substance use disorder

Ask Me

~ heroin heroine ~ 1 Comment

“Sometime when the river is ice ask me about the mistakes I have made. Ask me whether what I have done is my life. Others have come in their slow way into my thoughts, and some have tried to help or to hurt: ask me what difference their strongest love or hate has made.”

William Stafford wrote these lines. I found his slim book of poetry on a local library shelf. I had not heard of him, and wasn’t particularly looking for another man’s musings on the state of the world. In fairness I don’t know what I am looking for these days. But I opened the book up to the opening stanza of “Ask Me.” And I promptly felt assaulted by my own shortcomings.

Is the life i have led mine? Have I allowed it to be written by the circumstances I have encountered rather than the ones I have sought? Yes. How does one realistically go about firing the ghost writer if the ghost writer is your life’s circumstances?

The mistakes I have made…do I consider them? Not often.
Do I still make them? Repeatedly. Then why have I been so slow to address them? What if the mistakes are not the main problem, only ineffective stabs at solutions?

The friends who help – what difference have they made? And before asking that should I not ask myself, ‘have I fully allowed them?’

And of those who have hurt – did I forgive them too quickly? Or did I willfully forget rather than forgive? Was this the easier path? How much does it matter?

There is community. But paramount there is self. Looking at our collectivity can be a balm but rarely does it provide an individualized answer. Unless that answer is letting go with a passivity that destroys the still unacknowledged self. That, to this old self, doesn’t feel right.

What of the wonders outside of self? I can envision Stafford’s icy river disguising the current below. Stafford confidently states “What the river says, that is what I say.” Well what does the river say? Stafford explains “…the comings and goings from miles away that hold the stillness.”

It sounds so encouragingly whole – the river contains what has come before and what will come after. But the stillness, this ice, is it not nature’s attempt to stop forward movement? I realize it is a metaphor: a seasonal pause standing in for a human recess. But isn’t the ice also a disguiser, a preventer and a cold reminder of unchangeable currents?

No need to “Ask Me.” It has literally and figuratively all been said before.

Fires and Such.

~ heroin heroine ~ 2 Comments

Lately I have more time for solitude.
I’m not sure my mind and limbs are equipped for the change.
A good portion of my adult life they have been primed to put out fires.
My children, for the most part, have been the fire starters. Home grown arsonists. For over a decade they have been relentless in their attempts to burn their lives to the ground. And I have been primed to put a stop to that sh$t.

Honestly, someone should have made me a Smokey the Bear outfit by now.

Did you know Smokey the Bear was real? He was a three-month old black bear cub when he became a victim of the Capitan Gap Fire of New Mexico. His hind legs and paws were badly burned before he was able to retreat to the safety of a tall tree.

I am not saying I am damaged. I am not saying I have to be rescued.
But like Smokey, I am a little singed. And like Smokey, I have had a good perch from which to survey the surrounding damage.

And boy is addiction an effective fire starter.

I learned that addiction fuels most crime while sitting ringside at various Massachusetts district courts. At Quincy District Court, Worcester Court and Stoughton Court I noted that nearly all those being prosecuted for civil or criminal crimes had been under the influence of some sort of drug. Crimes like brutal fist fights, petty theft, grand theft, car crashes, spousal abuse, destruction of personal property, breaking and entering, prostitution and drug dealing.

It was an exhaustive, circular list. But each story had a name and a face. There was the elderly woman in crocheted clothing who used her cane to hobble up to the judge: how can she be in trouble when she couldn’t remember hitting that telephone pole while drinking? There was the young man pleading for a reduction in monthly court fees – he was doing well in probation but barely able to make ends meet after weekly sober home payments. There was the teenage girl in raggedy clothing trying not to cry over shoplifting. There was the middle-aged man explaining that he would never hit his girlfriend. But cameras had caught him doing just that outside of the local bar. So many people, so many problems. Victims of a disease perpetrating crimes making even more victims.

So what is the point of this post besides relaying misery?

Well from my vantage point I have learned about the existence of diversion programs. Diversion programs replace criminal incarceration with a series of tailored alternatives: usually drug testing, community support and service, and restitution (restorative justice) for damages. If one fails to follow through they return to traditional sentencing (a crime is a crime and accountability is necessary). But diversion programs work well – especially with juveniles. A 2023 study by the Massachusetts Office of the Child Advocate (in collaboration with DYS) showed a 69% positive closure rate. The Boston Bar Association (2018, v62 #4) showed a recidivism rate of just 16% and a 98% participation satisfaction rate as measured by offenders and victims. (Even victims!).

Unfortunately our family has experience with incarceration – without having committed a crime. Since my teen daughter could not stay sober she was deemed unsafe (which was accurate) and required lock-down supervision. Since no treatment beds were available at addiction centers she was remanded to Framingham State Prison. For five straight days guards laughed as she detoxed. Her days were then spent separated from the general population (explained as a safety measure) leaving her unable to exercise or move around the shared grounds including the library and eating areas. She was unable to reliably use the phone to make necessary calls for next steps (for example lining up a sober home upon her release). There were no AA meetings or therapy of any kind. She spent a month behind these bars. It’s worth noting that Framingham bills the state $160k per inmate, per year. If there’s a crime being committed it’s being committed by the institution.

Where does that leave us? With a burning field! But let’s be realistic: the field was always going to burn. It’s part of nature’s life cycle. And humans are always going to do the wrong thing – that too is human nature. But previously scorched fields can brim with new life. Diseased and damaged wood is fertile ground for new green shoots. Compost after all is made from decay – but to get the mixture right it needs a little tending. Those old promo posters of Smokey didn’t show this internal dilemma. After scrambling down from that tree he had a decision to make: stick around or flee to higher ground. His vantage point* must have taught him something. Because he donned that crisp new ranger outfit.

His catch words? “Care” and “prevention” and “personal intervention.”

*if you have difficulty envisioning the problem: visit your local court – it’s open to the general public. Take a seat and make a day of it. You can’t unsee the cyclical misery.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

~ heroin heroine

The first time I walked into a peer recovery center I didn’t know what to expect. A woman i had become friendly with invited me. She was leading a group called “Faith Finders” which gave me pause. That and the fact that I was not in recovery. But I had met her in a storytelling class and kept bumping into her at the gym – so her vibe seemed to jibe with my vibe. And I like saying yes to most things. So I said yes.

The meeting was held on a cold New England evening. The parking lot fronts an active harbor and nearby cars were encrusted with a thin film of ice. When I arrived I grabbed one of the few remaining seats that formed a large circle in the room. I took off my bulky winter coat and placed it on the back of my chair. I snuck a summary glance and noted that, besides the host, I didn’t recognize a single person. This was unusual since I had lived in the neighboring town for twenty-five years. I tried to refrain my eyes from making continual rounds, but we were seated in a circle – so there was no empty spot to rest them. When the introductions began each person shared their first name, followed by “I am in recovery.” As I write this, years later, I can still feel how my body responded. At first there was an initial dulling of the senses (like a baby seal taking a whack with every name call) followed by a sudden infusion of thick, unsuspecting joy. Here i was, seated among a room full of people in long term recovery. Loads of happy, healthy, community-oriented people. Who the bloody hell knew? Certainly not me – and I had been seeking the possibility of such a future for my children for over a decade.

Since then I have been back to the recovery center countless times. I have attended a breath workshop, meditation groups, and for two years a weekly parent support group. I’ve tried acupuncture. I have danced at sober rock concerts. I also scheduled one-on-one meetings with the director where I asked him the most confounding questions like “why?” and “how?” and more desperate ones like”help her” and “help me.” No matter the question, he never batted an eye. Sometimes he laughed, sometimes he shared, sometimes he handed me resources. I always left in a better head space -which is saying an awful lot.

Did you know that center’s like this exist all over the country? They do! And even though my introduction began with a group called faith finders; a recovery center is nothing like a church. Its suggested avenues to wellness are varied. On the sidewalk outside our center a chalkboard invites you to try running club, yoga, book group, art therapy. There’s even a new Ted Talk hour. You may wander in unscheduled and ask for information on how to get yourself sober, how to get a family member sober or how to deal with people who refuse to get sober.

When your children are unrelentingly sick with substance use disorder you become, or at least I became, a weird version of ‘wildy blind’ and ‘blindly wild’. Sharing the unthinkable (how else to release it from ping-ponging around your brain?) and having someone with first-hand knowledge provide clarity (yes, there can be clarity!) is invaluable. And here’s the inherent bonus: recovery centers are manned by those in recovery. Suddenly the dying dream becomes a living possibility.

Oh I forgot to tell you how that first visit went.
When it came my turn to speak I just said “Annemarie.” No re-joinder.

And everyone welcomed me.

Mother’s Day Imperfection

~ heroin heroine

Mother’s Day can be difficult.
As a mother of three it feels wrong to admit this.*

Yet the last ten years have left me unsettled; even when treated to breakfast in bed and a chore-free day. All thoughtful for sure – but part of me feels outraged. As the years roll by the insufficiency of the gesture compounds. I know mothers are not supposed to be ungrateful and I am not sure that is exactly what I feel. I also know discussing this is breaking a golden parenting rule.

To be clear I am not complaining about diaper changing, house cleaning, grade monitoring, meal cooking or parent volunteering. Those things are par the course. Instead I am thinking about the additional job of parenting children with emotional issues and/or substance use disorder. These aren’t small add-ons; they are really, really big ones. Twenty years, and by my count, I have yet to drop “the ball.” I imagine this ball resembles a self-made rubber band one; constructed from layers of colorfully taut bands. Each band representing doctor visits, therapist visits, medical research dives, parent groups, medication trials, multiple schools, exercise regimens, courtroom scenes, police intervention, inpatient and outpatient hospitalizations. Then add layers of worry justified by dozens of 2 am phone calls, too many emergency room visits and hundreds of nightmares. It’s a pretty big freaking ball.

A bagel in bed doesn’t quell the unease this day can bring. Do I need to be congratulated for my super-sized role? I hope that isn’t what this is about. My kids are legally grown and the job of active parenting is no longer mine. But this day does incur reflection. What if, looking back on my parenting journey, I am presented with equal measures of both horror and joy? Maybe I am adding too much weight to the destructive part. But destruction always carries more weight doesn’t it?

When I look around I see a lot of mothers who seem to be pretty satisfied and duly feted. Am I comparing? I guess I am. it’s juvenile, I know. But it’s hard not to, especially on this day.

Sometimes I envision lying in a field and having people pile on top of me. It starts as one hug. A nameless, faceless person finds me alone in this immense field and gets down to envelop me. Then another joins. Then another. Layering on top of me like rubber bands on that mess-of-a-ball. I end up smothered (in a “smothered into stillness” sort of way). I can feel a tower of hearts beating on top of me. Although it becomes uncomfortable, it is a bearable weight. Does the dream personify my mothering experience? (Acceptance of the trapped nature of self buried under the leaden weight of my little slice of humanity?) Or is it instead my friends recognizing my distress and mercifully burying me in a form of living oblivion? I just don’t know. But a new Mother’s Day tradition may be called for. Something a little less pretty and a little less conventional than what has gone before. Maybe next year we should play tackle football. I can see it now: no one will follow the rules and everyone will want to win. We will struggle together and against each other. And in the process trample the hell out of my carefully planted flower garden. Maybe then this holiday will feel a little more honest. #vivathetruth

* I will be blocking my children from reading this: i may be ungrateful but i am not cruel.

The Ranking of Souls

~ heroin heroine

Many years ago my private school introduced DEIJ exercises (diversity, equity, inclusion and justice) during one of our teacher training days. It was a fairly new concept at the time and we prided ourselves on being progressive. It was my day off so I missed the initial session. I was told it began with teachers lined up in a straight line at the far end of a large green field. Questions were asked and if answered in the affirmative you took a giant step forward.

Questions like:
Did you grow up in a two parent home?
As a child did you have food security?
Has your family remained free of incarceration/justice system?
Do you feel welcome in most group settings?
Do you identify as white?
Did you receive a higher education?
Do you own your own home?

Yeses bred more yeses – exponentially. Looking around the field it must have been apparent that a secure upbringing reaped de-facto future benefits. Of course this was the reason for the exercise.

This part of the day I understood.

Later the teachers were handed a worksheet to rank whom they would choose to live with on a deserted island. People such as carpenter, doctor, professor, captain, Gilligan. Okay, it didn’t include Gilligan – but it did include two other distinct prototypes: violent criminal and drug addict.

I was told the drug addict came in last.

Logic must have escaped my fellow teachers. Who chooses to live with someone who is violent vs. someone who suffers from addiction? In a setting without laws or law enforcement why favor the criminal? And what kind of violent criminal are we talking about? If the crime was motivated by greed can they share limited supplies? If driven by power can they live within a democratic structure? Do they have a history of destruction of private property, assault, murder or rape? Do these tendencies evaporate on a deserted beach?

In all honesty, I wouldn’t rush to choose a person suffering from substance use disorder (SUD) either. The scientist, the boat builder, the storyteller – they have obvious benefits. But the person with SUD wouldn’t be last. Admittedly they can be violent: but it’s nearly always in pursuit of their drug. (Which, hello, makes it a non sequitur on a deserted island!) It is also true that active drug users are inconsistent contributors to a functioning society. But active addiction requires access to a drug.

At the time these exercises occurred my teenage daughter was in prison for her addiction. I was angry upon learning of my fellow teacher’s decision making process. It seemed curiously uncaring for a group of progressive educators. And if statistics ring true nearly every one of them knew someone suffering from the disease of addiction. Did they not believe in recovery? Could they not see the human inside? I understand the “eyes wide shut” response. Maybe they didn’t want to look too closely. And then there is the daydream of many a worn out caregiver: life on a deserted island! On this island we never bring our problematic family. We are alone, reading a book, tilting our noses to the welcoming sun.

I considered the human tendency to dislike in others what we dislike in ourselves. Many of us struggle with over-indulgence, keeping our word, consistency, making permanent lifestyle changes. So maybe it was as simple as not wanting to look at themselves.

I am not sure. I will never be sure. It’s too late now to go back and ask. And I don’t know if people would be honest with me. But I do know I was left with a vision: my daughter moving backwards across that green field; like a chess piece being cleared from the board. Thoughtlessly removed when she could still bring so much to the game.

Adult Woman Buys Self Teddy Bear

~ heroin heroine ~ 3 Comments

Buckled into the front passenger seat of my Honda CRV is a medium size teddy bear. The scruffy kind. His golden eyes stare dutifully ahead. Even when I hit snow drifts and his ear shook from the weight of his thick Vermont Teddy Bear tag: he remained resolute.

I bought him earlier today. At a pastel colored factory with a view of snow capped mountains and a sliver of Lake Champlain. When the little dark haired boy at the register asked me who he was for – I did not say for myself. But Bear knew he belonged to me. Upon checkout I stopped them from sealing him up inside a brown cardboard box. No worries, I explained, I can carry him out. As if I was environmentally conscious instead of emotionally needy.

I won’t name him beyond ‘Bear.’
Bear seems about right.

When my kids were little they called their goldfish “fishy,” their mouse “mousy” and their long-haired hamster “fluffy.” I used to laugh at what appeared to be a lack of imagination before chalking it up to language reinforcement.

We also had a gerbil called Blackie. (He was black, of course.) Upon returning home one afternoon my daughter and I stumbled upon an unfortunate scene. His little wire cage had been ripped apart, and he was being freshly spit out from our terriers mouth: his body wet and irreparably broken.

With both hands wrapped tightly around the dog’s collar, my daughter dragged her to the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind them. Rushing to listen, ear to closed door, I heard her say over and over “I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you – but you should not have done this terrible thing.”

My heart broke in that impossible moment.
To have such a little girl.

I look at Bear now and he tells me to stop being so sentimental.
He tells me that it’s just part of the stuff of life – like his own recycled cotton stuffing. Just another

Dog
Gerbil
Girl
Mom
Bear.

Waiting for Death

~ heroin heroine ~ 1 Comment

Death is the end of living.
All those biological processes – stopped.
It’s hard to imagine the blood stopping its circuit, the neurons no longer firing.
It’s easier to imagine the cessation of familiar parts of being –
No more rising belly breath, silly rambling thoughts or winter hands in need of warming.

It’s possible to imagine this in myself because I know my body, I know my age, I know the constructive and deconstructive properties of time and nature. I am nothing if not rational.

But death is not welcome to touch my children.
And what does one do if they dance with him continuously?
If they are not rational? If they do not value their youth or listen to reason?


Seriously, I am asking you: what does one do?

Yet Another Eulogy

~ heroin heroine ~ 1 Comment

My daughter called me last night. The phone was filled with the sounds of blind, depthless sobbing. I will not forget the sound anytime soon.

Her friend had been found dead. Her former roommate. Someone she spoke with and texted daily. A week prior she had marveled at this woman’s ability to still be “trusting to a fault and ridiculously loving.”

Someone, like her, who was trying so bloody hard to get to that better place.

I don’t care for the saying “they are now at peace.”
They may be. But we should not be.
Let there be peace when we all have a fair shot at obtaining it.

My daughter took half a day from work. She curled up with a migraine and threw up for a few hours in her darkened bedroom. And then she got up. She went back to work caring for the thirteen other women in her sober home.

If there is a eulogy I hope it foregoes words of peace and instead honors the struggle. An exhausting struggle that can only be endured with ridiculous amounts of love. And even then, many don’t make it. It’s hard to find peace in that.