Family

January is for Homecomings & Anniversaries

Seven years ago, I was boarding a flight in Fort Lauderdale, Florida bound for Bradley Airport in Hartford, Connecticut. Bound for home. I had been in Florida for five months, two weeks and four days. I was about three months sober after a one time use in Florida, and I was more than ready to come home. What I wasn’t ready for, was to be sober, at home.

I had a connection in Charlotte and I waited anxiously for my next flight to board. Of course, it was delayed. It wasn’t the first time I made this round trip, and I remember distinctly sitting in my seat, stretched out across the empty row, thinking to myself that this would be the last time I would make this flight for this reason.

So far, I’ve been right.

What I wasn’t right about was that I could stay sober on my own. I arrived in Hartford to snow on the ground, which I could not have been more thrilled about. I love the snow, and I had missed several good storms while I was in Delray. We stopped home briefly for me to switch out my bathing suits and tank tops for snow boots and hoodies, and left again for my new home.

I arrived at the sober house in New Haven, which was inside of an old, partially restored mansion. My room was on the third floor, of course, and I never quite got used to those old, creaky, narrow stairs. I made it a few days in the sober house before I realized how to get what I really wanted, which was to use. I had started taking the bus in Florida, but had never ridden it here at home.

The system was completely different, but it didn’t take long for me to figure out that I could ride the bus for an hour and wind up right in the center of my universe, which at that time was Brooklyn, deep in the sick cesspool that is Waterbury, CT.

I knocked on my drug dealer’s door and there she was, right where I left her. She had a new phone number which I didn’t have since I had been gone, and there was no way for her to contact me because my mother had changed my phone number while I was in rehab. Phone numbers aside, I happened to know where she lived, which I guess no one accounted for. I was back in business.

Even though I had suffered a near fatal overdose before I left for Florida, that didn’t stop me from jumping back in with both feet. I made an early habit in the sober house of using in the bathroom prior to taking a shower, so no one was likely to bother me or see me nodding out. It wasn’t long before I hit my first speed bump and got arrested for possession.

When I got kicked out of the sober house for all of my many indiscretions, I went back home. My mother didn’t know what to do. Another failed attempt at rehab, and I was back to actively using. It was as a last resort that I agreed to get on the methadone program and give recovery another try.

I didn’t want to live that way, and I didn’t want to die that way either.

I was court ordered into an Intensive Outpatient Program (IOP), and I chose to complete it at the closest facility to home which was the APT Foundation on State Street. That’s where I became exposed to the methadone program and chose to get on board. It was the best decision I believe I have ever made in my entire life.

Within a few months, I had completed IOP and I started to give clean urines. Not everytime, mind you, but some of the time. I had made a friend, who turned out to become my best friend to this day. Years later, I would meet my partner and love of my life in those very same group rooms.

I kept coming, and let the methadone do it’s job, while the program supported me and gave me the time to get my head screwed on straight. They didn’t expect me to get sober overnight, and I didn’t. It would be two whole years from the day that plane touched down to the day I got truly sober. I’m not even sure what day that was, I just know it was sometime in mid January.

This month, I will celebrate four years in long term recovery from heroin.

I still work hard at it every single day. I still think about using all the time, but today I am strong enough to resist that urge. My addiction doesn’t run my life anymore, it inspires it.

It inspires me to speak to students and share my story to help them make better choices. It inspires me to sit on the Substance Abuse Action Council in my town and inform policy and procedure as it relates to substance abuse. It inspires me to work hard at my job and continue to take on new projects and responsibilities.

Today I am dependable, I am collected, and I am sober. I walk through the world as a woman who has faced her own death and come out the other side. I am strong, I am powerful, and I am capable. There is nothing I can’t do or figure out today.

If it wasn’t for my family, none of this would be possible. If someone you love is in active addiction, I implore you not to give up. I implore you to support them each and every attempt they make at sobriety, because you never know when it’s going to be the attempt that actually works. We don’t recover easily, but we do recover.

I am literal living proof.

©Copyright 2019 In Angel’s Arms and Lauren Goodkin

An Open Letter to the Parents of Addicts

From the very first moment you found out that you would be parents, you imagined the life your child would lead. You painted a nursery and assembled a crib and you dreamed of the milestones to come. You stood behind your fearless kindergartener on the first day of school, barely holding it together as they ran off into the world, for the first time, without you.

You sat in the cold ice rink at five in the morning, watching your little one take on the hard, cold ice, covered head to toe in so many pads that they could barely move their little feet. You stood in the blistering heat on the soccer field, trying not to laugh as your four year old tripped over the ball that would eventually become an extension of their foot. You put bandaids on skinned knees which gave way to broken hearts. You laced up ballet slippers which gave way to high heels. You painted cartoon characters on their bedroom wall which gave way to black pleather curtains and posters for bands with names that you couldn’t even pronounce.

You got through the terrible twos which gave way to terrible teens. You watched that fearless kindergartener give way to an anxious adolescent, and maybe you thought the worst was over. You looked at colleges and helped them get their first car. You raised a happy, competent, capable young adult and then you watched in horror as your child became lost.

You didn’t know what was wrong at first, just that something was wrong. You find out your child is doing drugs, and you think maybe they’re just experimenting. You think it’s a phase and it will pass. They’re out partying until all hours and you think they’re just kids being kids.

Then the partying gives way to solitude. Good friends from childhood are replaced by shady characters you don’t recognize, whose parents you’ve never met. The upward trajectory of your child’s life is suddenly stalled out, and like a standard car stopped at the top of a very intimidating hill, your child starts slowly rolling backward.

They roll and they roll and they pick up speed and suddenly they’re flying at 100 miles per hour, backward, in the wrong direction.

They’ve lost control of the car and no matter how badly you want to intervene and grab that steering wheel, or stomp as hard as you possibly can on the brakes, there’s nothing you can do because you’re not the one driving the car.

You watch in horror as your little fearless kindergartener becomes a fearful, dulled down version of themselves. You watch them fight and you watch them stumble and you watch them fall. You do your best to pick them back up, only to become exasperated as they fall again. You get tired and you get angry and you get upset but most of all you get hurt.

You wage war beside them and try your best to help them, but you don’t know how. You would give your own life to see them live theirs, but it just doesn’t work that way. You have small victories and big setbacks. You spend a lot of time praying, a lot of time crying, a lot of time remembering those days when the most danger your fearless kindergartner was in was from a pair of safety scissors.

You pray and you make devil’s bargains, willing to give up anything or pay any price to save your child’s life.

You take a second mortgage on your home to send them to a world renowned treatment center. You lock your purse in your car and wear the keys around your neck. You start checking your child’s breathing in their sleep.

If your child gets sober, you wait with baited breath for the other shoe to drop. Maybe your child is in jail, and you are surprised to find yourself relieved because at least you know where they are and that they’ll likely still be alive tomorrow morning. Maybe you’re living the very real nightmare in which you’ve buried your child.

No matter what chapter of the story you’re currently living in, it’s likely the hardest thing you’ve ever done in your life. You’re watching your child die of a chronic, progressive, often fatal disease while the world scoffs at you and tells you it’s your fault. People ask “Where were the parents?” like you haven’t been standing beside your child this whole time, since the day they were born, fighting for them.

Addiction is a family disease, and for every active addict out there, countless others are affected. For every addict out there, there is a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a husband, a wife, a son, a daughter, a friend. Every single addict was once a fearless kindergartner, taking their first steps into the world.

Nobody could ever imagine the pain and anguish that an addict goes through, except maybe their parents. Because they watch it, helplessly. They feel it in their bones. There’s nothing in this world more painful than loving an addict, except losing one.

As the dialogue shifts and the world begins to display a little compassion for those afflicted with this deadly disease, it’s important that we remember that none of us can win this war alone. It’s important that we acknowledge those who have walked beside us in our struggles, who have wiped our brow when we were tired and when we were truly broken, they carried us.

Our parents carry us as infants, and they don’t expect to be carrying us as adults. But they do it without hesitation, over and over again, until we learn to walk again or until our battle ends. They carry us through the hardest times of our lives, and though they may get weary, they are stronger than any of us could ever imagine.

They are the parents of addicts, and they deserve our respect, admiration, and compassion.

They are the parents of addicts, and they are the unsung heroes of this epidemic.

©Copyright 2018 In Angel’s Arms and Lauren Goodkin

The House That Addiction Built

Addiction is like the house on a nice street that used to look so beautiful on the outside. Over the past few years, it has become dilapidated, worn down, tarnished. The lawn and gardens are overgrown and full of weeds. The shutters have fallen off the windows, and if you think the outside is bad, you should see what’s going on inside. The family and friends of an addict are the neighboring homes. Their houses still look nice, put together, habitable, but by virtue of living next door to a war zone disguised as a house, their property values fall alongside it.

Addiction affects every single person who comes in contact with the addict. Just like no one wants to be a drug addict, no one sets out with that goal in mind, even more so the people who love that addict certainly never signed up for this life. We drag our friends and family into our uphill battle, and they become broken down, bruised, and worn out right along side us.

Worse still is what happens when one of us loses our battle with the disease. The city comes and knocks down the vacant house, but nobody is able to exorcize the ghosts that live there. Our family and friends will never escape the memories that haunt them for the rest of their lives.

Coming off of another overdose death of a friend, I am exasperated. I am horrified. I am distraught. I am powerless. I am frustrated that nothing I am doing is enough, or will ever be enough, to save everyone. And for every addict I reach, every person whose life is changed, there are thousands of people who will never recover. They will die before they ever have the chance to recover.

I am conflicted deeply about these deaths, as they continue to come like a train that’s off its schedule. We know they are coming, we just don’t know when the grim reaper will show up again to steal another soul away from us. On the one hand, if we weren’t losing all of these incredible sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, I don’t think anyone would even care about this epidemic. We’ve been talking about it for over a decade, and it’s only been in the most recent years that “good kids” are dying that suddenly people want to show concern. On the other hand, how many good people have to lose their lives before we see real change?

The opioids are killing us, but so is the stigma. The stigma is the station that the grim reaper’s train rolls into. If there were no stigma, I personally believe there would be significantly less death.

The stigma is what keeps me from reaching out to a struggling addict, because they won’t admit they are struggling. Even if I ask someone directly how are they doing, are they staying clean, they will lie. There is stigma even amongst ourselves, between who is clean, who is on methadone, who is doing it the “right way”. When someone has been doing well and they fall off, they are so ashamed to admit that they, again, need help. We are told not to associate with people who are using when we’re clean, so we cut them out and blacklist them instead of checking in and offering support. I get it, we all have to protect our own sobriety. But when I look at someone who is using, at this stage in my recovery, the last thing I want to do is join them.

My heart breaks for the desperation they are feeling. For the guilt and the shame, and the pain they are in. The struggle is very real and it never, ever, EVER goes away. No matter how much sober time we have, it never goes away. It’s not something you can put behind you and forget about. It’s not something you can pretend never happened. Some days it’s a tiny mouse on a wheel, turning in your brain in the background. Some days, it’s the elephant, its silence getting louder and louder while it takes up the entirety of your mind. You try to push it out. You try to send it back to the circus. But your life is the circus now. You are stuck in the middle of the center ring and some days the monkey is on your back, and some days you are the monkey.

I imagine that scene in the Little Mermaid where Ariel signs her voice away to Ursula, and then is forced to watch in painful silence as what should have been her life unfolds in front of her. That’s sort of what it’s like. You watch your friends and peers grow and find their way, while you drag yourself around the same worn and beaten path until you wind up in jail, an institution, or you lose the fight and you die.

And if addiction is the dilapidated house on a nice street, then heaven must be the most beautiful mansion any of us have ever seen. I imagine every soul that we have lost coming out on to the lawn, arms out stretched to greet the newest resident as they arrive. Tupac talked about “Thugs Mansion”, where he imagined all of the gang bangers and G’s would go when they died. “Ain’t no heaven for a thug”, he rapped. I picture Addict’s Mansion the same way.

“Dear Mama, don’t cry, your baby boy’s doing good. Tell the homies I’m in heaven and they ain’t got hoods.” -Tupac

Instead I imagine a place where they are no drugs, no needles, no earthly struggles. We don’t need to use because all of our problems evaporated the minute we left our old lives behind. We don’t have a void, that hole we talk about, that we need to constantly fill with narcotics, then food, then shopping, then gambling. That hole seems to always be there. I’ve been emptying mine out for years now, and it’s amazing how much shit can fit into that hole. People talk about finding good and positive things to fill it with. I picture it more like a stomach that stretches to accommodate all the garbage we shove inside it. And just like when someone has bariatric surgery, and their stomach is cut into a much smaller hole, I believe that the hole needs to shrink until there is nothing left. I don’t want to fill the hole with positive things, I want to eliminate the hole and never have to worry about how full it is and the quality of its contents.

I like to think when we arrive at Addict’s Mansion, that hole vanishes. We are finally free and at peace. Our addictions leave us and we don’t need to use drugs to feel whole and complete because in heaven there is nothing but wholeness and completion. That’s where my friends are today. Sitting around a bonfire, shooting the shit, remembering the good times and feeling free from all the bad times.

There are roads in my town that I stopped driving down after some friends passed away, because I couldn’t handle it. I learned to subconsciously reroute around town. I’m not going to do that anymore. It kills me to think I will never see any of those friends outside their houses again. I will never see Buckley on his skateboard, or Mat fixing his quad, or Marc kicking the soccer ball or washing his car. But I will drive by and I will remember them all so that I never forget.

My house today is still recovering from the time when addiction lived here. There are still some weeds in my lawn, a few shingles missing off my roof, but slowly and surely I repair the damage. My friends and family help to hand me the tools I need to rebuild. The program of recovery I work is the blueprint for construction. My sobriety is the currency that pays for all the supplies.

I don’t have to live that life anymore. My friends and family don’t need to watch me die. Standing in that funeral home, over and over again, for too many young lives lost, I know for sure that I don’t ever want my mother and my family to stand in that room for me. Not anytime soon.

Because I know for certain that we can rebuild. We can and do recover.

Just think of all the people that you knew in the past,
That passed on, they in heaven, found peace at last.
Picture a place that they exist, together.
There has to be a place better than this, in heaven.
So right before I sleep, dear God, what I’m askin’
Remember this face, save me a place, in [Addict’s] mansion.

©Copyright 2018 In Angel’s Arms and Lauren Goodkin

Theft In Addiction: We’re ALL Guilty

Theft is a huge piece of the puzzle that is addiction. The vast majority of addicts, especially opiate addicts, have stolen something from someone or somewhere at some point in their active addiction. Whether it’s a few dollars from a parent or spouse’s wallet, a pawned piece of jewelry, or an old laptop, most of us are guilty of stealing at one point or another. When we think about theft in addiction, we typically think about the taking of a physical object that does not belong to us. However, that isn’t the only kind of stealing that we do in our addictions.

I recently had an experience with an addict who felt that she was better than the rest of us because as she put it, “I don’t steal”. Apparently she was independently wealthy, or able to maintain employment during her addiction and somehow was able to support her own habit. This is extremely rare, as even the wealthiest of celebrity addicts have used themselves broke in very short order. So this particular addict felt above those of us who have stolen during our addiction.

My father, who generally doesn’t have much to do with the deep and dirty details of my addiction and recovery, is the one who actually put the true nature of theft during addiction into perspective for me some years ago. Even though I never “stole” any money from my dad, unlike the countless dollar taken from my mother’s wallet and endless amounts of her jewelry that I pawned, my dad still felt violated and that he had been stolen from.

He explained that any money he had given me for spending money, bills, or other expenses that I in turn spent on drugs, was money stolen from him. He gave me that money for a specific purpose, and that purpose was NOT to buy drugs. To him, every dollar that I spent on drugs that came from his wallet, even though he had willingly given it to me, was money stolen.

But what about the things that money cannot buy? What about the time that is lost while using? I bet my mom would say that I stole what adds up to years worth of time that we could’ve spent together. She would say that I stole many nights of peaceful sleep from her. I stole her peace of mind. I stole her sanity.

These are all intangible things, things that can’t be measured in dollars and cents, but they are just as real and just as valuable, if not more, than any amount of money that I stole.

Worse still, I stole something more valuable than all of that from not only my mom and dad, but my brother, my aunts and uncles, my cousins, my friends, and anyone who knew me. I stole their TRUST. Trust can be easy to gain, and even implied among family members. However, once it is gone, it can be impossible to regain it.

I was banned from the homes of family members for years, because I stole that trust from them. I was not allowed to carry cash by my parents for years, because I stole that trust from them. Everywhere I went, everything I did, every word I said, had to be questioned. Even months into sobriety, I couldn’t be trusted to do something as simple as drive to pick up the Chinese food from around the corner. The theft of that trust is the most valuable thing I ever stole, and I took it from more people than I can count.

We steal so much in our addictions that can’t be measured.

Time, friendship, relationships, and trust are just a few of the non-monetary things we steal during our addictions. Money, electronics, cars, jewelry, all of those physical things can be replaced, and in some cases quite easily. The real theft is the emotional toll we put on those around us. There isn’t a single one of us who lived through an addiction that didn’t steal some sanity from the people who love and care about us.

So to any addict out there who feels “better than” because they’ve never been in a pawn shop or lifted a few bills from someone else’s wallet, just remember that the things you stole are just as real, and just as valuable. And until you understand and own that, you’ll never be able to repair the damage and you’ll never truly live life in recovery.

©Copyright 2017 In Angel’s Arms and Lauren Goodkin