addiction

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.

She Screamed Martyr

~ heroin heroine ~ 6 Comments

My daughter in a moment of detoxifying rage branded me a martyr.

Instead of breathing through it, or calling upon compassion I saw red. Red like the color of battlefields. Red like the color of my pulsing carotid artery. Red with trembling rage. Red, red, red. We were in the car, and for the next 45 minutes I drove in seething silence. She didn’t notice (she was, grant it, preoccupied with her own dire situation) but I stewed in the toxic air. I am fairly adept at looking for what i call the “glimmers” (ridiculous bright spots in an otherwise devastating day). But I consciously chose not too. When we pulled in to the detox facility I forced myself to get out of the car and say the requisite “I love you.” But I didn’t feel it. She replied “I love you too” but her back was to me and without turning she rolled her suitcase toward the open, waiting doors. I returned to my car and shut its hermetically sealed door behind me.

Am I martyr? Why did it inspire rage to be called one? The word used to have positive connotations. I think of Alexi Navalny and I want to cry. I think of ‘saint cards’ (meant to resemble baseball cards) that were handed out at Sunday school. They memorialized do-gooders who willfully submitted to beheadings, drownings, and being grilled over hot coals instead of renouncing religion. The child in me made a mental note of the cost and wondered if there was a sneakier more effective way to buck the system.

The millennial martyr seems to lack heroic luster. He is either a sucker for his job, a self-proclaimed spiritual savior or a psychopath (think delusional mass killer inspired by misinformation). When the word martyr is used in today’s news we brace ourselves for an unfortunate tale about a corporate fool, ridiculous narcissist or mass shooter.

I am assuming my daughter meant I was a fool. And possibly a narcissist.
Both of these would be some degree of right.

A fool repeats stupid behavior. Am I fool to once again clean out her apartment, bring her home (even though she is using) and volunteer for the long drive to detox? I don’t think so. Those were the steps that needed to be taken to get her to a better place. So where is the fool in this scenario? Am I a narcissist to think time and again I can make a difference? History would say I have helped – i recall therapeutic schools, doctors, rehabs and section 35s that helped stop the addiction (at least for a little while). And history would say I have not been helpful; I have often wasted my time and energy doing things that she could have done herself, or that more knowledgeable others could have done for her. Yet in the big scheme of things the yeses seem more important than the nos. Energy is not always spent efficiently – even by the most efficient of animals. And sometimes a person with the disease of addiction has a hard time asking for, or helping, themselves.

Do I think I am a narcissist? No. But I am a busy body, a worrier, and a fixer. And more problematic: a fixer with my own timeline (and boy does that have shades of narcissism). These things are no longer needed: they do not serve her and they do not serve me.

I have learned that to expect change (no matter how important that change is) is to be a bully. The evening before she left for detox we cleared out her beautiful apartment. Up and down three flights of wide oak stairs we carried boxes and bags. The night was curiously warm and the stars were bright. Feeling momentarily inspired I tried to cheer her up; “this is going to be it! I have a feeling this time is going to be the time!!”

She responded with sputtering anger: “NEVER EVER SAY THAT TO ME AGAIN!!” And then, more quietly, “don’t you think each time I thought it was the time? Don’t you realize that?”

The younger me couldn’t have been more wrong: there are no life “hacks,” no sneaky shortcuts to the finish line. Foolish old me has learned this. If we are lucky, forward propulsion will be fueled by varying degrees of support, delusion, sweat equity and terrifying routine.

And, regardless, the night sky will remain stubbornly still and bright with the whitest of stars.

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.

Mark Rothko’s Paintings

~ heroin heroine ~ 2 Comments

You probably know them. Large color field paintings. But Rothko wouldn’t approve of this description. They aren’t abstract color studies. They are nothing like Ellsworth Kelly’s slick designer swatches or Frank Stella’s fun cyclic wheels.

Rothko’s works breathe. When in front of one I am compelled to take a seat. Thankfully there has always been a bench close by. If there wasn’t I would have sunk to the floor. There is no time for self-consciousness when entranced by a Rothko.

When in front of his work a vibrational transfer occurs. The somatic reaction is nearly immediate. It is curious and unsettling – like a magic trick being performed on my unsuspecting body.

And what does my body hear? An urgent whisper to awaken. Rothko’s color patches loom like condensed forms of the natural world – pulsing through the canvas, my body, and the room. All other artworks fall in step behind it.

They feel beautiful. Life’s runway on full display.

And yet I learned today that Rothko created them with a different purpose in mind. “Behind the color lies the cataclysm,” he said in a 1959 interview.

The cataclysm?

I thought his works were a siren call to enjoyment, instead they were warning bells for disaster. That’s a serious misinterpretation.

Sometimes I wonder if at the end of my days I will have misunderstood it all.

Sure I’ll Join Your Cult

~ heroin heroine ~ 1 Comment

Sure I’ll Join Your Cult.

This sentence makes me laugh.
And not uncomfortably so – but in a full throttle, sign-me-up kind of way.

Sure I’ll Join Your Cult is the title of a book by comedian Maria Bamford about her mental illness. The fact that the subject matter is far from funny doesn’t change my reaction. It still makes me laugh. Every time.

It implores me to poke fun of the madness in my own life:

  • Rehabs are nothing more than lock-down spas. #insurancespa
  • Fentanyl gives you more bang for your buck! #smartaccounting
  • Addiction is not for quitters. #winning

It’s sort of funny, right? I am getting a jolly little lift from this creative exercise.
I realize that poking fun at vulnerable people is pretty evil. Rehabs are not spas (beyond the gift of time to focus on health); Fentanyl is not cost effective if it costs lives, and addiction is the one thing we hope our addicts can quit.

But I just want to laugh without reservation. My mind has been too long saturated in this sobering subject matter. Even when having a good time I can hear that little jacka$$ in my brain saying “hey super glad you are having a good time right now – good for you! Enjoy yourself and I’ll check in tomorrow.”

De-coupling from reality might work. Poking fun at myself might work:

  • No I am not your mother. #freedom
  • First ever volunteer for capital punishment! #sweetrelease
  • Unicorns are welcome to give birth in my brain. #hellomadness

I could do a deep dive here on the power of laughter (but we all know the benefits) or the fact that the best jokes are based on uncomfortable realities (my son calls them “cringe jokes”).

But at this point I don’t really care to dissect it. Stay tuned: maybe I will get canceled like David Chapelle! Or, maybe I will make it super easy on myself and completely check out: I’ll just join a cult. 🙂

Surrender

~ heroin heroine

Twelve years. It’s taken me twelve long years to move the word “surrender” from the abstract idea column to the action column. Surrender has become an action, rather than the absence of action. It has moved columns because I have learned it is, by far, the hardest thing to do.

I have had some success with raising the white flag. I no longer have any preconceived notion of catching a thrown ball or successfully geolocating my way home from, basically, anywhere. But surrendering to the fact that I can not stop my own child from illegal drug use – that is heart-smashingly difficult. But reality keeps reminding me. I can not stop her from calling her drug dealer when she is overly anxious. I can not stop her from spending all of her savings, and neglecting car payments, rent, insurance and credit card bills – leaving her penniless (and sometimes homeless) time and time again. I can’t stop her from choosing to smoke crack because her sublocade shot prevents an opiate high. I can’t stop her from laying in bed for days on end after buying designer benzodiazepines from dark web shopping malls. I can not stop her from slowly – or quickly – killing herself. I want to stop her. There is nothing more that I want to stop.

Surrendering is not a new concept in the world of addiction. It’s literally step one of the Big Book. To move forward an addict must admit they are “powerless over drugs and alcohol.” This sort of surrendering is not just word play. It requires deeply accepting the insanity of their situation: admitting years wasted trying to manage, control, deny or ignore the disease. It’s the hardest, most essential, step.

Well it appears that us loved ones have to do it too. Not just pretend to do it. Or half-heartedly do it. I have to admit I can not will her to sobriety. I can not find the perfect rehab. Or a psychiatrist with a magic wand. I can not make her use her “recovery tool box.” I am helpless. Twelve long years have taught me this. Step one of the Al-Anon Big Book requires “admitting we are powerless.” Powerless meaning letting go of any misconception of control. And then actually stopping the manic, obsessive searching for the Holy Grail. So many of us admit we can’t solve it, but then spend endless hours actively trying to solve it! The stakes are so high: it’s hard to stop oneself. But after a certain amount of time we must. And, most worrisome, we must stop any future projection of everlasting wellness for our loved one. We must accept what is. It is not up to us – no matter how much we want it, work on it or wish for it.

We must surrender.
Not “sort of” surrender.

Here’s the difference though: They must let go to live.
We must let go of wanting them to live.

And that’s a very big difference.

Love The Addict, Not The Addiction

~ heroin heroine ~ 3 Comments

This is the mantra of all SUD parents, everywhere, all the time, ad infinitum.

It sounds ludicrous. Similar to “love the sinner, but not the sin.” In reality it’s closer to “love the depressed but not the depression” because addiction is a form of mental illness. No question it can devolve into criminal activity: stealing, dealing illegal drugs, buying said drugs, assault and battery, prostituting, driving uninsured/unlicensed or under the influence, destruction of private property, skipping out on jobs/taxes/bills. If this feels like an unhelpful psychic dump – well, so be it. This is the unvarnished truth of watching the disease unfold.

Sigh. Love the addict, not the addiction.
Still, this is how most of us parents feel. Regardless of the attenuating circumstances.

But it doesn’t come without effort. Especially when you witness their umpteenth battle. Sometimes you are in the crossfire. Sometimes you are the target. It’s not personal we tell ourselves. But it is. Not that we are personally hurt – we learn to move beyond that after a few dozen incidents. Instead we begin a sympathetic slow bleed. Their brain is scrambled and ours is bruised by default.

So what to do if you find yourself ringside again? Eventually we learn it is their fight, not ours. Taking on the role of a health care advocate is invaluable. Be accessible and have an emergency plan ready – a list of places that are insurance card acceptable, and a plan for what you will and won’t support. (And try not to feel guilty if your “won’t” list grows longer over time.)

Until that day comes, can you become a harbinger of peace? You may have to close your eyes to envision it. A friend from long ago told me that at bedtime she places one hand over her heart and one hand over her belly and tries to sync breath and heartbeat – and then she offers it up to her struggling son. A bit woo-woo, yes….but also effective from a “positive psychic dump” sort of place.

Speaking of positive psychic dumps I have been reading Sadhguru’s book, A Yogi’s Guide to Crafting Your Destiny. In it he warns of man’s propensity to rely on articulate memory for direction. Articulate memory being the conscious data we accumulate from everyday living. This “memory data” guides our present and future moments. (Most of us call it learned behavior.) Of course it has built in blinders because it is based on personal experience. This narrows our ability to see what truly is, and to navigate in novel ways. Sadhguru’s thesis mirrors scientific study of the brain: our neurological pathways are built by initial experiences and then reinforced and strengthened by future experiences (which are often predetermined because we are creatures of habit and, well, because we have already built that neural pathway!).

Ah the cyclical nature of disease, brain theory, madness! Who wants out? (Me, me, me!)

So how does one repair a brain sick from habitual emotional reactivity? Teach it to move in a positive direction. It’s not easy (bad, bad brain!) but it gets easier by practicing unfiltered awareness of everyone and everything in the present moment. (Sadhguru coaches setting an alarm on your phone every hour to waken yourself from that cyclical reverie.) Start small. Notice the faces of people around you, the smell of wet grass, the way your body can relax when you allow it too. Build some positive off-ramps to that diseased neurological super highway.

Now none of this is novel – many meditative, yogic and psycho-social practices have been preaching this for centuries. We also know it’s trendy as fu$%. Sometimes the sheer number of bumper stickers and t-shirts can make me want to give a few people the finger. Maybe you want to give me the finger. 🙂

And, yah, some of those future unfiltered moments are gonna be bad. We know they are. As my husband warns, ‘Why live them before they have happened? Why live them twice?’ And sometimes that bad experience will turn into something positive – it happens all the time. So many, many people heal from their addictions. It’s time for me to do the same.

We Begin Again Too.

~ heroin heroine ~ 3 Comments

When a family member relapses waking moments are not fully your own. Work seems less important. Socializing seems trivial. Food loses its flavor. Affection is harder to feel because sorrow has taken up residence in your breastbone and your heart can no longer radiate. You feel unjustifiably tired. Tears hang out right behind your eyeballs. It takes a lot of effort to keep them there.

This is the time when I lecture myself to “pony up” because the disease is worse for those with SUD than it is for me. At least that is how I have always looked at it. But lately I have begun to second guess myself. When someone is fully in their disease they aren’t experiencing crippling worry (unless it’s how to secure their next fix). And once they get high, they certainly aren’t thinking about you. The only person who can think about you is you.

Someone once reminded me, “as they begin again, so do we.”

But this “beginning” occurs on separate paths. Thinking about this makes me sad. As much as we may want to prop each other up, addiction for families is not a team sport. It may be called a “family disease” but there is little togetherness. Addiction is the opposite of together. Even in the closest of families it does it’s best to destroy connection. The problem with this is that as a parent you believe it is your duty to move everyone forward; like a sheepdog gathering it’s herd. For twelve long years that is what I tried to do. I now know that the only way toward peace and clarity is to strike out on my own.

Last week as I sat on my patio feeling the warm sun on my face, I began to ugly cry. Immediately I tried to shut that pity parade down. As I tried to suppress my feelings I considered how I would counsel a friend. I knew I would tell them that what they were going through was definitely sad and that crying is a natural response. So I stopped holding my breath and allowed myself to cry. And it felt honest. Which is a small victory because honesty is something addicts, and their loved ones, are terribly afraid of.

I considered what “beginning again” had meant to me in the past. It had meant getting my loved one back on track. Finding beds in detoxes, rehabs and sober homes, double-checking insurances, packing up apartments, handling transitions, medications, cigarette runs, money, clothing deliveries, speaking with counselors, attending family meetings, researching new therapies. For me it’s always meant this laundry list of things. These things are hard and getting through them requires an amnesiac version of auto pilot. But the truth is this time around the amnesia is leaving me. Clarity has finally rung its little bell and left a little dent in my shiny armor.

I know I should be completely satisfied that my loved one is beginning again. I am aware that my despondence over being at the starting point again is not helpful. I know that relapse is part of recovery. I know that I am not qualified to solve this problem. I know that they are doing their very best. I know that love doesn’t solve all things. And I know that where there is life there is hope.

I know all these things. I suspect I need a new path to walk. A road with a new signpost. Maybe it will say “let it be” or “hello me.”

Group Ghost Buster

~ heroin heroine ~ 8 Comments

Groups exist: running clubs and bird watching clubs, weight watcher groups and book groups. People join because of a common interest or to encourage each other in a common pursuit. But did you know that some people willingly join groups they do not want to belong to?! My husband and I belong to one. We joined a support group for those who have a family member suffering from the disease of addiction. We joined because “life had become unmanageable” and changing the behavior of our child was not possible. Instead we learned that we, like the others, are powerless. The common thread that binds us is pain.

Most Sundays a new face appears. We sit in a circle and each member gives an update on their addict; they are “doing well or back at rehab, homeless or paying rent.” We also share personally; we are “questioning our decisions, learning to not overreact, tired but hopeful.”

Why do we do this? There are therapists, on-line forums and self help books. There is also denial. Why meet to discuss the difficult?

I am not sure. But people tend to join when they are in crisis. The first step in the door is often a desperate one. They come for advice on what to do about a “missing family member high on alcohol and cocaine” or a loved ones positive tox screen for “benzos, fentanyl, crack and amphetamines.” We listen. We nod. There is a lot of nodding. There are no solutions. Instead we offer gentle suggestions or a new way of looking at the problem. It is strangely comforting to realize our ugly experience may be helpful to another – at a minimum by making them feel less alienated. A magical sort of alchemy happens when both hurt parties end up feeling a bit better.

When it is my turn I get to speak aloud the fears that have been echoing endlessly in my head all week. I liken this to opening up my closet door and calling out the ghost. Group Ghost Buster! My three-day headache dissolved after I shared one week. Why did the ibuprofen not work? I do not know.

You know what else helps? Getting lost in looking at my fellow group members.* I like looking at their shoes, their hands, their eyes, their hat choices. One wore pajamas two weeks ago! Some bring dogs. Some bring knitting. Others sit confidently. Some curl up a bit. I find it comforting to get lost in the visuals of our collectivity. Who knew this would be our reality? It’s akin to being dropped onto a strange new planet and having to assess your new mates. My husband’s verdict is that “he has never been in a room with more kindness and empathy.” I think he may be right. One member recently checked in with me via email. He signed off “you are loved.” (I cried then, and I am crying now.)

Ultimately, being in a group like this makes small talk impossible. Instead you must reach down to a deeper level to share the stuff that keeps us all afloat. I guess I should have nicknamed us Group Soul Buster. I encourage you to join one if you are in need.

*We now meet virtually. But I look forward to our in-person gatherings: for the shoes…and the hugs.

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stone Heart.

~ heroin heroine ~ 3 Comments

“Too Long a Sacrifice Makes a Stone of the Heart”  – William Butler Yeats

This week I had cause to worry about my child’s commitment to her sobriety. I had been led to believe that she had traveled by train to our hometown to spend time with a friend who is an active alcoholic and was, or still is, a crack cocaine abuser. This friend has a boyfriend who regularly beats her. She is a petite blonde with glassy eyes and bird like bones – but he throws her against walls and routinely blackens her blue eyes. My child was to spend the entire evening with them in a Boston hotel. She did not share this news.

Why would she choose to do these things? What good could come of this?

I felt fear – and anger.  I had a hard time sleeping that night. I took a melatonin, but it didn’t offer much relief. I also turned the phone off. I didn’t want to be woken by what I assumed would be a midnight phone call from an overcrowded emergency room. Or the police demanding I pick her up at 2 am. I imagined changing out of my warm pajamas, programming my gps, and driving into yet another cold, fraught ridden night. And then to be greeted by a kicking, screaming addict, a disgusted police officer, and the mind numbing question: how do you want to handle this?

I am still so tired and it’s been over a year.

I never got that imagined phone call. A few days later I drove up to Maine to see her myself – and she appeared healthy, happy and whole. Which made me ask myself, “why would I turn off the phone when I had a sneaking suspicion that she would get into trouble?” Why would I put limitations on coming to her aid when she had worked so hard for so long? People make mistakes. People relapse. Is it because I didn’t want to look at that fact? Or because I didn’t want to be inconvenienced?

In retrospect I should have made sure my phone was fully charged. I should have had a type written list of detoxes to call when the sun rose. And if her relapse had been fatal (as it often is after having significant clean time) I should have rushed to the emergency room to hold her.

I have a beautiful child. Despite it all she is caring, funny, hard working… and mine. Why had I allowed the past to make a stone of my heart?

The Boy Outside of the Gym.

~ heroin heroine ~ 1 Comment

Today I saw a boy outside of my gym. He had his grey hood up and appeared to be waiting for a ride. It was 22 degrees outside. He was smoking a cigarette. Funny that; a cigarette outside of a gym. And then it occurred to me that he was in recovery. I have no proof of this random rush to judgement – just a hunch. I gave him a big smile and, contradictory to his rather unapproachable affect, he smiled back.

I felt like we had bridged, in some small way, a rather momentous divide. This may have been another rush to judgement on my part – but clearly we had plenty that separated us. Age, sex, income level and life experience for one. Most likely also politics, education, hobbies, and the content of our daydreams.

Once inside I focused on maintaining my speed on the treadmill. This is more challenging then it sounds because the desire to slow down is surprisingly strong with me – and it only takes the push of one sweaty button. Sometimes I bait myself with my daughter’s struggles… if she had the inner strength to quit drugs then you can certainly run for fifteen more minutes. (Maybe you could even, God forbid, kick up the speed.) It was then that I noticed the boy. I guess, unable to get that ride, he had returned to the warmth of the gym. He had removed his hoodie – and he was covered in tattoos. Not a tribal bracelet, soft green shamrock or the name of a lost family member. No, these were the scary kind. They traveled up his arms, his neck, his brow. They were dark and fresh and it would be hard to accept the challenge to look directly at them. I wondered if he had been a dealer. I wondered what kind of trouble he had gotten into in his brief life.

And then I saw him grab free weights – and he used them like a ballerina. Slow beautiful, deliberate arcs. Others grunted and watched themselves in the mirror. Some walked around more than they lifted. But he was lost in an interior world. At one point he looked like a Christ child; his arms impossibly spread, his posture shamelessly on display. I couldn’t help but imagine what he had suffered for his addiction. What avenues had he gone down to feed his fix? How could ones desire for something be so strong that they would risk destroying the beautiful body that they had been given?

Making yet another mad rush to judgement I decided that this is what we shared in common. A desire to both understand and to forget. And shouldn’t our interior worlds bind us more than our exterior ones?  It is unfortunate that they aren’t as obvious as race or culture.   Our interior worlds are often fiercely private and often lonely.  If only they glowed like some sort of mood ring – I am green I am working on liking myself, I am blue I am working on liking others, I am red I am working on controlling my moods, I am purple I am working on forgiving.  How cool would that be?  Then we could help each other, guide each other, or at least recognize a commonality:  I am not alone.

I have a strong feeling that me and this very different boy had lived through something regrettable and were working hard to reinvent it. A personal resurrection or rebirth of sorts. And it made sense to me, it was Christmas week after all.

I See You Mr. Double Standard.

~ heroin heroine

I know many people believe that healthcare dollars should not be spent on those who choose to use street drugs. I get it. It’s about personal responsibility. Healthcare dollars are stretched enough caring for those who aren’t the agents of their own destruction.

However, I ask you to consider the following:

We cure cancer in those who continue to smoke cigarettes.
We staple the stomachs of those who ignore the food pyramid.
We perform heart surgery on those who have never seen the inside of a gym.
We given insulin to those who knowingly eat donuts.
We fix the broken limbs of those who practice extreme sports.
We pay for the delivery  of babies conceived by high risk mothers.
We stitch back the bodies of those who crash speeding cars.
We treat melanoma in those who refuse to stop sun worshipping.
We treat venereal diseases in sexually promiscuous people.

The costs incurred for treating these examples of “irresponsible behavior” are staggering: According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, smoking is the number one preventable cause of disease in the United States and it costs $170 billion dollars a year in direct medical costs. According to the American Diabetes Association one in three medicare dollars are spent on treating diabetes at a cost of $322 billion dollars a year. And, “American use of tanning beds may lead to upwards of 400,000 cases of skin cancer annually.” (American Academy of Dermatology).

But you know what?  Those individuals receive treatment with care, efficiency, and efficacy. The same can not be said for those with substance use disorder. This time a year ago my nineteen-year old was turned away from a detox center because there were no beds. She then walked to Boston City Hospital’s emergency room, sweating and trembling, for help. They too turned her away. Desperate, she spent that evening trolling Mass Ave looking for the drug she needed to tide her over for one more day. The next morning she returned to both the detox center and the emergency room. And once again she was refused admittance. She called crying; “could I please, please help?”

Help should have been as simple as a request.

I spoke with the ER doctor. He explained, “we don’t treat drug addicts here.” He then explained that he would also not admit her for mental health reasons because he didn’t believe she “would kill herself.”

I felt weak at the knees. How does one mount a spirited defense when powerless?

“My daughter is only nineteen years of age. She is not yet a hardened street addict. She is high on a drug that is killing people at an unprecedented rate. She is asking for help. You are that help.”

Silence.

“We are not asking for charity. She is insured by two separate policies.”

His reply: “Hospital rules do not permit admittance.”

“Surely,” I argued, “it is time for hospital rules to change. This is an epidemic. Turn her away and there is a strong possibility that she will die tonight.”

Silence.

“Why wait for the hospital to change it’s policies in response to a dead child and a lawsuit?”

Silence

“You took the Hippocratic Oath.”

Silence.

“You could lie about the reason for her admission…”

Do you know how it feels to beg when you shouldn’t have too? Begging when the stakes are so ridiculously high?  It feels like swimming against the tide while trying to reach your drowning child. Swimming and swimming…and then the dorsal fin appears.  But hope is not lost: a lobster boat comes into view!  You yell for a rope. But they don’t throw one.   No, they don’t.  Instead, they sit back and watch.  Because, you know, she shouldn’t have been swimming in those waters.

I know I sound angry. That’s because I am.  I spend $1500 a month out of pocket for health insurance – and I have had to beg for life saving services.  Addiction is classified as an illness by the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-III).   But the double standard most assuredly remains.

Don’t Categorize This.

~ heroin heroine ~ 1 Comment

We categorize and sort things:
Linen closet. Junk drawer. Shoe rack.
We differentiate and label people as well:
Type A. Neurotic. Extroverted.

Classification by the human brain is typically helpful. It is meant to move us quickly and efficiently through an increasingly busy and varied world.

There probably was a day when rapid generalization of objects and people wasn’t required. Possibly we had less things to sort and each thing had intrinsic value. That spoon was a spoon. (Not a silver spoon or a plastic spoon or a baby spoon.) Possibly at some point in time we all lived in small insular villages. Each inhabitant couldn’t be categorized by a singular adjective because they were too intimately known.

Addict = Junky.

Unfortunately, this characterization exists. And, to be honest, by the time an addict’s addiction has fully consumed them there is very little left by which to define them. Jobs, families, homes, hygiene, self respect, love….. all gone. The addict becomes the equivalent of an item in the proverbial “junk drawer”…..something that used to function, but is no longer useful.

But, just like those that know the value of that random fob or tube in their small kitchen junk drawer, those of us who parent children with substance abuse disorder know their inherent worth. They are valued and loved. And worthy of repair.

-The most stand out characteristic thing I can say about my son is when he enters a room and smiles the whole room lights up.

– My son is well read, a wicked movie buff, likable, handsome, has common sense, is a great athlete, loves fishing, boarding, and biking. (He has) so many amazing qualities which makes it so difficult to understand this disease.

– My son is so smart! He was offered the Abigail Adams award for 4 years of free tuition at any MA state university or college. If only he had accepted it. He’s also so generous and thoughtful. There were so many days that he would just show up at my work with a bouquet of flowers for no reason. And he has got the greatest personality. Of my 4 adult children, he’s the only one I can carry on a full, engaging, adult conversation with.

– My son ends every conversation or exit with love you.

– My daughter has a quick trigger – but also uses it for good. She is quick to call someone out when they have hurt another. Or to notice the injustice in situations she encounters. She is a defender, with a capital D. And twice on her birthday she had friends donate money to a local animal shelter instead of giving her a gift.

– (Even) when I visit my son in jail, he can tell a funny story and make me laugh…which is a good thing!

– My son is extremely sensitive. He is a hard worker, a talented musician, and a kind person. He loves to make people laugh even at his own expense. He is so sweet with his elderly grandmother who adores him.

– My son is an extremely hard worker and his staff always would say how much they loved working for him.

– My son loves animals and is very compassionate. He is passionate about his music and loves to read. Even when he was at his worst I always felt that he loved his dad and I. He is a vegan and always concerned about what happens to animals and to our planet. He tends to take care of people he meets that he feels are struggling like him.

– My daughter has a beautiful singing voice.

– My daughter gave away her winter jacket at a detox. “She needed it more,” is what she told me.

– My son is funny, charming and charismatic. He is a fighter and so tenacious for beating the odds and overcoming so many learning disabilities, stuttering, and of course heroin addiction…at least for now.

– One day my son came bustling into the kitchen looking for something to eat. He began making pbj sandwiches and putting them into a bag with gatorade bottles and chips. A little time went by and I looked out of the picture window and saw the top of two heads.  When I looked closer, it was my son and a stranger sitting on the porch step. The stranger was eating the food!  When my son came in a little later, I asked him about it.  The man was someone my son had met days before. He was homeless and hungry. My son told him if he was in need to come round and he would help. He also sent the man off with extra food, a comb, soap, bottled water, tooth paste, Tylenol, his old sleeping bag and rain poncho. That’s my son. I have NEVER loved another human being as much as I love my beautiful son.

– My addicted daughter used to tell me when she was little that she could see into the future, I always thought that it was a strange thing for a little kid to say.

I realize it is hard for many to see the humanity in those who have lost the ability to reflect their own human potential. And most likely the world will never be a perfect place. But fully seeing the marginalized amongst us….that helps bring the village back.

 

Triggers Are Not Real.

~ heroin heroine ~ 2 Comments

“TRIGGERS ARE NOT REAL.”

My daughter stated this, firmly, when I tried to stop her from taking a bus through a neighborhood full of triggers. Addicts are supposed to avoid triggers….just like someone on a diet should avoid a bakery, and someone thinking about a new dog should avoid a pet shop. It’s good common sense.

This particular neighborhood, for three years straight, had replaced days meant to be spent at school. It was where she met her first, of many, older, opiate-addicted boyfriends. The neighborhood where she drank with her girlfriends until they couldn’t stand up. The neighborhood she went missing in for nights on end. The neighborhood she partied in to the point of hospital intervention, repeatedly. The neighborhood with the drug store street corner. All of this would be within memorable reach.

“I don’t want you to take the bus. I can get you in the car.  I would be happy to come get you… “

“No.”

Trigger has to be the perfect colloquialism for “classical conditioning.” I appreciate the way it brings to mind the image of a loaded gun to the head. When you are the parent of an addict it becomes that clear. That person, that bent spoon, that ball of singed tinfoil, that street corner…. all become sensorial reminders capable of triggering relapse. And relapse is nothing short of a game of Russian roulette.

To be clear, my fear of triggers isn’t a case of playing probabilities or trusting in a predictable pattern of personal weakness. Classical conditioning is scientifically proven. Most of us are familiar with Pavlov and his bell salivating dogs. This early study in classical conditioning proved that a learned process can change a previously neutral stimulus into a potent stimulus. This potent stimulus in turn creates real biological change in the body. Biological change where none existed before. Replace Pavlov’s bell with a street corner and excessive saliva with irrepressible craving and the problem becomes all too real.

“I want to take the bus. Triggers are not real. Like, everything is a trigger. A song. A boy. The bathroom. The sunshine. A nice day. A bad day. Even the breeze. You have to deal with your stuff, mom. If taking a bus makes me relapse then I haven’t dealt with my stuff. You just don’t understand.”

I am trying to. Classical conditioning is not equivalent to the loss of free will. Biological stimulus does not have to be a siren call to action. We are a little more complicated than a bell drooling hound. But how difficult must it be to retrain our rewired and tired brains to see each situation clearly and non-reactively? Can we be our own psychologists, neurosurgeons, life style coaches and cautiously present Buddhas?

In the end, she took that bus. And you know what?
She made it safely home.

Modern Love

~ heroin heroine ~ 2 Comments

There is a program on National Public Radio that does a spectacularly good job at deconstructing a word most of us feel we can confidently define: love.

In one episode Jason Alexander narrates his love for the family goldfish. The loss of someone close to him has forged his affection for this swimmingly simple little golden fish. Its presence represents an escape, and an embracing, of the crumbling reality of existence.

Can love be tempered by unpleasant realities? The program would say yes. Most of us, especially those of us with decades of life behind us, would agree.

We all have our own “modern love” story. Mine would be about my daughter, who many might describe as hard to love.  They would be wrong.

Admittedly, she was hard to snuggle.  She preferred the plastic embrace of her car seat. The car seat could be parked far from me: she was happy with any room, any corner. She tracked me with her eyes, but she tracked other things with equal interest. I took to forcibly putting her in a snuggly and walking up and down the street with her.

Glowering was also a specialty. She was a beautiful blonde baby with fat pink cheeks, green eyes, and a perma-scowl. Her mouth, right from the get-go, had a natural down turn to it. Glowering with the addition of defiantly crossed arms came later. When asked to give her name during her kindergarten interview she stood up, turned her chair backward to the teacher, crossed her arms, and sat down. She remained that way for the entire interview.

My husband and I remained enamored. (Why should she perform tricks like a trained seal? Maybe we have the next Hillary!) We affectionately nicknamed her “little black cloud.” We would mimic her mood in a dreary Eeyore voice – desperately trying to add some EB White levity to our situation. Sometimes we would just mime a “brewing storm”  by circling our fluttering hand over our weary heads.

But of course at this young age it isn’t about them loving you. It’s about you loving them.

Loving her could be exhausting. It wasn’t easy for my daughter to accept love. She appeared to weigh it, to quantify it – to find it lacking. She was often displeased. I came to see it as her natural default button. She screamed about sitting in the cart at the grocery store. She screamed at her older sister to claim the best barbie. She screamed if she could hear you chewing during dinner. She screamed for the last cookie, to hold mommy’s hand, to find the most Easter eggs. She screamed over minor transitions. It was relentless. Her ability to express love was buried under an itchy blanket of sensory issues, fear, jealousy, and an unshakeable sadness.

But she loved us too. It was apparent in the way she would fit herself to your side when watching a Disney movie. And in the occasional half smile with tilted head. In the way she kissed her dog’s bearded face. And the gifts of found flowers or crayoned pictures.

So, yeah, love is not only tempered by unpleasant realities… in can grow in them. It may even grow hardier. We are living proof.  We are the dandelions of love.

“A Bitter Pill.”

~ heroin heroine

I hate idioms….cutesy tidbits of advice that fashion themselves as sage life lessons. You’ve heard them; “it’s a blessing in disguise,” “it takes two to tango” and the ever popular, “let sleeping dogs lie.”

You know what? It’s not always a blessing. And one person alone can perform quite a destructive tango. And let sleeping dogs lie? That’s just a lame excuse for not “getting your hands dirty.”

But I have to admit idioms have their place. There was a time when I relied upon them for their simplicity. Caring for an addict can turn the highest functioning brain into unstable mush. Rational thought processes become clouded by lies, self deception, and blind worry. So you adapt. Part of your mind shuts down and does not allow the conscious brain to record one more crippling incident. Another part goes into hyperdrive and busies itself with layers of extraneous nonsense; so much so that sleep can become a luxury. And then there is the imaginary brain. In order to spare whatever functioning grey matter you may have left you simply believe the lies you tell yourself. And the lies being told to you.

Of course none of these behaviors are symptomatic of good mental health. But what else can you do? Try to make sense of your daughter face down in watery ditch in a blue shiny party dress? Try to accept the presence of a hypodermic needle in the side pocket of your new black leather handbag? Believe in the sincerity of the two men who arrive in the middle of the night and roll your bloodied incoherent child onto the soft colored pea stone that comprises your driveway?

This is what you do. You chant an idiom. It becomes a very effective mantra.  Something like:

Tomorrow is a new day.
One step at a time.
Relapse is part of recovery.

Another that has helped is “detach with love.” I have to admit it is hard to detach without feeling anger or pity. Detaching with love is difficult. It feels like not caring. But if you recite it with added inflection on the word “love” – then it almost works.

My all time favorite idiom is “don’t get sucked in by the tornado.” It is very hard to not be reactive. You want to fix the issue, defend yourself, or argue a point. But you can’t win with someone who is actively using. While the world around you is starting to blow hard you calmly recite “don’t get sucked in by the tornado.” Over and over and over again. It’s a form of detaching with self love.

Pretty Rat Cage.

~ heroin heroine

There is a popular TED talk by Johann Hari that has received nearly five million views. In it he reports that after three years of extensive research he is convinced that we are incorrectly addressing addiction treatment. Instead of using punishment as a deterrent we should be saying “I love you.”

I wish I could have said I laughed. Instead my breath died in my throat. Of course I take this particular TED talk a little more personally than most. The premise that a lack of love had somehow been the missing ingredient… well, let’s just say I took umbrage.

Hari bases his conclusion partly on research done in the 1970s by Professor Alexander of Vancouver. Alexander recreated an experiment done earlier in the century that showed caged rats consistently chose heroin laced water over fresh water. In Alexander’s experiment the rat cage was outfitted like a rat “park.” They had room to exercise, ate good food, and had females to fraternize with. The result? The rats hardly ever touched the heroin water. The conclusion? Addiction is about your “cage.” (If only we had prettier more loving cages….)

I venture to say that such a conclusion is over simplified. If this were true the poor would be more likely to suffer from addiction than the rich. (This, by the way, is categorically untrue.) And, from personal experience, if loving an addict cured addiction – well then my daughter would be well. There are thousands of us who love our sick children – love them unconditionally! – and they remain addicted.

However, I do believe that self love is lacking. Parents of addicts report a higher number of children that suffer from low self esteem, personality disorder, social anxiety or depression. I have also heard parents say that these children were uncharacteristically giving…almost to a fault. And that they naturally gravitated to connecting with the “underdog.” Addicts themselves nearly unanimously acknowledge feeling uncomfortable in their “own skin.” They report feeling “different,” “misunderstood,” or “alone.” Hari cites this as failure of social engagement – a result of our bigger homes and social media interactions. But here again I beg to differ. We have always had addicts, even when we had closer knit social circles. The social disengagement is more likely an internal process, not an external one.

I have three children, only one of whom suffers from addiction. I told each one of them that they were important, beautiful, and loved by me. My middle child did not believe me. I could see it in her eyes. When she slept at night I would sneak into her room and whisper these things again into her ear. I was hoping that somehow, just somehow, my words would imprint themselves on her unconscious brain. I was singing her love songs.

HL 3956 just passed. (Hallelujah … and what the hell?)

~ heroin heroine

In Massachusetts we have a legal act called a “section 35” which allows a family member, or police officer, to involuntarily commit a substance abuser to a treatment facility for up to 30 days. We are fortunate to have such a process (as it is not available in many other states).

Getting a section 35 granted is not the easiest of propositions – and it should not be. You are, in essence, denying someone their civil liberty.  One must arrive in court armed with evidence that the person you seek to commit is of “immediate danger to themselves or others.”  If successful in convincing a judge of this fact, a warrant is then issued for the addict to appear in court.  To successfully win their commitment the petitioner must then best the addict’s court appointed attorney, and convince a doctor that harm is surely imminent.

I have done this four times. I am, I suppose, a seasoned section 35’er. I am also seasoned to the flaws in the system.

Four times my child was civilly committed. But only two times did she receive any treatment. Twice there were no treatment beds available at WATC, the state supported Women’s Addiction and Treatment Center. So my daughter was handcuffed and sent to MCI Framingham. MCI Framingham is the highest level security prison for women in Massachusetts. I watched as she was dragged from the courtroom, shoeless and shackled, screaming “Mom please don’t send me there…. they will not help me! Mom please!”

Lucky for me I was able to lock her pleas into a small little compartmentalized part of my brain. A part of my brain that has been built over the years to accommodate the unpleasant lies of addiction.

However, the addict isn’t the only one who lies.

At MCI my daughter was held with women who had plotted to kill their in-laws. Women who had strangled their children. Women who had stabbed their boyfriends. Women who had committed arson. Women who had committed insurance fraud. My daughter was not guilty of a criminal offense. But she was subject to roll calls, solitary confinement and body cavity searches.

Now here’s the thing – when men are sentenced to treatment and there are no available beds, they are sent to Bridgewater Correctional Institute. Bridgewater is a minimum security prison where addiction treatment is immediately provided and is similar to that received in a hospital.

What about Framingham? Did they provide equal access to treatment services ? No, they did not. The first three days of detox are spent in a single room with up to five other women. Detoxing from heroin includes severe diarrhea, hypertension, rapid heart rate, muscle spasms so large that you are often unable to stand, anxiety, insomnia, depression, and impaired respiration that makes you feel like you are underwater. Now experience all of these things together in their most extreme form. And don’t forget you are with five other suffering women. And one toilet. And a guard who doesn’t give a shit.

This is the beginning of the MCI Framingham “treatment” plan. And also the end of it. There is no counseling. There is no medication assistance (either with detoxing or maintenance). There isn’t even an AA group to attend. Women who are civilly committed for the purposes of having their substance abuse treated are incarcerated, ignored and discharged.

So the legislature finally addressed the issue in January 2016. The scramble is now on to increase the number of acceptable treatment beds. But there shouldn’t be a scramble. The ACLU won a successful lawsuit against the state a year earlier but no discernible progress had been made.

We are told the problem is solved. But is it?

If we fix the problem should we not ask why the problem existed in the first place? Lasting change can not occur if we do not question the conditions that allowed it to flourish.

Questions that keep me confounded include the disbelief, that in 2016, we still treat men with more respect than women. Or that the prison staff themselves, year after year, found the treatment of civilly committed women acceptable.  How could a judges remand for substance abuse treatment be blatantly disregarded? Are we unable to address injustice in our culture without the sword of the law? What happened to compassion? Why is a bucket and a cement floor okay?  Why?

Broken Things Have Value.

~ heroin heroine ~ 1 Comment

I have a set of flawless china. It is Lenox and it has a silver rim like a lucky cloud.

I also have a morning coffee cup. It’s crazed from being microwaved just a little bit too much.  There is a chip that serves as a reminder to not sip on that side. When the handle breaks I will, most likely, glue it back on.

Sentimental? Not really.

I have been thinking about broken things a lot lately. How my daughter’s journey has introduced me to the fractured and hidden members of our society. I have been inside too many psychiatric hospitals, too many jails, too many police stations, too many emergency rooms and too many detox centers. I have seen too many people cry.

But now I can hold these experiences in the palm of my hand like an old coffee cup. They are no longer things that happen to other people. And I can see that they have added value to my previously flawless life.

Three years ago I noted in my journal the incongruities that were becoming our norm:

“I had to pick my daughter up from an in-patient psych ward this morning. She looked just beautiful in a black tee shirt and old jeans. Her blonde hair hung in a long braid over one shoulder. I could barely see the bruise on her cheekbone. As she gathered her things to go she insisted on saying goodbye to Carl. She knocked on his door on her tippy toes, and said, “Carl come out.” “Carl, come out and say goodbye to me.” And she waited patiently. I was expecting a young boy…. but an old man came out. Wizened, beaten down, shuffling. She gave him a big, big hug. And I just didn’t know what to do with the feeling.”

Somedays I still don’t know what to do with all the feeling.  But I know I am the better for it.

But your husband might run for office.

~ heroin heroine

The key word in this sentence is “but.”

(Because my husband is not going to run for state office!)

These words were said by a well intentioned family member. It was a warning that having a known addict as a child would most certainly preclude any future political appointments.

So secrecy, or discretion, is key.

The problem with secrecy is that it doesn’t invite change.
Your “problem” remains hidden – swaddled in shame.
Addiction is one of the last frontiers to be openly, and honestly, discussed. It used to be common to deny a relative’s homosexuality. (To put them in the proverbial closet!) Thankfully those days are behind us. Many parents will proudly introduce you to their child and their child’s partner. But not many will freely admit that someone in their home struggles with the disease of addiction. However, numbers don’t lie. And the alarming number of young people overdosing across the nation is testament that the problem is right here…. and right there… and over there. It is no longer expedient to be discreet.

As for politicos with addicts in the family… I can think of quite a few. In the recent primary debates Carly Fiorina spoke of the loss of her step daughter to addiction. Ted Cruz’s sister overdosed. Jeb Bush’s daughter smuggled crack cocaine into her rehab facility. Donald Trump’s brother died of alcoholism. And how about those who suffered from the disease of addiction themselves? Our very own mayor of Boston, Marty Walsh, is in recovery. Our nation’s Drug Czar, Michael Botticelli, is in recovery. Former President George Bush freely admits that he had to give up alcohol because he couldn’t control his use.

And what about the first lady Betty Ford? In the words of Barbara Bush, “Betty transformed her pain into something great for the common good. Because she suffered, there will be more healing. Because of her grief, there will be more joy.”

Now that’s worth talking about.

Nonsensical, part II.

~ heroin heroine

The addict isn’t the only member of the family to act completely irrational. So does the mom. Alarmed by a gut feeling that something is “just not right” the mother becomes an insanely overwrought junior detective – searching rooms, tracking cellphones, eavesdropping and spying on social media. But the truth is not easy to uncover- because the addict is a very convincing liar. (And, let’s face it, a big part of the mom wants to believe those lies.)  The disease requires the addict to hide their spiraling use. And this requires lying. A lot. In fact there is a saying in the community that “if an addict’s lips are moving…they are lying.” I never liked that saying. I still don’t. But the sad fact is that once this drug has claimed your child, they are no longer your child.

Then the really irrational behavior begins. What mother would ask their sick child to leave their home? What mother would show them the door when it was beginning to snow? What mother would watch their child walk down the driveway with a sad trash bag of clothes thrown over their shoulder? And no money in their pockets? With the realization that they may never see their child again. With the realization that their baby would seek that drug wherever, and from whomever, they could? And with the very real possibility that they might die frozen and alone?

Me, that is who.

There has to be a better way.  We have to find a better way.

This Disease is Nonsensical.

~ heroin heroine

 

Heroin addiction is a disease that appears to favor those who have a neurotransmitter imbalance. Dopamine and serotonin are monoamine neurotransmitters  which regulate mood, appetite, energy and sleep.  In layman’s terms they are responsible for an overall sense of well-being and happiness.   That’s a pretty big job.   Now imagine you are low on them.  It’s sort of like you are missing the keys to your own inner kingdom.  You can live your life, but the reason for living – the sheer joy of it! – appears to be missing.

So you discover this drug.  You do this drug.  And you feel that flood of joy.  Most of us enjoy some form of a narcotic here and there – be it a glass of wine, a cigarette, a joint.   Suddenly you feel….. relaxed.  And life shines a little brighter.  But the addict is different.  The addict realizes that this is what they are missing.  It doesn’t make things shinier…. it just makes the previously dull things shine.

So the addict seeks the drug.  Addiction makes sense at this point.

But soon the drug that seemed like a savior actually shuts down whatever limited production of neurotransmitters your brain originally made.  The drug floods the addicts brain at higher levels and at a higher strength (2-4x that of the natural neurochemical).  So the brain refuses to naturally produce it.  (Why bake cookies when gourmet ones are being delivered to your door?)   And here’s the kicker – heroin also compromises all those other “feel good pathways” that have been built into the human brain for specie survival – like the desire for food, sex and sheltering warmth.   The addict’s genetic defect now creates very real biological, and neurological, damage.

The “drug of joy” will eventually leave you hungry, homeless and without the love of family and friends.  Then, the drugs beloved effect will leave you.  Addicts are always unsuccessfully chasing that original “high.”  In the end they use just to keep the sickness at bay.

Doesn’t make so much sense anymore.