Rainy Beach Day.

~ heroin heroine ~ 2 Comments

Exactly two years ago I wrote these words in my journal:

Sarah is still clean.
It is a miracle.
Others are dying though. Dying everywhere at an unprecedented rate.
But we all die. I think about this at the beach and I cry with relief.

I think about these words. I don’t remember writing them.
Was I crying because my daughter was safe?
Or was I crying because death is our shared destiny
– and how can you fear something so natural?

I don’t know.

Today my daughter is safe after her relapse.
But today I do not feel relief.
Maybe it is the rain. Or the wind signaling the end of summer.
Or maybe it is something internal that I just can’t access.

It could be fear for the future,
or stress over the uncertainty.
It could be sadness for her struggle,
or anger at my being unable to fix it.

It is probably all of these things.  And more.  I know there is more.

One thing is certain though – today I will visit the beach.

The Art of Telling Stories.

~ heroin heroine ~ 5 Comments

I recently joined a storytelling troupe. This is a weird one for me since I don’t like being on stage. No one would ever describe me as theatrical. But this particular group shares recovery stories. Wishing to ‘end the stigma” I felt a moral obligation to sign up.  Plus, let’s face it, I have a lot of ugly stories in need of a facelift. Quite possibly this group could help with that. And there was a selfish reason; I was searching for people whom I could talk to. I’m not a recluse; I have some pretty awesome, long-term friends. But the whole friendship thing gets complicated when your child suffers from addiction. Most of the time, your friends just don’t ask. I had been forewarned ‘when your child suffers from a disease like cancer you get cards and casseroles, but when your child suffers from addiction you get silence.’ I found this to be true. Five years brought me one card, and no casseroles. Occasionally I did get to share my experience… but the exchange became too lurid even by my standards:

Mom #1: “X can’t seem to pass his driving test and he is so depressed. I worry about his self esteem.”

Me: “Y is sleeping in a filthy motel forty miles away using type A narcotics. I can’t sleep at night worried that she may be dying as I lay here in my beautiful bed.”

You can see the problem.

So you end up alone with your thoughts, either by choice or because people don’t want to engage in this kind of exchange (how are they supposed to respond?) But if not careful your sense of isolation can fester into a wound of resentment. You can’t help but wonder what friendship is really for. You start to feel buried alive: your once perfect family is now dysfunctional and your friends are psychologically absent. It can be a dark place to find yourself in.

This time when my daughter relapsed I decided things were going to be different. I considered asking for what I needed. But I just couldn’t do it. It felt like asking someone to love you… pathetic and powerless.

Instead I opened myself up to new avenues of expression. The arts take Courage and Power (uppercase letters intended). I am going out on a limb here… but I would venture to say that the definition of good art is that it is emotionally complex, it inspires conversation, and that it accesses the buried but universal elements of human nature.

As suspected it wasn’t easy to stand up in a room full of strangers and entertain, inspire and heal with a broken hearted story. One teller spoke of a day when she had sat at a table littered with jittery tinfoil scraps and the small rocks of crack she had been hoarding. She describes her apprehension when a strange man decides to sit opposite her. When he offers her a little blue pill to help her come down from her teeth clenching high, it is not the free pill that takes her by surprise. It is the impossible blue of his eyes. Suddenly the drugs became secondary to basic human connection. I could feel my head nodding. Connections can be made in the most difficult of environments. And the truth is that those who say you can “do it alone” are either misguided or lucky enough to not have been in too dark of a place.

One of the last storytellers spoke sadly of the loss of her marriage and self control to drug use. And of her dad’s steady effort to take her on long daily walks. On stage she mimic’d how her father, on these walks, would steal long wordless glances her way. It was all she needed; to be fully seen and quietly loved. To be fully seen and quietly loved – it is the only thing any of us truly need.  Life had taught me this.  And the arts gave me the means to express it.

 

 

Angry about (t)HAT.

~ heroin heroine ~ 4 Comments

I can’t help being angry about “HAT.”  HAT is the acronym for ‘heroin assisted treatment.’ A vocal minority is currently pushing for the legal prescription of heroin. Yes, you read that correctly. Before your head spins on it’s axis, consider that the aim is a noble one: ending death by overdose. Lives should be saved because the prescribed heroin would be pharmaceutical grade; not tainted by fentanyl, carfentanil, or any of the dozens of additives and poisons that can make up a street purchase.

HAT isn’t the brainchild of businesses trying to cash in on a future market (like WeedMaps, a California based online marijuana dispensary which is funding pro-marijuana lobbying groups in Massachusetts). Nor is it coming from those seeking lost tax revenues or the end of illegal street dealing and the crime that accompanies it. Instead it is voiced by those whose opinion should be highly valued: former addicts.  And by addiction counselors whose only motivation is saving the lives of their clients.

Disagreeing with such individuals gives me great discomfort.
But I feel strongly that HAT would be a mistake.

Prescribing heroin to an addict feels like giving up on them. (Would we prescribe bottles of vodka to an alcoholic so they wouldn’t drink antifreeze?)  These substances are KILLING them.  The ugly fact is that those who suffer from addiction are not going to quit until their life becomes unmanageable. Unmanageable may never come if we hand them their poison. The counterargument would be that HAT is successful in the Netherlands, Germany, Canada and Portugal. But they measure success by the decrease in deaths by overdose. You may have less death, but you may also have less recovery.  Isn’t recovery the goal?

Besides the ethical implications, there are practical ones, What sane physician would prescribe heroin? I can hear the counterargument: doctors have been happily prescribing oxycontin for decades so why stop now? While it is true that some willfully ignorant doctors bear partial responsibility for the opioid epidemic, most were deliberately duped by Big Pharma’s false claim that oxycontin was non-habit forming. Then, as an added blow to responsible prescribing, insurance companies tied doctor compensation to patient pain management (thanks again to Big Pharma’s funding of fake focus groups). But the past is the past and I can’t imagine finding a nation of doctors willing to prescribe what they should not have been prescribing in the first place.

HAT will have its supporters if the movement gets off the ground. One of them is certain to be the insurance industry. Did you know that heroin costs $5 a bag? On the other hand Vivitrol, a medication which blocks the effectiveness of heroin, costs $1000 a month. Which do you think your insurance company would rather cover?

I bet Big Pharma will also sign on for HAT. Why not get the green light to repackage oxycontin as heroin and continue to profit from the misery of others? I feel like smashing my t.v. on a daily basis when I see Purdue Pharmaceutical marketing their new pill Symproic to help opioid constipation. The joke is most certainly on us.

Possibly the biggest obstacle to prescribing heroin may be the addict themselves. As my daughter confessed “enough is never enough.” Will we have to continually increase the amount of heroin we prescribe as their tolerance increases? And if we do not will they trade their prescription for fentanyl laced street dope? My child told me that many addicts seek out fentanyl for the higher high. Let that sink in.

There is a saying that “if we could ‘love’ our addicts to health there would be no addicts.” There are so many of us out here, right now, seeking a quicker, better, safer solution. I know of a parent who drove their child to purchase heroin, waited in their car fitfully until they returned, and then watched them inject it because they needed to test positive for detox admission. Can you imagine being that parent? No one, no one, wants to be that parent.

Legally prescribing heroin….it feels like being that parent.

 

God Moments?

~ heroin heroine ~ 2 Comments

 

Someone in recovery described a story of mine as a “God moment.” They didn’t mean God, per se. They meant those moments when the universe just seems to be there for you. One of those rare times when the “dots get connected” when you least expect them to.

The moment I had been sharing was hardly ‘heavenly.’ It was about the time when my seventeen-year old daughter had prematurely left drug treatment and gone missing. A tip on her location had landed me in court to have her arrested and involuntarily committed for treatment. The judge issued a warrant that was due to expire at the end of that very day. As I sat on the court bench and waited for her arrival I had a distressing front row seat to a slow parade of sadness, ugliness, and desperation. What I did not witness was the arrival of my daughter. (A year prior police escorted her in both hand and leg cuffs. There is nothing more shocking than seeing your child shackled this way; other than realizing a year later that you are now looking forward to those same custodial restraints.)

With one eye on the ticking clock I asked the court officer for the address to the local police station. Upon arrival I informed the officers that I was about to “do their job for them.” They warned that my efforts would be wasted since ‘no one would open the door in a drug den.’ I countered that it was much more likely my daughter would answer if she heard my voice and, regardless, I was going whether they came with me or not. Possibly shamed, but more likely legally bound, they agreed to accompany me. That was when I learned that the neighborhood was so dangerous that a second cruiser was needed. To top it off I was given a lecture about “staying behind the officers” when we entered the building. (No God moments thus far… instead It felt a bit like we were prepping to enter the fifth level of Hell.)

The address led us to a street that was a lifeless shade of grey. There were dozens of people milling about but they morphed, understandably, into silent watching shadows. The triple decker we approached was adrift in discarded clothing, empty cans and bits of unidentifiable metal debris. The front door was located on the second floor and had no discernible way to reach it. No staircase, no doorbell, no mailbox, no buzzer. Together we rounded the building and discovered a dirty basement door boarded over with plywood and nails. I envisioned prying it open and crawling through the darkness. I made a note to return to this door if need be. Rounding the last side of the building we were greeted with an entry level, dead bolted, door. And a woman. The same woman who had been silently watching us from across the street. Earlier I had thought she was a man. But now I was close enough to make out the large breasts that hung to the left and right of her plain cotton tee shirt. She was powerfully built in denim jeans and construction boots. She had a plain round face, and a long thin black pony tail that hung down her back: pencil straight. Her countenance was unreadable. She pointed to me and, wordlessly, pointed to the third floor. I replied “yes.” She nodded and turned her attention to the large brass key ring on her hip. Methodically she flipped through dozens of standard cut keys and selected just one. And she opened the door. The next few minutes were a bit of a blur. I know we climbed to the third floor and we knocked and my daughter answered. The officers put her in handcuffs and she was wild with spitting fury. Even so, the officers carefully tucked my daughter’s dirty blonde head into the back of their cruiser. Before following them back to the courthouse I sat in my car for a moment. I didn’t notice that the woman had approached my driver’s side window until I heard the knock. Rolling down the window she spoke her first word to me. “Drugs,” she said. I nodded. Staring hard at me she then said “Bad drugs.” I replied, “yes.” Then she said, “good mamacita,” and slowly crossed the street.

It was only then that I remember feeling truly overwhelmed. Unhinged may be a better word. I had been playing this game for a few years but this feeling was different. I rolled up my window, but not without the self correcting thought “this is what you do in neighborhoods like these.” Yes, this is where my daughter was lost. But this is also where she had been found. Someone – someone I never expected to help me – had done so. The police hadn’t. What if she hadn’t been there? What if she didn’t have those keys? Why did she help me when she knew there was drug activity going on in a building she obviously had some sort of responsibility for? Why had she helped me in front of the cops? Was it a gift from one mom to another?

It was, in the end, a coming together of disparate parts of the universe.

Of course I felt unhinged. I don’t know if I experienced a God Moment. I don’t even know if there is a God. But I am beginning to believe I may have met some sort of fallen angel. A fallen angel who was working hard on our behalf. A fallen angel in construction boots.

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Sthira vs. Sukha

~ heroin heroine ~ 4 Comments

Sthira and Sukha are popular yoga terms meant to convey a “yin and yang” sensibility. I think of sthira as “roots” and sukha as “wings.” A more accurate translation of the Sanskrit would be “stability” vs. “lightness.” When practicing Ashtanga yoga I have always sought the sukha, or the potential to fly. I sometimes giggle aloud when my feet release skyward or my heart floats up to the ceiling. It is such a rare treat to escape gravity’s pull.

Sthira, however, is quite different – in many cases it requires the engagement of the larger, lower, muscle groups (the quads, the glutes, the abdominals). For two weekends now I have been reminded that stability is key. Scot, our instructor, has had us feel our feet, bend our toes, challenge our inner and outer thigh muscles…he even put us in cat pose and had strangers balance their bodies atop us in a form of improv contact. These undulating movements required constant shifting of my center of gravity in order to take someone else’s flight – or to entertain my own.

I thought I understood: ground yourself before you take off in flight!

Once again, I required re-direction. I overheard Scot explain that being actively grounded allows the upper body to be consciously free. “Active” being the key word.  Do not rest in your present position – but fully feel it for what it is (whether it be crooked floorboards, the push of another body against your spine, or the outward turn of your imperfect feet.) By doing this you are not actively seeking flight or lightness of being. You are instead grounding yourself to the earth and thereby engaging an interior reservoir of strength. Only then will your body feel safe enough to bravely reach upwards.

That is when the lesson sunk in. I have lived this lesson. For years I tried to create and recreate stable, safe footing for my daughter who suffers from addiction. I bounced between “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Maybe I should have said this. Maybe I missed something developmentally. Maybe a new school will work. Maybe a new friend circle. Maybe a new therapist. Maybe a new medication. Maybe exercise. Maybe more consequences. Maybe less consequences. Maybe a different insurance plan. Maybe, maybe, maybe….” I left no rock unturned. I needed her, us, to be free. But sukha was nowhere to be found.

I remember the moment when I finally accepted our situation. I was driving and the sun was setting and and my whole sense of being was flooded by the fact that my daughter had relapsed again. I didn’t know how to be. How could I just be with this? I remember breathing and releasing into that moment with a complete acceptance of the truth. It was dusk and the sky opened up before me and I thought, “this.” There is “this” too.

This acceptance, which I still feel vaguely uncomfortable with, was a long time coming. I had to fully acknowledge that change may not be possible – at least not in this present moment. This is not an easy thing for a mother to fully feel. But once I did I noticed the sky. It sounds so cliche – but at that moment I was fully awakened to the incredulous sky. I also understood this to be the second part of Scot’s admonition: to be consciously free. I chose to see the sky.

Since that day, nearly three years ago, I have looked upwards and found something akin to flight. And, incredulously, for two years my daughter has stood on terra firma.

We are free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Wish I Could Be A Better Person.

~ heroin heroine ~ 7 Comments

I have seen addicts become better people than you and me. Those previously deemed selfish, sick, irresponsible, lost, criminal, hopeless.  Pick an adjective – at one point they all fit.  I know this sounds like pure hyperbole.  And to clarify, I don’t mean better than their old selves – that is obvious.  I actually mean better than you and me.

You and I, presumably, are the definition of good people.  We try to do the right thing on a daily basis. We live the Golden Rule.  But at the end of the day we close the curtains on the larger community.  We choose to be with just ourselves or the nuclear family we have created. We retreat to safety, comfort and self.

But the recovering addict doesn’t do that.

They often choose to mentor those who are still suffering severely – with little concern for the temptation that may present.  In the Big Book it is referred to as “giving back” or Step 12.  They claim that it helps themselves – but this, I think, is an overly generous sentiment.

I liken their behavior to that of a person surviving a fire… and then becoming a fireman. I don’t know about you, but I would never be that brave.

When those we love truly beat their addiction it can be hard to recognize them.
And it can be humbling to see that they have surpassed us in their ability to love and empathize.

For example, my daughter shares an apartment with three other individuals in long term recovery.  Their lease has expired, and two of them have decided to buy a home and possibly marry.  But even though this couple is ready for life’s next big step – they will not leave the other two women behind.  One could rationalize and say they are bringing them along to help pay the rent.  Until you learn that they are narrowing their house search to homes that can access the bus line.  My daughter is the only one of the four that does not have her driver’s license.  Purchasing a home within walking distance of public city transportation is of course more expensive.

And then there was the lesson I was given on Christmas day.  I had told my husband I wanted a pair of earrings made by a local artisan jeweler.  I wanted any color but blue – because, lucky me, I already had so much blue!  On Christmas day I opened my gift… and they were blue.  My face fell.  I didn’t hide my disappointment.  I even said “Ohhh… but they are blue.”

My daughter looked at me and said “but they are beautiful.” And later she said “Mom, you should have been grateful.”  She was right.  I had put my feelings (not needs!) first in a matter as trivial as that of material abundance.

I can’t imagine living every day weighing my psychological, financial and material needs on an equivalent basis with the larger community.  I had thought the Golden Rule was enough.  But the Golden Rule is based on seeing things through your own eyes – treating others as you would like to be treated.  But how about getting the “you” out of it?

Becoming a better person is within reach.  I know this because I have learned it from the recovery community.

Watching Someone Die in Ohio

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Once again I am reading of yet another police department bemoaning the fact that they have to use a nasal spray (Narcan) to reverse the fatal effects of an opiate overdose. Just last week Butler County Sheriff, Richard K. Jones, prohibited his officers from carrying Narcan by explaining “here in Ohio, the (paramedics) get there about the same time and they’re more equipped to use Narcan. Requiring deputies to administer the medication puts them in danger.”

While true that Sheriff Butler is in the midst of a maddening epidemic that is exhausting and frightening – his explanation is nonsensical.  Why would police officers allow paramedics to deal with people who, in his words, “turn violent once they are revived?”

Sheriff Jones further complains that this epidemic is “sucking his taxpayers dry.”  Jones next move may be to follow the lead of fellow City Councilman Dan Picard from nearby Middletown, Ohio.  Picard has requested that ambulances no longer be dispatched to previously revived people. (In fact, he would like those overdosing to be fined – on the small chance they survive without assistance.) Now here is a move that would doubly benefit the taxpayer!

What we are hearing, (if not job exhaustion accompanied by bigotry), is a need to revisit the department’s mission statement. It is not uncommon for large organizations to have to remind themselves of their core mission.

Most police officers are hired:
-to mitigate damage and destruction of property
-to defend and protect individuals in the community
-to operate as first responders*
*Contractual footnote: most stipulate a speedy emergency response even to multiple calls from the same individual – you do not get to choose who you respond to. Also, those served aren’t required to be instantly appreciative or futuristically compliant.

Those of us who parent addicts understand the frustration. We know they don’t listen. We know they go back to the drugs. We know our efforts are often ineffectual. Over and over again – the same honest effort, the same disappointing result. But confer further with those of us who are not in a position to “give up” and we will tell you to trust in that future day. Not all will be saved because no epidemic-sized rescue mission will ever be 100% effective. But the recovery community is surprisingly large. Imagine the day when the person you revived is healthy and whole and breathtakingly alive. Imagine you made that possible by the simple application of a quick acting nasal spray.

Now, imagine differently. Imagine you arrive at the scene. You see the boy you saved last week. He is blue. You try to ignore his crying parents as his breathing slows to a stop. You mumble under your breath “not my problem” because this time you are not permitted to expend any life saving measures. You console yourself that the boy willfully took the drug. Possibly it will feel like witnessing a goldfish jump out of its bowl and quietly allowing it to suffocate.

I imagine that Sheriff Jones forgot one crucial element in his cost-benefit analysis: the mental health of his responding officers. Did he consider how they might feel responding and choosing not to serve? Not to rescue? Not to mitigate the damage? Not to call forth compassion?

It is one thing to be tired of saving the same people over and over.
But it is quite another to watch them die.

The Power of Words

~ heroin heroine ~ 1 Comment

“I am an addict. I fucking love shooting heroin. I love it. You would love it too if you tried it.” – My daughter, April 13, 2015, calling home from Arbor Hospital in N. Attleboro

Until I heard these words I had not fully believed she was an addict. I thought depression, anxiety, poor impulse control and the wrong crowd had led to a misuse of substances. But addiction? To heroin?

The next day she refused further treatment and checked out of the dual diagnosis facility the ambulance had transported her to just a few days prior. The power of her spoken words just a memory. How could they let her leave? Why would she choose to leave? She called once more explaining that she would be staying with an unnamed girlfriend in New Bedford: “There won’t be any problems. She will teach me to drive. There is a community college nearby. I will go to a Suboxone clinic.”

Who was this mystery person who would house my homeless daughter? How can you practice driving without a permit? How can you go to college when you dropped out of high school? How can you start a new life in hospital scrubs? All those motherly questions remained unanswered.

I wanted to believe this new friend was safe; but her last “safe” roomie was dead. Do addicts believe the yarns they spin?

Then my texted treatises begin. I had become as manic and as lost as my daughter. I warned that she couldn’t live a happy, healthy life on dope. I explained why “home is not an option,” and I begged her to reconsider treatment.  I feared her death and every morning I asked myself “will this be the day?”  I didn’t want her to leave this world hating me or not seeing a way out of the paper bag she had put herself in. I wanted to clear the mind debris; hers… and mine.

But my words got no response. Eventually I just texted that I loved her unconditionally…. even if she couldn’t kick this. Each time I wrote it I felt like I was signing a death warrant. But we all die. But not all of us die feeling loved.  I wanted her to know that her mother would always, always love her.

For weeks upon weeks I got no reply.

My daughter was a young adult of nineteen years. The law, the courts, the healthcare system all had decided that it was none of my business. My sick child was now the captain of her own ship.

After a month or two – I received a reply. She did not tell me where she was. But instead wrote, “you will always be the greatest mom in the whole wide world.”

I did not feel grateful. Instead, I felt sick. My daughter was now doing the equivalent of what I had been doing: making sure all of our interactions were kind because we may not have many left. I knew her words would save me if the worst came to pass. But I did not want to hear them.

This disease is so heart achingly difficult to process that sometimes silence gives more comfort than words. And how does a mother find comfort in that?

 

What Am I Here For?

~ heroin heroine ~ 1 Comment

 

My husband says it was to save our daughter. I have saved my child. At least twice she was within days of dying. But is this all I am here for? I can’t keep her alive if she doesn’t want to be. Hell, I couldn’t even keep her alive if she asked me too. In the end, the work necessary for survival is hers. I can’t do it for her. And saving your own child isn’t magnanimous. It is what most of us would do. And, more importantly, it is what we should do.

Doing what you should do can not be a life’s purpose.
And we are all bound to fail if the purpose is following some sort of moral script.

Sometimes I wish we could all be avengers and superheroes; performing spectacular feats of a magnitude that we never predicted on our little home radars. Why can’t the tiny ripples caused by good deeds be more like tsunamis?

There is an urgent need for a lot of saving to be done.
And sometimes I just feel plain powerless as I sit here eating my lunch.

What “War” on Drugs?

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“We lost more people last year than the entire Vietnam War and Korean War combined.”

I received this text on a frosty Sunday morning from a friend who is a cardiologist. He can not ignore the obvious. Every emergency room bed is filled up and down the East coast. Patients line the corridors in gurney traffic jams.

So how are we addressing this home grown war of epic proportions?

JP Clark, West Point professor and author of “Emergence of the New Modern Army,” explains that the US military prepares for war by planning during peace time. Makes sense.

The US has spent a lot of money, and time, attempting to stem the flow of drugs and incarcerate dealers. I am not opposed to either effort – but it has been a one-pronged enforcement driven approach. Notably; the drugs have not been contained. They continue to cross the Mexican border, and be flown in from China and Afghanistan. But before preaching isolationism consider the role of American pharmaceutical companies and script writing doctors…

According the to the Nat’l Institute on Drug Abuse, 80% of all heroin users began their addiction with access to a legal opiate prescription. Let me say that again. 8 out of 10 American youth are shooting up, stealing, selling themselves and dying because they had access to a legal prescription. Prescription opioids such as OxyContin and Percocet ARE Heroin in pill form. The molecular structure of these opiates is nearly identical and are all derived from the poppy plant. All are extremely dangerous and highly addictive forms of pain relief.

Purdue Pharmaceutical, the maker of OxyContin, knew this. But profits were just too good to share that information. (Purdue has since paid $635 million in fines after pleading guilty to false marketing charges.)

Insurance companies happily complied. Pills provide an immediate short term solution for pain, and are more cost effective than lengthier physical and holistic therapies. Insurers then began to base doctor compensation on pain management. (If you are envisioning a noose around patient necks… you are seeing correctly.)

Recently the AMA, after a judicial wrangle, reluctantly agreed to limit first time prescriptions. But the war has not been won….victory does not include leaving the troops behind.

We need immediate investment in rehabilitating our sick youth and adults.

Medicine is a big, big business, right? According to B. Lee in Forbes Magazine, “seven of the top ten profitable hospitals in the US were non-profits.” (Your eyebrows should most definitely be raised.) He quotes, “the system is broken when nonprofit hospitals are raking in such high profits. The most profitable hospitals should either lower their prices or put those profits into other services within the community.” Well why not push for a large percentage of those profits to be spent on improving addiction services?

Being a foot soldier, I have suggestions.

1. Outpatient service; often the first line of treatment, is notoriously ineffective. Heroin is classified as the most addictive drug on the planet with 1/4 becoming instantly addicted. (It also creates real physical and physiological changes to the brain.) Outpatient might be a form of acceptable treatment for marijuana abusers or sex addicts… but certainly not for heroin addicts. Why do we accept this as a permissible form of care?

2. If you are lucky enough to advocate for inpatient care, two weeks is the average stay. Two weeks only reduces tolerance and increases risk of fatal overdose. 90 days is the minimum amount of time needed for treatment to “catch.” (A full year is required for normal brain functioning to return.)

3. Removing an addict from their environs is important for success. Addiction is a brain disease. Removing quick access to destructive behaviors and people makes rehabilitative sense. There should be a demand for quid pro quo arrangements with out of state insurers to benefit those with HMOs and medicaid plans. We must find a way to do this or else only the rich or those with premium insurance plans will benefit.

4. Spiritually based programs work. Addiction is a disease that requires a form of “spiritual surrender.” That doesn’t sit well with some because it seems to imply an inherent moral failing or belief in God. Neither is true. What it fosters is recognition that self reliance is not an option when you suffer from a mental illness like addiction.

5. An increase in MAT (medication assisted therapy). Some addicts need it – and right now the number of physicians licensed to prescribe it is too low.

6. Increase the number of physicians going into adolescent psychiatric care. (One reason there are so few is because they are paid much less by insurers for their work.)

If we don’t do these things we will continue to watch our youth die.

My daughter has lost many acquaintances. Twenty-two to be exact. One male friend I recall frequently. He had a “thing” for her and had stumbled all over himself buying her shoes, groceries, and red roses. The relationship didn’t last, and he texted me, desperate, that he was “heartbroken and would never love again.”

It all seemed so overly dramatic. But he was right; he never would love again.
A week later he was dead from an overdose. He was just 22.