Drug abuse – The Reprobate's Guide to Pancakes

Crossing the Rubicon on a Syringe

It represents just how close I came to crossing the rubicon. Not sort of close, not toes in the water close. This is a story of the time I leapt into the river and bounced back out.

Warning:

If you are easily disturbed by graphic depictions and bodily functions, do not read any further. This post is about addiction, which by nature is often gruesome and unpalatable. If this will bother you, I would suggest a different subject of interest altogether. But if you genuinely care about those struggling with addiction, please read on.

I once killed someone I love very much. Almost. Very, very close, I’d say. Close enough that I could smell my prison cell. He was as good as dead for a few minutes and those minutes felt like years. And those years felt like hell. And there is no greater hell than that which you designed yourself. I don’t tell this story much. It’s one of the few that I guard. In general I am happy to tell you the intimate details of my darkest moments, but this story is somehow different. It represents just how close I came to crossing the rubicon. Not sort of close, not toes in the water close. This is a story of the time I leapt into the river and bounced back out. The idea that my future hinged upon this one decision, it is too much. I had plenty of close calls, times where I pushed the boundaries of my freedom, sanity or my very existence on this planet, but none so close as this. For the sake of those who have yet to understand the risks, for the sake of those who are one decision from altering their course for all of eternity, I will tell you. If you are addicted to drugs right now and remain in the game, it is all but guaranteed that you will see someone die. You may even be complicit in someone’s death and eventually, in your own.

In this story, there are three primary characters, one of whom is now dead. Consider that as you read. Out of respect for the families of those involved, I will not use real names.

I had lost my children. I had lost my home. I had lost welcome with my family. I had a car I bought from a crackhead, a partner in crime and a league of associates as equally moribund as I. During this period, my partner Russ & I found refuge wherever we could. I took in at a shelter one night only to be humiliated by the house mother or whatever you might call her (monster). We slept in our car, on couches, in tool sheds and eventually landed in an abandoned trailer located behind the house owned by the mother of one of our cohorts.

If you’ve never lived in an abandoned trailer, well, you probably don’t know how to steal electricity (butter knives). Once the power was restored, which we had to do daily to avoid detection, we contended with the antiquated air conditioner. That old piece of junk would cover with ice almost hourly. We would turn it off, sweat it out for a few hours and then kick it back on. We slept on a rotting mattress that had no sheets and plenty of questionable stains. There was no plumbing, so guess where we used the bathroom. Not in a bathroom. Those poor neighbors, I still feel for them to this day. But, for all of its morbidity, to us, the trailer was a luxury. It offered four walls, a roof, occasional relief from the sweltering Southern sun and a place we could seek death without disruption.

We survived by selling dope. We bought, we used, we sold and we started over again. We drove to the closest city, three, four, six times a day to meet with cartel runners who seemed like the type you would more likely find schlepping lumber than stashing heroin in their cheeks. Like any business, you must maintain inventory. Most days, Russ & I split a single item from the McDonald’s menu. Food was at the very bottom of our priorities, unlike today where I will run down a granny for a ripe watermelon.

We stayed in the trailer with our friend, Cally. It was a symbiotic relationship, which often exist in the underground. She was able to get a constant supply of drugs through our connections and we had a place to stay. I actually liked her a lot, despite her inclination to manipulate and lie, which shouldn’t have been shocking in this lifestyle. Oddly, there is an unspoken code among many addicts that dictates your behavior with other addicts. You may have to lie, cheat and steal to fund your habit, but you don’t do those things to your companions. Or at least, you don’t until circumstances demand it.

By this point in my addiction, my body was already failing me. I had blown all of the veins in my arms, fingers, toes, behind my knees, around my ankles and even some in my breasts. I had experienced plenty of infections brought on by unsterile injections or missed veins. I had contracted MRSA in my finger, which I performed an unsuccessful home surgery on. I had even hit arteries a few times, causing half of my face to balloon, my hearing and vision to go out and my equilibrium to be completely thrown off. Sometimes it took days or even weeks to heal from my injuries. Still, I persisted. I became so acquainted with my body that I could find a blood supply anywhere. I had the skills of a phlebotomist working in the NICU, tapping into even the most inaccessible veins. Many IV drug addicts, given enough time, become highly skilled in this regard. Necessity is the mother of invention, or in this case, education. Unfortunately, these skills also cause an addict to feel that they are somehow in control of their fate. They feel informed enough to avoid catastrophe.

I had been injecting directly into my jugular vein, the largest vein in the neck, for sometime, which is significantly more dangerous than the typical method. By this point in time, I knew how to discern the difference between an artery and a vein — you know, higher education. Some other users envied this method because it had a faster delivery, but I did it out of sheer necessity. In fact, it was a miserable process. I would put a tie-off around my neck, maybe a shoe string or a belt. Then I would hold my breath and puff out my cheeks while sitting in front of the mirror, hoping I could locate my vein before I passed out. I am not painting a pretty picture, am I?

Occasionally another user would ask me to inject them this way, but I always declined. Not only was it more dangerous but it was also more difficult to inject someone other than yourself. I was very acquainted with my own body, but to be this precise on another person is an entirely different story. And then, of course, you are responsible for their fate as well.

I don’t know why, but on this day I relented. Myself, Cally and Russ were all in the trailer that day, prepping our syringes. Russ asked me to inject him in his neck and after much back and forth, I agreed. Standing in the kitchen, he tied off his neck with a belt. I inserted the syringe and pulled back blood. I remember vividly that the blood looked too bright. I felt myself clinched with doubt, feeling this was a mistake, but Russ began yelling for me to push the plunger. “Push it! Just push it!”. His urgency overrode my better judgment and I pushed for just a moment and then stopped. I instinctively knew I had just made a fatal mistake. I pulled the syringe out, having only delivered a quarter of its contents into his blood stream. As I was flooded with fear, Russ swiveled in place, awkwardly angling to remove the belt from his neck. Just as the belt slipped from his head, his feet lifted off the ground. As I remember it, his feet lifted about three feet from the floor, though that seems impossible. It appeared as if he had been sucker punched beneath his chin by some unseen force. He lifted violently and was thrown backwards, where the base of his skull met with the corner of a side table, before collapsing on the kitchen floor.

These are the moments where time stands still and speeds forward simultaneously. Thoughts are rapid fire. There is no time for fear, only action and prayer. There is no time for paralysis. Looking down upon Russ, his neck and face had already begun to swell. He couldn’t speak or move, but in his eyes was a world of information, ascertained within a fraction of a second. His eyes pleaded with me for help. I could hear his voice in my head, I knew every word, every thought he intended to express. I knew his fear, I knew his pain, I knew his regret. His throat swelled and his breathing stopped. I sat on the floor, cradled his head in my lap and prayed. There was no Narcan that could solve this. There was no time for an ambulance. CPR was of no use. He began to seize. I heard his last plea just as his eyes rolled into his skull and then he seized. His body shook violently and incessantly. Tears streamed from my eyes as I spoke to him of my love. I begged him to hang on as I caressed his face and prayed that God would have mercy on us both.

I can vividly recall looking up to see Cally standing above Russ’s body, tears flowing down her face. She was paralyzed with fear. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t act. She was absolutely terrified and in that moment, I felt for her. She was, in that instant, woken up to the reality of drug addiction, which had eluded her to this point. I had witnessed many overdoses, performed CPR more than a few times. She, however, had gone to bed the night before playing checkers and woke up playing Russian roulette.

I didn’t think about prison, though that could have been my future. I didn’t think about anything but the delicate life that I cradled in my hands. In that moment, I would have accepted any personal consequence in exchange for his life. I prayed with more fervor and earnestness than ever before in my life. I, we, had never needed God more.

I can’t tell you how long Russ went without breathing. It felt like years, but quite possibly was three for four minutes. The swelling in his neck slowly receded, at first only enough to take in the most labored and shallow irregular breaths. I continued to hold him for the next half hour or so, and over that time he began to breath more easily. The only sound I could hear was my own internal thanks to God on repeat. The room was silent and serious. Cally had retreated to somewhere within her own mind and I was all alone with the mess I had created.

I didn’t know what type of long term damage I had done. I suppose I still don’t. When he regained consciousness, he was completely deranged. He tried repeatedly to step off the side of the building where there were no stairs. His speech was incoherent and his movements confounding. His behavior was similar to that of Frankenstein’s monster when he is first awoke. He was incredibly hot and had to sit in front of a fan for the next few hours. To this day, he has no memory of the event. For that, I’m grateful.

That day, I still went out and scored dope. THAT is how powerful addiction is. THAT is the fight we are in right now to save lives. We fight a monster that defies all reason and to win, we must be educated, vigilant and honest. There is no room to be paralyzed. There is no room for fear. There is no room to assume that someone will outgrow their habit. This is war.

A few months after I completed rehab, Cally overdosed on heroin. She died alone on her kitchen floor with a needle in her arm. Of all of the friends I have lost, this one hit me the hardest. I think of her often and I am flooded by questions I may never have answers to.

In this game, the players can’t know who will survive and who will die. Had I guessed between the three of us, I would have definitely thought I would have been the one to die. Never would I have thought that we would lose Cally, or that I would be here today to speak to you on this subject.

I have spent much time pondering why I survived when others, far nicer, far more talented or with more to contribute, were lost. I have wondered why I am not in a prison cell, why Russ is alive. I haven’t found an answer. I only know that you can’t lose if you don’t play. If you are already in the game, get out. Lay down your cards and start living. Survive the withdrawals, suffer the consequences, put in the work and live. Live for yourself, live for your children, live for your family, live for all of those who can’t. Live because it’s a gift that can be rescinded at anytime. Live because you are wanted and needed. Live because you can and when you do, give back, because somewhere there is someone just like you used to be.

Footnote: I didn’t know until after I had written most of this that today (August 31st) was International Overdose Awareness Day. I feel sure that God has plans for this piece. Please share this post so that those in need may be inspired to seek help. Your support is greatly needed and appreciated.

Healthy Steps to Loving a Junkie

If you are reading this, there is a very good chance that you either know someone who is addicted to opioids or you yourself are addicted. I’m not just guessing. The numbers are on my side. Warning: Boring statistics ahead.

The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services estimates there were more than 12.5 million Americans abusing prescription opioids in 2015. That figure doesn’t include the estimated 828,000 heroin users in our country. Since that time, opioid abuse has risen dramatically. In 2017, an average of 90 Americans have died each day from opioid abuse, and the numbers don’t appear to be lessening. I dare you to go compare deaths by guns with deaths by drug abuse. I won’t do all of the work for you.

I’m not a fan of statistics. They make stories dry and dull, but in this case I need them to prove a point. You aren’t alone. And if it isn’t opioids, it’s methamphetamine. And if it isn’t meth, it’s alcohol. And if it isn’t alcohol, well, you can fill in the blank. I am pretty sure I even saw someone overdose on God once.

I’ve met countless parents who have recounted their stories of having children addicted to drugs, incapable of making sound decisions. These stories always consist of theft, jail, poor health, small children caught in the mix and often they end in prison or death. In support circles, the saying is “Prison, death and institutions.” Those are the three inevitable ends for someone who doesn’t recover from drug addiction. Just imagine those choices. Which would you pick? A person addicted to substances knows, at some point in their journey, that one of those three choices is guaranteed for them, but the disease is so strong that it overcomes all logic. A person addicted to substances cannot be expected to suddenly wake up and make healthy choices. This is why it is incumbent upon their family and friends to get honest, get serious and get severe. Is that what most families choose to do? Hell no.

How many times have I told a parent to completely cut their child off financially? Almost as many times as I’ve seen a parent secretly wish to kill me, steal my skin and use it to hide their child from the consequences of life. That would be a very poor decision, for any of you who might try. Life’s consequences are particularly fond of my scent. I get it. I don’t want my children to hurt anymore than other parents, despite what they tell you. But it is surprisingly hard to get people to understand that by perpetually protecting someone from the consequences of their actions, you have set them up for a tremendous fall.

Stop enabling people to self destruct. If someone is exhibiting clearly destructive behavior and your attempts to rationalize with them or provide help have been fruitless, STOP RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE.

The fact is, some things are beyond us. Some things must play themselves out to their inevitable conclusion. If a train is baring down on your child, jumping in front of the train will in no way help anyone. It won’t stop the train and both of you will perish. If you are lucky enough to shove your child out of the way of danger, they are now even more confident that they can stand in the way of a train and not die. Continue this cycle and their confidence in their immunity to consequences will increase. When a train is baring down on your child, let them feel the fear of impending pain, because in this fear is hope. They SHOULD be scared. They should be scared, motivated and aware that their survival is dependent upon their own actions.

I didn’t stop until I could taste the tracks and sometimes this is what it takes. If you are in this position, I am glad for you. Crisis is an opportunity for healing! If you haven’t hit a crisis yet, step out of the way and it will come.

My recommendation, based on experience as both an enabler and a junkie, is to let people self destruct. Stop providing money, legal help, housing, medical care, transportation and employment to someone who is incapable of treating you and the assistance you’ve provided with respect and maturity. Stop abetting their illness by ignoring the symptoms and dismissing their decline. Don’t place blame for their situation on their employers, spouses, probation officers, lawyers, neighbors, etc., Don’t allow them into your home. Don’t allow manipulation, guilt or fear to making you a willing party in their disease. When you support a junkie’s lifestyle, even if out of love and loyalty, you support their death.

Loving an addict is hard. Addicts will take advantage of the people who love them most. They are capable of manipulating your genuine concern into a means to support their ‘habit’. It’s not a habit, by the way. It’s a monster and you don’t fight monsters with delicate pleading or passive agreement. You fight monsters with strategy, cunning and an end-goal that you never lose sight of.

The goal is and will always be, in these cases, to save a life. You cannot concern yourself with their job, home, school prospects, spouses, or diva demands. If they die, all of that is gone. Remind yourself of this constantly.

If you find yourself in the fortunate position to be of help to an addict in crisis, there are a few things you can do to lend to their success.

1. Be prepared for the swing. An addict who has just missed a fatal impact with a train is thrilled at the prospect of going to treatment. They will tell you how badly they want sobriety and how much they want to change their life. They will apologize for their treatment of you, of others. They will say everything that might give you hope that you have reached the promise land of recovery. Do not, for even one moment, let your guard down. I went to detox somewhere in the range of ten times and each time I was thrilled to be there. Guess how many times I went back to my dope fiend lifestyle? One less time, because a few people in my life did exactly as I am recommending to you now. If you take the right measures, you have a shot at helping them. It may take a few times as we junkies, by nature, are incredibly willful and arrogant.

2. After a couple of days, they will convince you that they are doing great. They will convince you that they are doing SO great that there is absolutely no need for them to remain in detox or proceed to a rehabilitation center. You will be so excited to see in them the person that you once knew, the person who wasn’t a manipulative pariah, that you can easily be swayed by this act. Don’t be. Don’t fall prey to the game.

3a. Negotiations. This is by far my favorite part of the ‘junkie writes the rules’ act. An addict is keenly aware of your desire to help them, to see them recover and thrive. They also know that you would love nothing more than to welcome them back into your life and your home. They will capitalize on this. They will make a very persuasive argument about how they can become healthy at home—-your home usually. Usually these moments consist of statements like “All I need is to get a job and..” or “This time is different. I promise I’m going to do A, B & C as soon as I get home.” When you hear these statements from someone with less time in recovery than it takes a pancake to cool, ignore everything they are saying. Smile, nod and tell them that you aren’t playing their games anymore.

3b. When their amiable act doesn’t work, they may resort to three year old tactics. Prepare for fits, tantrums, anger, vile accusations and unreasonable demands. Some people even become violent. An alternative to the angry approach is the sad, fearful approach where they break you with their tears. Either way, become a stone. Stand up and walk out, or if you are on the phone, hang up. End their reign as the puppeteer of your emotions.

3c. Demands are a last ditch effort for addicts to regain control. This most usually manifests in threats of suicide. If that happens, you must remember that they were ALREADY committing suicide, albeit slowly. Most addicts and alcoholics do not actually wish to die. They are far more committed to removing pain than to exiting life. Frankly, it is irrelevant. This is one of those things that is beyond your control and submitting to the demands of their disease will not guarantee you more time with them. It may actually do the opposite, hastening their death.

4. If you make it past #3, you are truly experiencing a miracle. This is not the time to offer financial support, though. If you survive to this point, offer emotional support. Assist them in finding a good rehabilitation program. Remind them that you are willing to restore your relationship with them. This is the best support you can give. The rest is between them and God.

I highly, highly recommend an inpatient program that is at least six months long, preferably longer. Detoxification can take months to complete and many symptoms caused by years of poor nutrition and drug use can even remain for years. Sadly, most detox facilities allow a patient to stay 5-7 days, which is often a very crucial period where someone may easily slip back into drug abuse. Many rehabilitation facilities are as short as 30 days. At 30 days, I was just remembering how it felt to have awareness of my limbs. That is not even close to an exaggeration. I was far from capable of returning to society as a productive member.

There is no exact science to recovery. If physicians, counselors and politicians had the answer, we wouldn’t be plagued by drug abuse. I don’t pretend to have every answer either and there is no guarantee that your best efforts will bring a positive outcome —but it’s worth a shot.

There is love in resistance. There is love in the word ‘no’. There is love in stepping back and allowing God to take over. There is love in admitting your limitations. There is love in saying the things that hurt the most. There is love in the truth.

This is a very painful place to be for anyone, most especially a parent. Your fears and your worries are legitimate and you most assuredly aren’t alone. Millions of other people are feeling exactly as you do right now, holding it all inside and praying that God will provide a way out. Millions of people are staying awake at night in fear that this will be the night that they receive that dreaded call. Millions of people are sinking into a depression and feel helpless to fight against it. Do not lose hope, above all else. I am a living miracle, a person who beat all odds. I am the success story you never hear of. I am the person that broke a needle off in her neck and considered suicide her only way out. I am the person that destroyed every relationship, ruined every opportunity, lost her children, her joy, her faith and all hope of recovery. But it is because of people like you, people who loved me despite my disease, that I am able to write this for you today.

If any of you need someone to speak to, please reach out to me. I am happy to share my experience and advice or just listen, without judgment or condemnation. Send a message through the contact form on the website.