I came back later that night.
And when no one was looking, we ran up to the dumpster, threw open the plastic lid, and started furiously ripping open the trash bags inside. Looking for something - anything - to stop the aching in our stomachs.
And every day, our little, shattered family of 3 sank a little deeper.
The flame in mom’s eyes was going out.
She started spending less time outside hunting for work and for help - and more time lying in the motel room bed with eyes glazed over, staring at the TV.
I was too young to understand at the time.
But I now see in retrospect that these were signs pointing forward to that coming day… when "it" would happen to my mom.
Which is what the next part of my story is about.
Part 2: Suicide
Now I will tell the hardest part of my story to tell.
I choke up every time I tell it in person.
So please bear with me.
We had just moved our things into a tiny motel room that straddled the two towns of Whittier and La Habra in Southern California. Half the rooms were on the Whittier side - half on the La Habra side. Our room was on the Whittier side.
At this point we were all out of food.
All out of money.
No gas in the car.
And we were about to get kicked out of this motel room.
And before I tell you what happened next… I want to make one thing crystal clear.
My mom was a good mom. In fact, a great mom. She gave little Lance and I so much. And when she had nothing material left to give, she prayed for us. Day in and day out. And I know not everyone listening to my story is religious… but I still attribute many of the miraculous things that happened to me in life to these prayers of my mom.
And she prayed for us because she loved us. So freaking much.
Which I bring up because after what you hear in this part of my story, you may question whether she "really" loved us.
And I want you to know.
She did.
Now back to the motel room.
Where we were all out of food, money, gas… and hope.
As I was helping Lance pack up his things into his beaten up little backpack, my mom went over to her suitcase and started rummaging around for something.
When she turned around, I noticed a big tear rolling down her cheek.
Then I looked down at her hand.
It was shaking.
And she was holding a bottle of pills.
She walked over to me. Stopped.
Then lifted her shaky arm with the bottle, and said,
“Kenny… I’m so sorry it had to end this way. I don’t have any more way to provide for you guys. I think it’s about time we checked out.”
…
Silence.
Staring.
Tears.
…
And in the silence my 13-year-old brain started firing off like crazy, trying to figure out what mom really meant by “time to check out”. More tears rolling down her cheek. She went on:
“Here’s what I think the three of us should do. I think we should all take these pills… and then we’ll go to sleep, and won’t wake up. You two won’t have to be hungry, ever again - or cry, or have bad dreams, or anything.”
Her hand was still shaking.
Now the big tear rolling down her cheek was joined by many others.
I stood there speechless. Still unable to accept that mom was inviting me and little Lance to commit suicide with her.
Then it hit me like a ton of bricks.
And I realized that mom was taking one last loving look at her two sons. The only two things she had anymore… as if to try to drink us in and fill up her heart and head with us, before closing her eyes for the last time.
And that in a bizarre and totally upside-down way… her invitation to us, to commit suicide with her... was the final act of love she could muster up.
The only thing she had left to give.
She could have easily given up and “checked out” on her own without telling Lance or I... and I know many people who have done that... but she was offering to take us with her. So that none of us had to face a world without each other.
I started crying.
More thoughts and images flashing through my head at light speed.
Maybe she’s right?
Maybe it would be easiest this way…
Maybe it would be best for Lance if we all just closed our eyes and “went to sleep”, so he didn’t have to grow up on the streets and become a worthless crack addict like his older brothers, and spend his life hating himself, and constantly getting dirty looks from people walking by and judging him…
I felt so cold.
So lost.
Where was God in this.
Mom had prayed so much.
And here we were.
Standing on the edge of a cliff
With nothing.
So much for a God who cares.
While all these thoughts were flashing through my head and tears rolling down my cheek… I suddenly became aware of the little black and white TV set in the corner of the room, which had been on this whole time.
An old show called “The 700 Club” was playing.
It was a Christian show - and to be honest, I thought it was a total joke. The host at the time, a black guy named “Ben Kinchlow,” would say all sorts of crazy wacko things that he supposedly heard from God.
But at this particular moment as my mom and I stood there crying in that motel room, I couldn’t help but notice that Ben was praying on the show.
Then, it happened.
A moment - a sentence - that I will never be able to forget.
From the little TV set in the corner of the room, Ben’s voice came out loud and clear:
“I’m sensing… that there is a family in a place called 'Whittier California' right now. And… you’re thinking about committing suicide.”
Now I was staring directly at the TV. So was mom. I sprinted over and cranked up the volume:
“Don’t do it.”
…
"Call the number on the screen, and we will get help to you right away."
Then Ben continued, but more firmly this time:
“I’m telling you, you are in a place called WHITTIER CALIFORNIA. Do NOT commit suicide. Call the number on the screen, and we will get help to you. Call the number NOW.”
I was in a daze.
Was this... really happening?
The show was run out of Virginia.
How would Ben even know about the existence of Whittier… let alone the fact that someone in Whittier was watching the show, and about to commit suicide?
I reached into my pocket.
And my hand touched a little piece of metal - a dime that I couldn’t remember putting there. Enough to call the number on the screen.
I scribbled down the number, ran out the door to the nearest payphone, called the number… and was greeted with a warm voice:
“Hi! This is ______ with the 700 club. What can I do for you today?”
I told the person on the phone what had just happened… where we were staying, what room number we were at… and the person assured me they would send someone over right away.
Not too long afterwards a car pulled up into the motel parking lot, and out stepped a man with a warm smile on his face. He knocked on our door, introduced himself… and handed my mom $25, plus a voucher for food at the local grocery store.
He prayed with us. Hugged each of us. And drove away.
The motel room was quiet.
And then, sobbing.
Hugging.
And more sobbing.
Mom put the pills away.
And suddenly, the motel room didn’t feel so dark anymore.
Now feel free to gloss over this next part if you’re not a person of Faith… but if I’m going to tell my story with complete honesty, I have to also say:
In that moment I felt… I knew… that someone was there, in the room, who I could not see. And had been there all along.
With us.
Watching. Listening. His heart aching, every moment that mine did.
He was there when dad left.
He was there when we were kicked out of each motel room.
He was there as Lance and I were eating trash from a Winchell’s dumpster.
And He was there with us in the motel room right now. And always had been.
And after mom went to the grocery store that evening, and we had all eaten what felt to us like a feast fit for kings and queens (though to most it would have been a simple meal)... I looked over at my mom as we were all in bed, and she was turning out the lights. And I saw something in her eyes that I had not seen for a long time.
Something that made me think it was all going to be ok after all.
And before I end this part of my story.
And before I tell you about the long and painful road out of poverty, addiction, and “the bottom” which the three of us had to journey through in the years to come…
I want to say to you, my friend, what I learned on that day.
In the darkest moment of my life.
And what I want to say is this:
Even when it is so dark that you cannot see in front of you.
Even when you are standing at the edge of a cliff, and can find no way forward.
Even if you have lost all faith, or never had any…
I implore you to realize.
You are not alone.
Cry out for help.
And the Help will come.
Part 3: Knocking On Death's Door Again
I should have died by age 14. Five or six times.
I had already OD’d twice on PCP.
And from my days as a dealer... I had made many enemies who wanted to (and tried to a handful of times) kill me.
One time when I was alone in our apartment, someone started banging on my door and screaming "OPEN UP!?! OPEN UP TAMPLIN OR I'M GOING TO F_____ KILL YOU"... and I knew it was the guy I owed 2k to, so I didn't come near the door or the window... and then I heard a "RVVV... RRRRVVVVVVVVV... RRRRRRRRR" noise outside the door and then BANG my front door came crashing down - the dude had literally rode his motorcycle through it. And he started chasing me throughout my apartment and I just narrowly escaped out the back door and hopped a fence and got away.
Needless to say, I knew if I didn't find a way to come clean... from using and dealing... I was not going to make it out of high school.
And I had tried everything. Cold turkey, rehab, everything.
But like a dog returns to its vomit…
I kept on coming back to this “love affair” I had with dope.
Inching a little closer each day to the edge of a cliff.
At this point (age 14) I was working 3 jobs to help support my mom and little brother.
Juggling the 3 jobs… my dope addiction… my musical aspirations… and just trying to stay afloat.
Wondering if my life was all going to come crashing down on my head.
Or if somehow, I would survive.
Well one day while sitting in our little apartment living room, my mom looked over at me and said,
MOM: “Kenny… I’ve been thinking. I haven’t been to church in a long time. Would you… would you please go with me?”
Without even thinking I shot back,
ME: “No WAY mom. I love God. But I am just fine playing music and doing my own thing.”
Mom’s voice started to quiver.
MOM: “Kenny, please… I don’t have anyone to go with.”Huge dramatic sigh from me, then:
ME: “ ...where do you want to go?”
She hesitated, and then very softly...
MOM: “Melodyland.”
Now before I share my response… you have to understand that Melodyland was not just any old church to me. Let’s just say I had some “history” there. And by “history” I mean, this church had started a drug rehabilitation center a few years back… and I had been sent there… and had snuck off premises with the son of the pastor who founded the place, loaded him up with beer… then that kid narked on me and I got in HUGE trouble and was kicked out of the program.
I HATED that place.
And the thought of showing my face in that community again just made me angry.
I couldn’t believe mom was asking me to go to this church.
And that is exactly what I told her.
She started crying.
Ugh.
Yes, I was a punk teenager. I was a tough guy. A cool kid. But even me with all my rugged toughness, I could not stand to see my mom cry.
My mom who had rushed me to the hospital two years prior, when I had blown a hole in my abdomen with a pipe bomb.
My mom who prayed for me when the doctors said I only had 24 hours to live - and then I became a medical miracle.
My mom who had watched over me and my little brother after my dad abandoned us.
I was a punk. But I knew at this point that I had to find a compromise.
After a minute of debating with myself in my head, I finally said,
“Okay mom. Here’s the deal. I’ll go. But we sit in the VERY back row. And if I want to leave at ANY time, I’m leaving.”
And off we went to Melodyland.
We arrived at the church a few minutes after the service had started.
And quietly snuck in through the doors in the back of the auditorium… surrounded by several thousand singing, bobbing people… and claimed some seats in the very back row.
I crossed my arms and just stood there. Much too cool to even mouth the words to the songs.
After a minute of standing there with my arms crossed, surrounded by all these people who still just made me so mad… the pastor (his name was Ralph Wilkerson) turned from the audience, and faced the choir.
He thrust out his hand and shouted,
“Choir, STOP!”
The choir went silent.
Weird.
Then the pastor - after pausing and closing his eyes - said:
“There’s a young man out there. Fourteen years old.”
Dramatic pause.
Pastor Wilkerson continued:
“He’s heavily involved in drugs. Addicted, a drug dealer, overdosed a couple times.”
Eyes around me were widening.
I could tell people were peering around the room from the corners of their eyes, trying to find this “young man.”
And meanwhile a growing sense of fury was welling up inside me.
“Son, I want to tell you right now… if you don’t come forward and accept Jesus Christ into your life and your heart and let God take control… you’re probably gonna die.”
The whole auditorium was stirring with nervous energy.
I turned and glared at my mom, absolutely LIVID… like, furious enough to melt the entire church right then and there.
I just KNEW she had called ahead of time and set this up with the pastor.
Words cannot describe how angry I felt.
Then pastor Wilkerson continued,
“You owe a drug dealer some money. The number $2000 comes to mind.”
I froze.
Hold on…
I hadn’t told my mom about THAT...
And he kept on talking. And the more he talked, the more he revealed weirdly specific things about my life. Stuff my mom could NEVER have known. I had no idea what was going on. But I felt VERY uneasy.
He paused, either to catch his breath, or to wait for something to happen.
Meanwhile I stood in the shadows of the back of the auditorium, with thoughts racing through my head.
And then,
“Well. I guess he’s not coming up. Choir, sing!”
And this next part I will do my best to describe but will fall short:
Suddenly, I realized that I was up out of my seat and walking down the aisle.
As if some invisible force was propelling me.
I felt like a dog on a leash, who doesn’t want to go where his master wants him to go, and so he sits down while his master drags him forward, scrambling backwards with his legs and whimpering…
Yet on I went… stumbling down the aisle, looking for some possible excuse to stop and turn back.
Next thing I knew I was standing in front of the pulpit.
Terrified.
No idea what was going on.
The pastor fixed his eyes on me and shouted, “That’s him! That’s the young man I saw in my vision! Church, PRAY!”
Now prior to this moment I had heard of people being “slain in the Spirit” but thought it was all bunk. I figured it was just people pretending to have a spiritual experience, so they could rack up spiritual points and use that as boasting material to their friends. Or something like that.
And I know plenty of people - both Christian and not - who still think this way. And think of “being slain in the Spirit” as some weird charismatic hoax to laugh at.
But let me tell you.
In that moment, the pastor touched me on the forehead.
And I was DEFINITELY not trying to do this… but I fell over backward.
Something like a warm wind brushed over my body, and I became paralyzed.
Make fun of me all you want.
Call it a hoax or “placebo” or “getting carried away.”
But if I'm gonna tell my story honestly, I have to share all of it. And there I was. A punk teenager. Stubborn and prideful to the core. Thinking this whole service was a joke. Not wanting anyone to push me around, and definitely not this coo-coo, wacko pastor guy… yet there I was, lying on the stage in front of several thousand eyes. Totally unable to move.
A tingling sensation came over me.
And gradually, I was able to move again.
And ever since that day?
I have not been able to do another drug.
100% serious.
And this is coming from someone who tried rehab, tried cold turkey muscling on my own, tried everything, and failed it all in grand fashion.
But after that bizarre moment in front of the pulpit of a church I did NOT want to be at… for reasons I completely did NOT understand at the time... I completely lost my desire to do drugs, and felt I couldn’t even do them if I wanted to.
(Sidenote: I did try once after that. I got some terrible commercial marijuana, and fully intended to smoke it with a friend... but the moment we sat down and were preparing to smoke, this terrible feeling started coming over me… and I started getting a very similar sensation to the one I had gotten as I was OD’ing on angel dust. Which made me panic and FREAK out, and throw the joint away from me immediately. While my friend sat there with eyes wide open probably wondering, “what the BLEEP is wrong with you Ken”... )
And that is how God freed me of my drug addiction.
