Tag: Opiate abuse

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.