Category Archives: addiction

Open Caskets

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Last night I attended the wake for a magnificent young man who died of a heroin overdose. He was the epitome of sunshine.  The line to get into the funeral home was endless for the entirety of the scheduled three hours for people to come and pay their last respects.  There were young and old brought to their knees in fits of sobs.  There was a video being looped of highlights of his life, the smiling and happy him that he will be remembered for.

I spoke to his mother on the day after he died and in her flurry of processing the pain and logistics of losing her son she mentioned that there would be an open casket.  This didn’t come as a surprise since the majority of non-Jewish funerals I’ve attended include the opportunity for mourners to “view” the body of the deceased that one last time.

I’ve learned that the casket is generally just feet away from the receiving line made up of the distraught and suffering.  Last night and in the past I have done everything I could to avert my eyes in order to avoid the reality and finality of death but to no avail.  At a funeral for another young man who also died from an overdose, his arm was outstretched with a rosary draped across his fingers.  I will never, ever be able to unsee that.

Last night I watched as people knelt in front of the casket, weeping, howling in pain, some touching the body, others whispering to him.  Some brought flowers and placed them in the coffin, some went up in groups in order to support each other.  When the priest came to speak I had to stand in the back of the packed room but the casket, and this sweet young man’s body was directly in my line of vision.  It made no sense to me that he was being put to rest in a suit.  This was a kid who had pink hair, piercings and wore black concert tee-shirts.  I keep thinking how appalled he would have been to know that people were seeing him for the last time in an ill-fitting suit.

I watched as his teenage brother slumped in a velvet chair in the receiving line, at first with a bored look on his face and a split second later burst into tears.  His 19-yr old niece who was the most visibly devastated throughout the evening came up to me and wrapped her arms around me, sobbing, repeatedly saying that she wished she had told him more how much she loved him.   I had to tell her over and over again that he knew how important he was to her.   It seems clear that she will never forgive herself for what she perceives as the worst of transgressions.

I’ve heard that wakes were traditionally held as a way for loved ones to watch over a body in the hopes that the person would “wake” up.  I’ve since read that that is a total myth and am much happier knowing that in the Irish tradition, a lot of drinking is involved.  Either way, as much as I want to understand it, I just can’t wrap my head around the desire to see a lifeless person laying among stark white ruffles particularly someone who was once so full of life.

 

 

 

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The Snuffing Out of Light

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Two days ago I learned of the death of one of my first clients as a substance abuse counselor at an all-male halfway house.  As is often the case I hear about these deaths from a former resident and their biggest concern is how I will receive the news.  My husband has gotten too used to me getting a phone call or reading messages on my phone and having me crumble into a mass of sobs.   He will gently ask me, “Who?” and on this past Tuesday night, just as we were molding our bodies into our respective tv watching positions, I answered with the name of someone he knew I cared deeply about and one of a handful of guys that he and my daughter had actually met.

“T” was an exceptional young man.  When I first met him I was stunned to learn that he was almost 30.  He could easily pass for 19.  He had the words “Sick Boy” tattooed on the nape of his neck, the name of a character from the book and movie “Trainspotting,” and when I, a 50-yr old woman told him that it was one of my favorite movies, he instantly adored me.  He smiled his broad and welcoming smile, and I immediately saw the incandescent light that had to have been trademarked as his somewhere along the line.

“T” was open and out as a gay man among a house filled with brawny and toughened guys and he was adored by every single one.  Some of the guys let him color their hair pink and green, file their nails, and rub their shoulders.  He was the “pet” without EVER being condescended to.  He was the one who got up early to write famous and inspirational quotes on the white board in the kitchen, every single day for six months.  One day he picked flowers for me straight from Boston’s Public Garden which I had to tell him he could have been arrested for.  After that, every time he went home on the weekend he would snip a flower or two from his mother’s garden like he did below:

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When he met my then 14-yr old daughter for the first and only time, he had a flower ready for her too.  When I told her he had died, she hugged me longer and harder than she ever has.

I spoke at the AA meeting where he received his one-year chip.  He beamed at me, and I at him, assuming that he had reached the end of his struggle with addiction.  He was ten months into a job that he loved and where he was adored, like he was everywhere.  When I learned four months ago that he had relapsed and essentially lost everything he had worked so hard for, I was devastated for him.  I reached out to him and got a text back that said, “Hi my love, things are pretty rough these days.  I just don’t know what to do.”  I answered back that he DID know what to do, that he had done it so triumphantly before, and that was the last I heard from him.

Every single Facebook post that started to unfurl on his page as people learned of his death uses the word “light.”  It is a somewhat overused descriptor, but with “T” it’s really the one word that can sum up his beautiful soul perfectly.

It makes sense for me to cite a Smiths song here, since “T” was a huge fan of the melancholy and angst in music.    In this case Morrissey got it all wrong when he writes “There’s A Light That Never Goes Out.”  “T” took his light with him and those that remember it, and him, will try so desperately to hold on to it, to bask in it, for as long as we possibly can.


This post was originally published on gaylesaks.com.

 

Band of Brothers

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When I began my job as a substance abuse counselor in an all-male residential program, the group of men were a pretty hardened bunch.  Their flesh peaked out from under tattooed murals on their arms, legs, chests and backs.  They were pumped up with six-pack abs and chiseled muscled arms that they teasingly showed off every once in a while, to each other and to staff.

The program is a revolving door of 30-men, some who make it through the 6-months and some who relapse within a week.  When I started here there were mini-reunions of friends who had shared needles on the streets and alleys, guys who had served time together, others who had detoxed and been in endless other amounts of programs together.  These are their trenches, drugs their landmines.

I love it when a guy comes through the door to discover old friends sitting in the kitchen or watching tv in the living room.  They greet each other in the way that men do, those quick hugs with double fist thumps on the back.  They begin to unravel their recent set-backs, catch up on mutual friends, and launch into the “did you hear about so-and-so?  He overdosed last week.”  Woven into these catch-ups are the “Fuck, I’m so pumped to see you, dude.”

My first few weeks in the house these seasoned bunch of guys were a bit skeptical of my presence.  They tested me in group, stopped talking when I was around and when I had to take three of their passes away for a particular incident, they ignored me for weeks.  Some other guys, the newer and still somewhat innocent ones told me that they were talking about me to the other guys.  Of those three, one is now dead and the other two have both relapsed and detoxed 5 times between them.

They have become numb to the frequent deaths of their friends and acquaintances.  Most of the time they learn about these deaths on Facebook, seeing in their feeds “RIP” with a familiar face and name.  They’ve told me endlessly that Facebook is their obituary.  They have also told me that they can tell when a friend is high by the times they are posting.  “What the fuck was he doing posting random shit at 3 in the morning?”

There are certain deaths that hit them harder than others.  You can tell by the length of their pauses, the moment of processing.  I attended my first funeral with a bunch of these core guys, the warriors on the front lines.  This one was a really hard death for them.  They hovered in the background vaping and smoking until the priest started speaking the generic, scripted words in front of him.  The guys inched forward, taking it all in, watching his mother and father weeping.  After this very brief, insultingly brief in my opinion, they shuffled back to the cars that they came in as they contemplated the dwindling of the friends that made up their shared history.

The stream of new guys coming into the house are often novices at this life.  They are younger and needier and look to me and to my other female co-worker as mother figures.  They aren’t tattooed or pumped up.  Their egos are more easily bruised when a girl isn’t interested in them.  Their focus tends to be spent on everything but their recovery.

One of the toughest of the original group lives in a sober house around the corner.  He comes around almost every day and the new guys follow him around, like the Pied Piper as he shows them how to get to certain places around the city.  He tells it like it is to them, never mincing words about how real the certainty of death is if they go out and inject the new poisonous strain of heroin.  They hang on his every word.

The numbers of the naive will continue to grow, while the tougher die off, one by one.  These newer guys may or not form a new core group, going through programs and jail together, maybe relapsing together.  Maybe they’ll get the joys of sobriety sooner, find the girls who won’t break their hearts and start living a “normal” life.  It’s a stretch but I’d love to believe that it’s possible for them and for those hardened ones who remain standing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t Dream It, Be It: Imposing My Own Hopes on Substance Abusers

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“I’m a substance abuse counselor.”

When I heard those words come out of my mouth when someone recently asked what I did for work, I said it assertively, as if I had been one for my entire career,  simultaneously thinking to myself, “Oh my God, I’m a SUBSTANCE ABUSE COUNSELOR.”  Those words had become my end-point, I was living my dream.

It wasn’t until about five years ago that this career was even on my radar.  For 20+ years I was a non-profit fundraiser, spending the majority of my time asking rich people for money.  I burned out, got lazy, and found that I really hated the lack of authenticity when I was in front of the wealthy, having to make small talk that had such transparency that they were just waiting for the ask.

When I found myself between jobs I fell into an opportunity to volunteer with newly incarcerated women.  Every Friday for two years I went “behind the wall”  and lead a group on goal-setting, instilling as much hope for women who had none.  About 80% of those women, and later, in a part-time job where I also worked with men newly released from prisons all over the country, were drug addicts or in prison for drug related crimes.  In addition, my best friend at the time was struggling with a 3-year crystal meth addiction, a drug so insidious that he became a completely different person.  It was in my orbit everywhere I looked and it was then that I knew that what I wanted to be was a substance abuse counselor.

I am not an addict but that didn’t stop my wonderful new boss from taking a chance on me, seeing my passion and understanding of the challenges that this population faces every day.  I now have a caseload of 15 men in a sober living residence, a place I look forward to going every day. The cycle of their lives are almost always identical–overdose, detox, halfway house, relapse, overdose, and on and on.  In the process, they’ve lost sight of whatever dreams they’ve had.  They’ve become too clouded, murky, shrouded in despair.

One of the most compelling men on my caseload, a 27-year old rough-around-the-edges but completely soft on the inside, had wonderful and candid conversations with me on Friday afternoons when he’d come home from work, covered in dirt with a single hammer hanging from his tool belt.  He was wise and without delusion about where his life was and where it was going.  He had been through our program before, had achieved almost 2 years of clean time before he was sucked back into the vortex of abuse.  In theory he knew what he had to do to avoid the suck of addiction, how he had to stay away from his ex-girlfriend.  He had helped raise her daughter, now 6 who he absolutely adored.  After 42 days out of the 180 days it would have taken to complete our program, and a day after one of these conversations, he left to go back to her.   Right before he went into detox his probation officer let him call me.  “This was the conversation I was dreading the most,” he said to me.  I’m so sorry.”

During several conversations I told him what I wanted for him.  I wanted him to have a wife, some children, a family to come home to and eat dinner with.  A wife to cuddle up next to on the couch when their children were finally settled.  My dream is to secretly walk by a cute little house with a big tree that I can duck behind in the yard, look in a big picture window, and see him hoisting his child over his head, making faces, and having this be his dream realized.

The Share

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In my job as a substance abuse counselor in an all-male sober living program, one of the first things I do when I sit down with a new resident on my caseload is ask for their “story.”    On a slow afternoon I have the opportunity to ask the guys who aren’t on my caseload, the same thing.  They never hesitate to launch right in:

“Well, my father beat the shit out of me from the age of 7 and I started using pills at 10 to numb the pain.”

“Well, when I found my mother murdered….”

“Up until last year I was living under a bridge…”

“My wife overdosed and died while I was sleeping next to her.”

This is their narrative, one they’ve undoubtedly told many times, in AA and NA meetings, intakes at every detox they’ve been to and every time they’ve gone to a new therapist.  The telling is an integral part of their healing, their recovery.

Last week it occurred to me that it didn’t seem fair that they didn’t know MY story.  Many professionals might be outraged by the boundaries this seemingly crosses.  When I worked with inmates I understood why I told very little about myself.  Most therapists would say that if a client asks a question like “Where do you live?” you should deflect it by saying something like, “What would it mean to you if you knew that?” or “We’re here to focus on you not me.”

At another job it was mandatory that we shared our stories through a collage and narrative with the participants of the program.  Yes, we didn’t have to tell EVERYTHING, but to me, and I feel very strongly about this, when you are working so closely with people who lay themselves bare to you, it’s only fair that the playing field is leveled.

I asked permission from my manager first.  He has been in recovery for 15 years and is one of the most dynamic men I have ever met.  When his son was murdered just three years ago, he managed not to relapse, but you can see the pain in his eyes.  The men here, some as young as 24, listen to him with rapt attention when he tells his story.  They’ve heard him share at meetings in the community.  His story is not one to keep inside.

In front of the group of 30 guys, I set the tone of what I wanted to say by letting them know that despite the fact that I am not a recovering addict, that I have experienced pain of my own.  Some in recovery firmly believe that unless you are in recovery you don’t have the tools or experience to be a substance abuse counselor.  I wanted to try to soften that opinion.

I began with, “On New Year’s Eve, 1985, my mother and a man she was involved with committed suicide and were found dead in her bedroom.”

Nothing silences a group of restless men than an opening sentence like that.  I told my “story” for about 25 minutes while the guys just watched me and listened with compassionate writ large on their faces.  Many of them came up to me after and hugged me, others shook my hand and thanked me.  The one who I have had the most prickly relationship with, came into my office and confessed that he was one of those people who thought that unless you were in recovery you shouldn’t be counselor.

When I finished sharing my coworker reiterated his true belief that all of us, despite being addicts or not, have pain that stays with us. As he so simply stated, “You never know where help is going to come from.”

P.S.  I wish I could put my hair in a bun like the woman in the illustration.

 

Resisting the Numb

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Last week one of the residents of the all-male sober residence where I work came into the main office, shut the door behind him and began to weep.  Still a few years from thirty, he grew up in one of the toughest, whitest projects in Boston, using drugs and committing crimes since the age of 14, so, seeing him in this vulnerable moment was a bit jarring.

At moments like these my coworkers and I are generally waiting for a confession of relapse.  Instead, he told us that he had just found out that his father, diagnosed with a very aggressive cancer, had three weeks to live.

This resident was not used to having these sorts of feelings.  His impulse, and the impulse of almost all of the men in the residence, was to inject, drink, snort, smoke and swallow their feelings away.  That lure is always there, everywhere.  The immediate goal for their lives, is to resist that desire to be numb.  They have to learn what it’s like to “sit with their feelings.”

The first thing we made sure was that he wouldn’t use.

“I can’t do that to my father.  He has watched me my whole life as an addict.  Out of respect for him, I won’t.”

His vulnerability was so innocent, so childlike in a way.  He is well-loved in the house but doesn’t want the other guys to know what’s going on.  I’ve urged him to talk to a select few, but he hasn’t.  We as staff, though, continue to check-in on him, see how he’s doing and know that the worst is yet to come.

The past few weeks have been heartbreaking at the house.  One of the young men I got very close to, relapsed a day after graduating the program, after 180 days clean.  Another, only weeks from graduating was found with a needle in his arm, fresh blood drops on the floor of the bathroom, so fucked up he couldn’t stand up straight.  And then, the worst of them all, one of the guys on my caseload who got discharged for using less than a month ago, was found dead at his girlfriend’s house.

Coming into work the day after this young man’s death I talked to a lot of the guys to see how they were processing the information.  Each one, many who had known him and liked him, said that they had gotten so used to this, yeah, it sucks, but it’s the nature of the beast.  One went through the contacts on his phone and ticked off at least 15 names of people he knew who had overdosed in the last six months.  Many said that their Facebook feeds has become their version of an obituary, being their source of information like this.  The overarching theme was “Better him than me.”

Death shouldn’t be the norm for twenty and 30 year-olds.  People in their seventies and eighties are the ones who should be scanning obituaries, sighing and feeling a pang of sadness when they learn that someone they know has died.

I knew this job would be tough, but I couldn’t have possibly imagined how tough.  Death and relapse will be a part of my life.  I look at the thirty names of the guys left in the house and wonder how many will make it the 180 days.  I fear for them, for those who can’t resist the numb, the ones who need to escape the pain of feelings, feelings that most of us know how to process, sober, or with one glass of wine, with people who will listen and help to take that pain away.

 

 

“Here Son, Try This.”

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Part of my job as a case manager in a residential program for recovering addicts is conducting an intake within hours of them walking through the front door.  I always apologize for the litany of questions I’m required to go through because I know, as they’ve been shuffled from detox to other residential programs, they’ve been asked the same hundred or so questions upwards of ten, twenty times before.

The first page or two of the intake form consists of fairly standard demographic questions from “What ethnicity are you?,” to “What is your primary language?” to  “Do you have any sources of income?”  Without much of the equivalent of a “transitional” sentence, the questions abruptly move onto a checklist of substance of choice, everything from pot to alcohol, to opiates to crack to “club drugs.”  I record if they’ve ever tried a particular substance on the list, their age at first use, and the frequency of use.   I’ve become so used to hearing that these men have often begun their road to a serious opiate addiction at around the age of 14 or 15, that when they tell me that they first injected heroin at 19 I’m surprised at how late that seems.

Oftentimes the men will be eager to share their back story, the origins of their drug dependence.  Many are somewhat “standard—“ a prescription for pain meds due to a legitimate injury that snowballs into heroin addiction, raiding their parent’s liquor cabinet, flipping a dormant switch into full-on alcohol abuse.  Other stories go something like this:

“In 10th grade I was having a hard time staying awake studying for a history test.  My father came in, saw that I was struggling, left the room for a minute, and came back with a few lines of coke on a mirror and said, “Here son, try this.” He showed me what to do, and the rest is history.”

The first time I heard something equally as appalling was as a volunteer at a local women’s correctional facility.  A woman, clearly beaten down and defeated shared with the class I lead that her mother injected her with heroin when she was 10-years old.  At that time, my daughter was ten.  I felt heartsick for this woman and intense rage against her mother.

The majority of the men I counsel have been surrounded and immersed in a nuclear and extended family of addicts.  There have been their fathers who have murdered their mothers, drunk driving deaths and life sentences for one thing or another.  90% of the time their siblings and parents are all addicts, some with long-term sobriety under their belts, others enduring the same agonizing cycle of detox and relapse.

When I see or hear people who deride and judge those struggling with the enormous monster of addiction, I often feel the need to remind them that no one says, “I want to be a drug addict when I grow up.”  I am surrounded and reminded every day of the anguish and helplessness it creates.  It doesn’t come from nowhere.

“WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS?”

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Yesterday at the men’s sober living program where I am a case manager, I witnessed the implosion of one of our residents.  To me, he was always the most intriguing and one who I knew the least.  He wasn’t on my caseload but I had read his file and learned about his ongoing struggles.  He is very tall, very handsome, very articulate, is (was) a lawyer.  He is also an alcoholic, one of the few in the program who isn’t a heroin addict.  When I would do rounds, part of the job to essentially make sure none of they guys has overdosed in their beds, I noticed that he was reading Philip Roth’s “American Pastoral,” a book that has been on my list for years.

The men in the program are required to find a job after 45 days of their admittance and he had taken a job at a Jiffy Lube, a far cry from practicing law.  Most of the men are just happy to actually FIND a job and are humbled, not necessarily bitter about their new reality.  On days off, they can do whatever they want–go to the beach, movies, whatever, as long as they’re back in the house at a certain time.  There are random urine checks and the knowledge that our eagle-eyed staff, all in recovery except for me, can pick out a relapse from a mile away.

Yesterday, at around 4 in the afternoon, this resident was a bit wobbly going up the stairs to the house.  He apparently reeked of alcohol and was immediately given a breathalyzer.  His levels were off the charts.  He LOOKED so different, his face sort of doughy, his eyes red.  He came into the office that I share with my two coworkers and sunk to his knees.  We gave him the obvious space he needed to process how his life had just changed dramatically, knowing that he would be discharged from the program immediately.  For the other guys in the house, seeing someone in that state could be a real trigger.

With his head in his hands he repeatedly shook his head, and asked to none of us in particular, “Why do I keep doing this?  What am I going to do NOW?” He had begun to sob.  It was excruciating and tragic for me to watch. His case manager, clean for 15 years from a raging heroin addiction, just let him ask the questions.  He suggested that he immediately go to a detox, which had become a never-ending cycle for him.  The resident chose not to do that, asked for his savings that all residents are required to pay, and said that it was inevitable that he would buy more vodka, and check into a downtown hostel for the night.  He’d make the bigger decisions the next day.  His case manager tried to talk him out of that, but there’s nothing we can do.  He couldn’t stay and as painful as it was for him, my coworker handed over his money.

After he was allowed to take a shower he came back down to the office and asked for another chance, fully knowing that that couldn’t happen.  He shook my hand last, a strong powerful shake, and said “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

I pray that he has made it through the night.  I pray that his helplessness hasn’t lead to something even more tragic.  I pray that he can eventually end this cycle of pain and walk past a liquor store like it was just another Subway or dry cleaners. This will not be the last time I witness this.  I know that the odds of most of these guys making it through this six month program are pretty low.  I look at my caseload and try to guess who will be next, who might be seen by another guy in a heroin haze.  I hope that I will never become inured to the horrors of addiction, that I will always pray for each and every one to stay clean who will never have to ask again, “WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS?”

The Crumble of My Life

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The above is a summary of my life, all 50 years of it,  on a 22 x 27 piece of poster board.  It’s not one of those “inspiration boards,” used in team-building or ice breaker exercises.  In many ways, it’s the opposite–the sort of “anti-inspiration” board not seen and replicated on sites like Pinterest.

I work as part of a team that leads a 14-week employment program for homeless adults, most with serious addiction issues and criminal pasts.  The goal is that by the time the students graduate, they will be employed and ready to start rebuilding their lives with pride and a great sense of accomplishment.

Each class starts with 14 students, 7 men and 7 women, as young as 21 and as old as 65. The first couple of weeks are spent on self-reflection and group interaction, and culminates in the creation and presentation of something called a “Life Map.”

I had heard a lot about this project during my first week of work and had the opportunity to see some completed ones on the walls of the classrooms where the students had moved on to the next phase of the curriculum.  The images and words, clipped from magazines or written out in pen or marker, were very similar– syringes, bottles of alcohol, prison bars, and words like “loser,” “sex,” “hope,” and “God.”  As soon as I learned that all staff have to create their own, and then present them to a class, I was compiling my own, isolating themes and images that I would share.

Without question, my life is interesting and I wanted the students to know that.  I wanted them to know that I too have experienced trauma and tragedy but that I have managed to succeed and maintain a wonderful and incredibly happy, full and fun life.

Without going image by image and word by word here, my map has four pivotal dates, highlighted in yellow;  my date of birth, the day my mother was found dead, my daughter’s birthday and the day I married for the second time.   I presented a pretty happy childhood, the luxury of growing up so close to Manhattan where my father gave me access to wonderful cultural experiences.  I moved on through boarding school, college and landing in Boston, sprinkling the hard truths about my mother’s serious mental illness (and eventual suicide) and my parent’s divorce into the narrative and moved onto the present day.  The students were pretty stunned and surprised and incredibly gracious in their comments.  But, this isn’t really about me.  It’s about them, and their lives.

One by one, the students presented their maps, required to speak for at least 1/2 hour and not to go longer than one.  Many things struck me as each one bared their souls, flayed open to their deepest nerve. Most of them had lovely childhoods, much like mine, going on family vacations, eating together as a family each night, learning the value of an education and hard work.  A couple of them grew up vacationing in rented summer cottages in the mountains or on a lake, camping and fishing with their fathers, and laughing with their mothers.  And then, again, in most of these cases, a sudden switch in their narrative, in at least 4 out 5, the death of a parent while the students were still teenagers  lead to a lifetime of drug and alcohol abuse.

I’m blessed not to have an addictive bone in my body.  I certainly would be hard-pressed not to fall to pieces if I had my coffee taken away, but drugs have always scared me.  I’ve smoked plenty of pot in my life, tried coke once, and as much as people say I would love it, would never dream of taking hallucinogens.  I tend to STOP drinking the second I feel a little tipsy and was able to quit smoking cold turkey.  So, when my mother died when I was only 21, I turned to other things like music, writing and friends without ever feeling the urge to numb the pain that I never seemed to experience.

The drug of choice in almost all of the students is heroin.  In some cases they started with other opiates like pain killers, but when they became too expensive switched over to the widely available and cheaper heroin.  Most swore they would never shoot-up.  Most ended up doing so, multiple times a day.  When the youngest in the class, a 21-yr old walked us through his timeline, he described this transition by pointing to a picture of a syringe and said, “This is where the crumble of my life began.”

In what will seem like an utterly selfish reaction to these presentations is my wondering and fear of what my 13-year old daughter would do if I died.   She has the addiction gene in her bloodline and it terrifies me to think of how missing me, how tragedy of any sort could trigger the similar reaction as these people have had.   She has shown me absolutely no reason whatsoever to have this fear, but she’s at the age where I tried pot for the first time and where a lot of my friends had started sneaking sips of booze from their parents liquor cabinets.  I naively believe that this isn’t happening in her middle school or that she is nowhere exposed to those temptations.  All I can do is pray that she’ll turn out okay, that she’ll make the right choices, and that her life will never crumble.