Relapsing on Sadness

Maybe sadness became my drug.

I wanted it. I craved it. Even when it hurt me, distanced me from everything I loved, I ran to it. Wrapped myself in it. Hid inside of it.

I don't know much about addiction besides what I've read in books, studied, assumed, but I'd imagine it feels a lot like this. Knowing something isn't healthy, but yearning for it anyway. Feeling like you are choosing it, when really it has chosen you. 

And you can't do anything about it. 

Or maybe you don't want to.

I know I didn't want to. I loved my sadness. For months I woke up and consciously chose it. I chose it like I had the choice. I closed my eyes to the morning sun and told myself, "Today, I choose sadness." And so it was. Months blurred together in a haze of false control.

But I reached a point where I didn't want it anymore. I saw my island. I saw how cut-off I was from the word and realized that I was responsible for the flood that left me detached. I acknowledged the water, but was too afraid to look in its reflective surface. Yes, sadness was in control, but what now? What could I possibly do?

I had to start believing in something bigger than myself. Bigger than sadness. 

Hope. Faith. The possibility of the impossible. That maybe I was going to be ok. Better even. These thoughts seemed crazy, but just crazy enough to be true. And in this new state of serenity, I started believing in a life without sadness. A life where I didn't want it, or crave it. Where I wasn't wrapped inside it, or hiding within it. Not hurt or running, but stable, safe, and connected with everything I love. 

But then there are nights like tonight when I feel like I'm relapsing on sadness. I try to remind myself of the beautiful words I've etched into my heart like hope and faith, but they aren't as shiny as they usually are. They mock me, laugh at me, make me wonder why I ever thought such pretty words were true. It all feels like an illusion. The only thing that feels real is the sadness that's crept it's way back into my life. Flowing through my veins as if it never left my body.

Maybe I'm an addict 

and sadness is my drug. 

Although I don't know much about addiction besides what I've read in books, studied, and assumed, I do know that recovery lasts a lifetime. I will always be recovering. 

But the difference now is that I believe in something bigger than myself, bigger than sadness. 

The possibility of impossible
A belief in something better. 

Detroit Hyena

Since Blake's death, I've tested out hundreds of ways to cope. The most controversial of which has been befriending a heroin addict in Detroit. Five months ago, in a strange mixture of compulsive interest and morbid curiosity, I looked up "#heroin" on Instagram. What I found shocked, terrified, and intrigued me all at the same time. With one simple search I was given unlimited access into a private world. From the safety of my bedroom I got an intimate look into the lives of people who share their drug use through pictures. It was all there: everything I read about, but had never been exposed to.

There was one person's profile that I kept coming back to. She seemed to take pride in her drug use and the scars it left on her body and life. She was so open, honest, and unashamed. But as much as it scared me to see her photos, I could sense a goodness in her. While looking through her profile I felt a magnetic connection to her that can only be explained by fate. 

A week or two into my secret fascination with her account, I finally decided to make contact. What started out as a simple question turned into several comments back and fourth. Then emails. Then texts. I explained how my boyfriend died from a heroin addiction I knew nothing about and she detailed her 15 year-long battle with the same drug. We listened to each other, cried together, helped each other reach a new level of understanding. We made an unspoken commitment to leave judgment at the door and support each other unconditionally.

In the five months since we became friends, Hyena has committed to sobriety and relapsed several times. And on a night I'll never forget, she talked to me during her suicide attempt as I desperately tried to remind her how much she had left to teach the world. And to teach me. Her story was far from pretty, but I've always been convinced that she deserved a happy ending. Through it all, I held the hope that deep down she believed she deserved one too.

  

Detroit Hyena is now 27 days sober. Although her other attempts at sobriety have ended in using again, I know it's different this time. I know this because everything about her is different this time. 

I feel different too. In an unexplainable way, from across the country and with completely different life struggles, I feel like she and I have made this journey together. When I look at her only one word comes to mind: metamorphosis. It's been an incredibly gruesome past few months, but through the turmoil I believe there's been somewhat of a rebirth, for her and for me. 

Through Hyena, an unknown junkie from Detroit posting pictures on the internet, I learned that kind questions grounded in a desire to understand are the passageway to greater awareness. An awareness about those who are different than you and, more importantly, about yourself. I am forever grateful for the day that the strange mixture of compulsive interest and morbid curiosity lead me to her. I told her before, "I don't always support your choices, but I will always support you." And now, with incredible pride and love, I can finally say I support both.

Congratulations on your 27 days, Detroit Hyena. Here's to 27 and forever more.

Here's the link to her blog. She's an incredible writer: http://detroithyena.blogspot.com/

Every Negative Has a Positive

When someone dies of an overdose there is no right way to take that news. Do you feel pity? Disgust? Shame? Guilt? Or do you just decide it's too uncomfortable and try not to think about it at all? It would be a lie to say that someone passing away from drug related causes has no barring on how you look back on their life. Although it's not his whole story, how Blake struggled in life and what took him in death are integral parts of it. To ignore these aspects of him would mean missing out on the invaluable messages we can take from them.

Although Blake's addiction and death are both ugly parts of him to think about, I choose to remember everything about him. I wouldn't call it "the good and the bad," but there were obviously facets that shined brighter than others. Regardless, I've grown to love all of them even though some pieces are sparkly and others dark. To me, that's what true love is. When you decline to acknowledge an aspect of Blake or focus solely on another, you don't do him justice. He was the sum of all parts of him. Every piece is both a blessing and a lesson.

It crushes me to think of someone judging Blake's character because of his addiction or the fact that he overdosed. Yes, these are valid parts of him and yes, I would like to pretend they didn't exist. It would be easier to deny them or tuck them away in a mental vault and throw away the key. But every day I make a conscious decision not to. It's challenging to think about these things positively, but I strive to see them not as degradations of who he was, but as a legacy of hope for others. If sharing any part of his life or my coping with his death speaks to someone and helps them, then I know that even the darkest pieces of him can become a gift.

Although Blake was far from a saint, he was an incredible man who taught me lessons that I'll never forget. The best one was that in every negative there is always a positive. The key is not to forget the bad things, but instead process them in a way that exposes the pearl of wisdom that lies within. To say abusing drugs and dying from them is an awful fate would be a gross understatement. But we can learn a lot from both how he excelled and his downfalls, how he lived and the way that he died. If we give the negatives a chance to show their positives, we can come to appreciate Blake's entire story and all of the messages it delivers.

Betrayal, Hurt, and Gratitude (A Letter)

Dear Blake,

Hi Sweetheart. I wanted to write to you because I thought a lot about the drugs today. We never had a chance to talk about it and there is so much I have to say. It was devastating to find out that the person I loved more than anyone was fighting a battle I knew nothing about. I want so desperately to know what you went through, how you felt, and what I possibly could've done to be there for you. But it's impossible now. I think that's the part of all of this that hurts the most.

So in an attempt to connect to your struggle, I wrote a poem today about OxyContin. But the truth is, it felt really phony afterward. How can I write about something I know nothing about? I often try to put myself in your shoes, think about what it felt like for you, and figure out why you did the things you did, but I'll never actually know. I wish we could've talked honestly about it. I wish you would've let me in. I would have listened. I wouldn't have judged you. 

Or maybe I would have yelled. Maybe I would have thought you were out of control and given you ultimatums. I know I would have been scared, might have looked at you differently. But I think you knew all of that. I think that's why you kept this part of yourself from me. I'd like to think I would have been there for you unconditionally, but the truth is I'm not sure I would have been strong enough. That whole world is so foreign, so scary, so unlike anything I've ever experienced. It's truly heartbreaking that you, of all people, were using drugs. Especially after all that you went through, what you overcame, and the conviction in your voice when you told me you wanted a better life for yourself. 

Part of me sees this as a betrayal. I mean, how could you look me in the eyes and tell me you were in love with me, wanted to build a life with me, protect me, care for me, when you knew you were hiding a secret that would've changed everything? Did you ever really think we could live together? Get married? Raise children? This was our future. How could you let us paint such a beautiful picture of it if you knew you were withholding vital information?

I truly do have all of those questions, but after my obsessive quest to learn about addiction, another part of me sees our situation in a completely different light. In my heart of hearts, I believe you always loved me the best you possibly could. And somehow, that meant shielding me from your struggle. I'm not saying that was the right way, or the smartest way, but it did come from a good place. Although it hurts that you kept your drug use from me, I do forgive you. I know in your clouded mind it all made sense and I trust that it was out of love. 

But a new part of me is wondering why I even believe you need my forgiveness. Is it self-centered of me to make this about me forgiving you for how your addiction has affected me? You were the one coping with the insurmountable pain, yet every day you prioritized showering me with love and affection. You always made a point of making me feel special, even while you were struggling for your life. Maybe I should be apologizing or at the very least thanking you. Hiding your addiction from me was just a selfless (but misguided) attempt to protect me so I didn't have to take on the stress that was consuming you. 

I feel a certain amount of anger for the way you broke my trust, upset and confused in wishing you would've shared your burden with me and wondering why you didn't, and deep gratitude for the way you continue to surprise me as I uncover new layers of your selflessness. It kills me to think about how badly you must have been suffering, My Love. I know I'll never fully understand what drugs do to a person, but I do know you didn't deserve to carry all of that pain, especially not alone. 

It's unfortunate that one of your most beautiful qualities, generosity, lead you to give everything you had to others, but neglect yourself. I wish you would've let me take care of you like you took care of me. You deserved to experience all the happiness that you brought me and everyone else who knew you.

I pray every night that we'll see each other again in heaven. Maybe instead of harassing you with all of my questions when I get there, I can give you the thank you that you deserve. Although to some degree I feel betrayed and my heart is still filled with incredible sadness, I couldn't be more grateful that I was loved by a man who taught me so much.

I will love you forever,
Briana

OxyContin (A Poem)

I know a pill that takes your pain
When it slides down your throat
Or travels through your nose
Or courses through your vein

I know a pill that makes it better
You're numb to the world
It all melts away
And you're lighter than a feather

I know a pill that makes you blind
There's no right or wrong
Even the good is bad
You leave everyone behind

I know a pill that takes your soul
You live a double life
Drown in your lies
But tell yourself you're in control

Denial and the Stages of Grief

My brain has been playing weird tricks on me lately.

Tonight as the usual highlight (and lowlight) reel of everything that transpired ran through my head, it almost felt like I was watching a movie. "Lifetime Movies presents: the tragic story of the girl who lost her boyfriend to heroin when she had no idea he was using." As the flashbacks continued, I experienced the usual feelings of horror, shock, and sadness. But strangely, it was like I was feeling these feelings out of sympathy for someone else. How awful for that girl. What a tragic experience for her to go through. Thank God that's not me. Not my life.

As the story continued to play out in my mind, I tried to get myself to connect to it. I couldn't. These were my memories, my life, my trauma, why did I feel so detached from it all? 

Was this all just a dream? Was Blake just that handsome older guy I barely knew from high school? Did everything between us even happen? 

It's terrifying how my mind seemed to be distorting my reality. Why?

I've read all about the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I initially thought that the way they are listed is the usual order they occur. Based on that assumption, I thought that I must have skipped the "denial" stage. From the horrific moment the office manager pulled me out from lunch so my best friend could deliver the news about Blake's death, I knew he was gone and never coming back. I felt a million different things, but I never refused to admit to myself that the overdose happened. 

But I'm beginning to realize that denial comes in all different forms at unexpected times. This "trick" my brain has started playing on me, I think, is actually a form of denial. The underlying motivation of denial is that maybe if I don't acknowledge this is my pain, I can pretend I'm ok. My brain seemed to be trying to protect me through disassociation. 

Being the obsessive investigator that I've always been, I started researching online again about the stages of grief and loss. Is what I'm going through normal? What I found out was that this 5 stages of grief model is actually seen as outdated and not true for most people. Grief is typically a back-and-fourth between the five listed stages as well as several other phases.

This diagram makes so much more sense to me. I appreciate how it acknowledges that grief isn't chronologically linear. There are more than just five stages and they can occur concurrently or in no particular order. The beginning spiral section recognizes that at any point, these feelings can be revisited (and sometimes again and again). It's not like I went through the anger stage and got to wipe my hands of it afterward: "Ok, I was mad at Blake for a day for lying to me and doing drugs, but now I've accepted it. Anger: check!" Just because I had an angry moment and it passed doesn't mean I won't re-experience that anger later. The same thing goes for depression and now denial too. 

Like I've come to realize in the past couple weeks, everything is coming in waves. There are times when my heart is filled with hope, days that my body gives up, minutes that feel like hours of panic, bouts of anger, quiet thoughts of guilt, moments of peace etc. etc. etc. There is no finish line with a banner that reads "Acceptance! You've made it!" Grieving is a process, and one that it's not neatly confined into five orderly steps. 

Assumptions and Judging

A couple days ago I looked up a support group called Narcotics Anon. I heard the meetings are similar to Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous, but geared towards the loved ones of addicts instead of the addicts themselves. I searched for meetings in San Diego and found one that meets Tuesday nights not too far from my apartment.

After I finally made the choice to go, I started shaking. In that moment I felt the weakest I have in weeks. I started crying and breathing shallow and uncomfortable breaths. This strong reaction took me by complete surprise. Shouldn't I feel empowered now that I've made the choice to seek help and support? I didn't. I felt nauseous.

Before I left to get in my car, I grabbed the bear that Blake bought me. I decided I needed to take him with me; I couldn't leave my room and face this meeting unless the bear came too. I felt like I had reverted back to a little girl desperately needing her teddy. I didn't want to completely embarrass myself, so I compromised that I would leave the bear in my purse the whole time and only squeeze his hand from inside if I needed to.

As I walked up to the church, I sent a message to Blake asking him to help me find the strength to get through this. I kissed my twin freckle, checked to make sure the bear was snug and concealed in my purse, put one foot in front of the other, and went inside.

I don't really know what I was expecting to see, but I came upon a table set up with bright colored fliers and two elderly people wearing big name tags. I saw that they were volunteers for a kid's summer sports camp and realized I was in the wrong place. The woman enthusiastically asked me what I needed, but I didn't know what to say. I simply told her I was here for "a meeting" and asked if she knew where it was. Oh... "a meeting." I think she knew what I was referring to.

For the next 10 minutes I was passed off and guided around the church. Maybe it was my imagination, but I felt like after each new person was whispered to about "the meeting" I was looking for, I was immediately looked up and down. My head started to fill with self-doubt. Did they think I was an addict? I wanted to blurt out to each person that the meeting wasn't for me, it was because my boyfriend just died! That would make these judgmental people feel bad! I started to panic from the weight of my insecurity, frustration with how I thought I was being judged, and the let down of realizing the meeting had been cancelled.

I shut off and went into auto-pilot while a lady tried to find the number of someone who could give me more information. As I sat in the chair in her office, I cried unapologetically while inside I allowed my anger to build. SO WHAT if I was actually there because I am an addict? Shouldn't these church people be proud of me? Shouldn't they be praising me for showing up, not making me feel judged for it? I decided that this must be part of the reason why it's so hard for addicts to come to terms with their addiction. Because people treat them like they are lesser because of it. If they can function normally with their drug use and it doesn't seem to have any obvious effects on their lives, why would they want anyone to know? Why would they agree to get help if the help is doled out condescendingly?

This rant in my head was interrupted when the lady apologized and told me there was no number listed. I was about to get up and go when she very sweetly told me how much these meetings helped her when her boyfriend died of an overdose and encouraged me to try to come back next week. I reached in my purse to grab the bear's hand. She went on. It was like she was explaining my exact situation back to me, only with the insight of being years past it, married to someone else, and raising three children.

Am I the judgmental one?

Did I assume just because these people worked at a church that they couldn't possibly be understanding of a person who uses drugs? Did my insecurity of being judged for this actually stem from the fact that I am judgmental of people who use drugs and didn't want to be mistaken for one? Is that why I awkwardly referred to it as "a meeting"?

So I didn't get to go to my first Narcotics Anon meeting last night, but I did have a valuable experience. I believe it's human nature to make assumptions and judge when you don't have all of the facts, and even when you do. We would be lying to ourselves if we boasted that we are free of biases, free of prejudices, free of jumping to hasty conclusions. The point isn't to never make assumptions or judgments, because that is nearly impossible. Instead, I am going to try to keep an open mind, to realize that the assumptions and judgements I've made about a person or thing might not be true. I think this will always be a constant battle against human nature, but one very worth fighting. You never know when someone will surprise you, so you have to make sure to give them the chance to.

What's Haunting Me

May 1, 2013- 3:16 AM
"hey briana are you there i need to speak with you immediately"
"?????"
"Call me as soon as you get this"

I woke up at 6 AM to get ready for work and saw these messages on my phone. Why was Blake's roommate contacting me in the middle of the night? My heart started racing. I knew it had to do with Blake, or else why would he be contacting me? We had met several times at that point, but were definitely not close enough to message each other about anything besides Blake. What was wrong?

I messaged back. No response. I called. No answer. I texted.

I waited.

This went on for hours throughout the day. I tried to leave voicemails. I took every opportunity to send a quick text during breaks at work. I even sought the guidance of one of my coworkers. What should I do? Should I just ask Blake what it was or wait a while to give his roommate the opportunity to tell me before alerting Blake that he went behind his back?

I had been texting Blake throughout the afternoon, but nothing abnormal about the night before had come up in our conversation. After I had fallen asleep the previous night, he sent me a few paragraphs worth of ranting about an argument he had just gotten into, how frustrated he was, and how he didn't know what to do. After waking up that morning, I calmly explained how I could see both sides, he was going to be ok, and that things actually were working out for the better.

Around lunch time he finally responded. He didn't mention anything about the fight he was in, or my reflection on it, but instead just said: "I love you so much baby doll. I want to be able to just come home to you. I would do anything." I thought this was sweet, but not out of the ordinary. He was always good at sending me messages like that. He went on: "Baby I want to hold you and just hold you. I never want to leave you."

What I didn't know at the time was that he almost did. In the middle of the night he had overdosed for the first time. His roommate's frantic messages to me at 3:16 AM were because Blake wasn't breathing and had to be taken to the emergency room.

It wasn't until 6:30 at night that I finally caved and just asked Blake what happened. It was clear his roommate had no intentions of responding to my calls, texts, and Facebook messages, so I might as well just ask Blake why I was contacted in the middle of the night.

When I asked why his roommate messaged me at 3 AM he cooly responded "Oh, it's because I had an allergic reaction." He went on to explain that they were watching movies downstairs and his roommate accidentally gave him something that had nuts in it (he is very allergic to nuts). He said the reason his roommate probably wasn't responding to me now was because he was so embarrassed that he made a big deal out of nothing.

A big deal out of nothing?

I try my hardest never to think about this, because I know it's one of those "what ifs" that only torture you and never lead to anything positive. But every once in a while, the events of that night and the day after take over my brain and haunt me.

What if I was awake to receive those messages at 3 AM?
What if his roommate responded to me and told me what happened?
What if Blake was honest about the overdose?

Would everything be different now?
Would Blake have realized the gravity of his drug use?
Would he have gotten help and gone back to rehab?
Would it have worked this time around?
Would he be alive and healthy?
Would I still be able to see him and touch him and hold him right now?

I can't wrap this post up with a positive message about how I believe I can eventually stop thinking about all of this. But maybe that's not the point? I think this will always haunt me. How could it not? I know there is nothing anyone (or I) can do or say to make this better. It will always be horrific and there's no way around it.

But can I be at peace with it? I think so. This peace started with me not blaming myself, his roommate, or Blake. I realized pretty quickly that there would be no point in that. Pointing fingers and casting blame only leads to anger, resentment, and more pain. My heart is already heavy enough with sadness, I can't add all of those feelings to my load as well.

What happened, happened, as awful and unfair as it all seems. I will never be able to change the events of that night or the way it unfolded the day after. What I can do now is learn a lesson from it. For the rest of my life, I will ALWAYS inform the family of a person who is putting his or her life in danger, by their drug use, lack of eating, risky behavior, or otherwise. If I ever feel like I'm not close enough to the person to make that call, I will tell someone who is. If I ever feel like I'm not knowledgeable or strong enough to handle what they are going through, I will tell someone who is. It is through our silence and our inactivity that these problems quietly grow worse.

And maybe after you've told someone else, things still keep progressing in the wrong direction. That happens. But at the end of the day, what matters is that you can look inside yourself and be at peace with the fact that you did everything you could.

Suicide Attempt

Last night, the friend I described in this post and this post put up a picture on her Instagram account that was meant as a suicide note to her followers. It was a picture of a syringe full of heroin and a caption that said this:

She and I recently started using the messenger Kik to communicate, so when I saw the picture I immediately tried to see if she was online. I looked at the time stamp on her picture... 47 minutes ago. Was I too late? Please answer, please respond. 

I sent a frenzy of messages. I saw the "D" pop up next to the check mark, indicating that the message was delivered to her phone. Please turn into an "R"! If it turned into an R I would know she read it, she was alive, and that I had a way to talk to her.

After what seemed like hours of staring at the messages, willing them to change to "R"s, they finally did. I responded excitedly that I knew she was there, she was still alive, and that she read what I sent her. She told me that she was alive, for the moment, but to please not try to talk her out of her decision. That nothing I could say would change her mind. She had enough pills and heroin to make sure that she wouldn't make it and could die in a painless and blissful way. So I didn't try to talk her out of it. Instead, I just listened.

She went on to explain to me that after 15 years of using heroin, she didn't want it to come to this, but she had accepted that at this point the only thing keeping her alive was sick and disgusting. She needed heroin to live. Her life consisted of using every day or trying to stop using, getting so sick that her life was hell, and being reminded over again that heroin controlled her, that she couldn't escape her body's toxic and unyielding need for it.

She asked for my email address so she could send me the final goodbye letter she wrote for me (which was going to be the last entry of the blog I encouraged her to start writing). She never got a chance to finish it because she wasn't able to stay sober long enough to get her thoughts out correctly. 

Here it is:
"I've learned quite a bit in fifteen years of living older than my age. The most important, which I carry close at hand always? Never judge a person by their appearance, by first impressions, or by a singular piece of information about them without giving them a chance to let their true selves be known. 

Had I not learned that lesson, this blog would not exist. I never would've started writing again after years of silence. But because I didn't shy away from a person on Instagram who initially inspired nothing but the desire to backpedal and run and hide for fear of adding more pain to her already heavy load, I write now. I let it out. I don't duck into shadows or bottle this up anymore. I still keep it away from the light of my now defunct professional life, which I discussed in vague terms in my last post, but I don't hide away anymore. And I do it because someone of the most unlikely to speak to a junkie background did just that. 

Briana spoke to me. She asked questions, seeking understanding and self education about heroin addiction. She encouraged me. Other than the other addicts and recovering addicts on Instagram, she has been my only true follower. And also one of the people that through commenting back and forth, plus reading her blog, I feel I've grown closest to. She also gave me a gentle and needed push to start writing. She also writes a blog, found at www.xamountoftime.blogspot.com Incredibly powerful and so raw and eloquently written, I don't think there's a person on earth who wouldn't grow at least a smidgen after reading X Amount of Time. 

But that singular, solitary piece of information about Briana that made me want to backpedal and hide again at first? Before I forced myself to stand and follow what I've learned about judging? That is the basis of her blog. Her boyfriend, Blake, overdosed and left this realm less than three months ago. Her blog is one of her healing tools. Same as this blog is my outlet for what I kept hidden so long. 

Briana chose to educate herself and perhaps answer some of her own questions one day and on Instagram, typed in the hash tag "heroin." It must've been the second or third day my Instagram was in existence because it wasn't private and was graphic. I don't sugarcoat. I don't lie. Don't minimize. I'm honest to a fault (what now lost me my professional capacity) and don't hide if I don't have to. I just simply cant stand to keep it all inside anymore, where it is eating me alive. So I let it all hang out on Instagram (now private for various reasons.) 

Briana, rather than do what I'd found many Instagram users like to do to junkies- poke fun, call names, try to beat a soul already injured- asked me questions. She wanted to learn. Wanted to know more about the drug that took her soulmate. I'd never in my life encountered someone like her before. Someone who was a "normie" having never been addicted who not only didn't judge me, but treated me like and absolute equal. Briana never once talked down to me. She respected me and where I was at in a long battle and didn't try to reason or rationalize me out of my disease. She"

I was at the Orange County Fair when I read this message and immediately fell into those silent tears I talked about. Why were they silent tears and not angry or confused tears? How could I keep this quiet to a point where the people I was with had no idea part of my heart just got ripped out of me?

I have no idea why, but I felt Blake's presence as I finished reading and went back to my conversation with Detroit Hyena. For whatever reason, as ridiculous as it seemed at the time, I knew in the back of my mind that she wasn't going to be successful at her suicide attempt. I knew she wasn't going to be able to die. She had unfinished business- with me, her family, her best friend Lepurd, and the rest of her followers who have grown to find a twisted sense of hope through learning about her life and struggle.

I told her she wasn't going to be able to die tonight, no matter how much heroin or pills she took. I told her she needed to finish my note, and write notes to her mom and sister. I don't know why I knew this, but I just knew it with all of my heart in a way that I've never felt before.

My messages to her stopped showing "R"s and returned back to those infuriating and confusing "D"s. Did she die? Did she get a chance to really hear what I was saying before she started nodding off? I was a mess, but there was nothing more I could do. 

This morning I woke up and sent her a hopeful "Good morning! Today is a new day."

Check mark "D"

10 minutes later...

Check mark "D"

10 minutes later...

CHECK MARK "R"!

"A new day, but not a good one though"

As I fumbled to reiterate to her all of the things I said the night before, she told me she couldn't talk because she needed to find somewhere where she could charge her phone.

She's alive. Today is a new day. 

Addiction Isn't Always a Choice

After connecting with the new friend I made on Instagram that I described in my last post,  I suggested that she start a blog. Seeing her pictures, reading her beautiful captions, and commenting back and fourth showed me that she had an important story to tell and possessed an incredible tallent in writing. I explained what a release it's been for me to have this space to put all of my thoughts, and encouraged her to create one so she could do the same.

And she did.

In her post that I just finished reading entitled "Weight on my Shoulders and Memories Everlasting,"she describes the pain she's endured in her life and why she continued to use heroin to escape a reality she considered worse than that of her addiction. 

Reading her post, it was hard to blame her for looking to drugs as a way to escape emotional pain she didn't know how to process as a child. Although there are definitely better ways to cope, when you're young, feel like there's no one to turn to, and no way out of a life you can't deal with alone, drugs seem like a valid option. 

But that begged the question, what about Blake? What could he possibly need to escape from? All throughout his life he had an incredibly loving family and more friends than anyone I know. What immense pain was he hiding that he couldn't deal with and needed drugs to numb? Why did he need to run away from us? I just couldn't figure it out. 

Here is the conversation we had on her Instagram post immediately after:

Tonight my new friend helped me realize that not all addictions start as a conscious attempt to escape a rough life. Sure, that's probably why many addicts start experimenting with drugs, but not all of them. For some, like Blake, being prescribed pain killers in the first place without proper monitoring is enough to set it all into motion. It's a deadly combination of access, acceptability by peers, genetics, and the artificial enjoyment that makes the risk seem worth the reward. Before they know it, they are in over their head wondering how (or denying that) these behaviors ended up in an addiction.

As my friend put it, Blake didn't start using as a way to escape his life, but rather, he ended up using as a desperate attempt to stay present in a life the drugs were viciously trying to take him from. 

Blake had an incredible life filled with so many accomplishments, lasting friendships, and love. It would be a dishonor to him if his family, close friends, or I looked at ourselves as having any blame in his addiction. He wasn't trying to escape us. If anything, he was battling everyday to remain part of the amazing world he belonged in. A world so beautiful and filled with the most amazing people a person could ask to be surrounded by. 

I'm resting a little easier tonight knowing this. Addiction was not his choice, it was his disease. Just as you wouldn't blame a person for losing their fight with cancer, I am comforted in the fact that Blake fought bravely every day to overcome a truly terrible affliction. 

He's Only Happy in the Sun (A Song)

On my way back to San Jose today, I was listening to one of my favorite musicians, Ben Harper. I have always really liked his song "She's Only Happy in the Sun," but today it held new meaning for me.

While I was listening to it, for the first time the lyrics struck me as being about a struggle with addiction. There's definitely a few parts of the song where this is really clear:

1. "She's only happy in the sun":
To me, this always used to mean that the girl in the song liked the sunny side of life and looking at the positives. She was only happy when she could pretend everything was perfect.

This was so typical Blake. But what I didn't realize is that this has a dark side to it. Things are not always going to be sunny and perfect, but sometimes people want so badly for them to be that they try escape reality. Instead of working to make their problems better (look for positives that way) an addict just tries to pretend they don't exist by running away from them.

2. "Did you find what you were after? The pain and the laughter brought you to your knees.":
This is the part that is most clearly about addiction for me. I think he's asking this girl if she found what she was looking for by using the drugs.

This is something I think about a lot. I know there's probably several different reasons why Blake used drugs: financial issues, stress, loneliness, because he was afraid to stop, as a way to feel normal... the list could go on. It's hard because I'll never understand how a person could turn to drugs when they have a completely devoted girlfriend and loving family. Had I not made it crystal clear that I'd do anything for him? That he could share anything with me without fear of judgement?

Did he find what he was after? Did they provide the escape he needed? Maybe momentarily. I'm sure it felt good, but in the end just caused more pain. The last part "brought you to your knees," means to me that the drugs killed her. Just like they did Blake.

3. "And if the sun sets you free, then you'll be free indeed":
This line hits me the hardest.

The sun here symbolizes heaven. This also changes the meaning of "She's only happy in the sun," now to meaning that she's only happy now that she's in heaven.

I had a discussion the other day with a friend who's best friend recently died. He was telling me that the hardest thing for him to hear was when people told him, "He's in a better place now." This made him so frustrated because how could someone being dead be better? The best place for him to be would be with the people who love him, not dead... not having his life cut short in his early 20s.

But when it comes to addiction, how much of a life was Blake really living? I know I made him incredibly happy so I'm not discounting that, but I can't even imagine how much pain he was hiding. He must have struggled every minute of every day. Maybe dying finally set him free from all of that. Maybe he is in a better place now.

Trying to understand what Blake was going through really helps me. Because I feel so naive when it comes to drugs and have never dealt with addiction (or been close to anyone who has dealt with addiction) before, it helps me to think about how it might have felt for Blake so I can try to empathize. 

I don't want to have to think "If you do drugs, you're a bad person," because Blake was a wonderful person so I know it's not that simple. To empathize with him, I try to figure out what his mindset might have been while he was struggling with his addiction. 

In this song, Ben Harper is trying to empathize with the girl. He understands she's only happy in the sun, that there's an underlying sadness that she's trying desperately to escape from. Her method for coping with this deep sadness ended up killing her. But at least now she's free. 

At least now Blake is free.

I Forgive You

I'm tempted to say that today has been a regression of some sort, but I need to give myself more credit than that. After days when I put in a lot of effort to be out, smiling, and around people (like I did yesterday) sometimes I need to take the next day to lay in bed, reminisce, and cry. Although it feels a bit like a step backwards to do this, I actually think it is both necessary and positive. I need to be true to how I feel and cut myself some slack when I need a break from the world.

Today I decided to go through all of our old text messages. I remember the days of flip phones when I could only keep 100 messages at a time and had to constantly go through and delete old ones to make room for incoming messages. This is definitely not the case now. My texts messages with Blake go back all the way to the beginning of February (when I got my new phone after dropping the last one in the toilet... whoops). It took me hours to read through all of them.

I screen shotted several messages that made my heart really hurt. Blake was so incredibly romantic and said the sweetest things to me. Whenever he would send me a huge paragraph telling me how much he loved and appreciated me, I would always thank him, say something cute back, and then go about my day. I know at the time I was definitely touched by them, but now more than ever I am realizing how good he was to me.

But I don't actually want to write about those messages right now.

Blake and I argued over little things from time to time, but we only got in two big fights throughout the course of our relationship. In hindsight, I have figured out that during both of those fights Blake had been using drugs without me knowing. (I'm not blaming the fights on him or on the drugs, because I definitely had a part in them, I'm just saying the drugs definitely had a hand in escalating them)

I remember in both of those instances I was so incredibly confused by how irrational he was acting. Usually Blake was a great communicator and could tell me exactly what was bothering him, why, and how he wanted us to fix it. In both of our big fights, I felt like I didn't even know him. He said things that didn't make sense, got really angry, and jumped to crazy conclusions. It was exhausting. At some point in both of those fights, Blake finally seemed to "snap out of it" and then realized immediately that he was being ridiculous, apologized, and said all of the right things to make me feel better about what had just happened.

I came across a text he sent me after one of those two fights.

"I don't deserve you, Briana. I'm sorry. You are right. I'm so sorry. You may not forgive me now... or ever, but I'm sorry for everything. Truly. There is so much more to this than you know. So much more than apologies that is due to you."

Haunting.

Was this his first attempt at admitting to me he had a problem? Was he trying to let me know that he was aware that things were out of control for him?

After rereading that message I have two thoughts:
1. You did deserve me.
2. I forgive you.

One of the things the medium said the other night is that Blake kept saying he didn't deserve me. That he felt that I was on a much higher level than him and he wasn't able to reach it. I interpreted this as he was too sick to ever function as the person I really deserved to have in my life.

But what I want Blake to know is that I know in my heart he was at that same high level as me. The real Blake (in his pure form) was a brilliant, inspiring, generous, and truly beautiful person. I felt very lucky to be with a person like that. Who he was deep down was perfect. For him to say he didn't deserve me hurts because I know how good of a person he was. Just like he never let me doubt myself or belittle my talents, I will not allow him to say he is undeserving.

And most importantly, I want him to know I forgive him. I know he wasn't functioning as the best version of himself. I know he probably beat himself up often about wanting to be better for me or provide more for me. But he couldn't. He was so sick. I know he would've given the world to me if he could, but he couldn't. He had a horrible addiction that consumed him.

I forgive him for that.

In Too Deep (A Dream)

I just woke up from a dream.

I'm not an expert, but I feel like the message of this dream was pretty clear. I'm going to explain what  it was and what my interpretation is.

Dream:
Blake and I were living at this apartment complex with a whole bunch of our friends. It almost seemed like we were on vacation because we were having so much fun every day. We didn't have to work, we constantly had people around, and there were always activities going on.

Then Blake's family showed up and were very concerned. Blake died. They wanted to get to the bottom of it, so they started looking up his medical records and asking everyone what he had been doing with whom. I, of course, started helping them try to figure it out. I was so shocked! I started getting angry at everyone. How could my friends be using with Blake right under my nose?

After we had all gathered evidence, we sat down in a room and started going over it. There were records of prescriptions, where they were filled and by which doctor. A couple of our friends came to speak to us, telling stories about times they used with us. With us?

I was only half paying attention at first, but after I really started to listen, I realized the intervention was not about Blake, but about ME. I started to panic. I grabbed the medical records they were going over a second ago and realized they weren't Blake's, they were MINE. I looked at the faces of the people and they weren't Blake's family, it was MY family. I was so confused. I wasn't the drug addict, why was this happening to me?

This was not our apartment complex, it was a rehab. Why was I there? What went wrong?

Then I woke up.

Interpretation:
Let me first preface this by saying I do not do drugs. At all.

After taking a second to get over the shock of waking up from such a crazy nightmare, I think I understand what it might have been trying to teach me.

My last blog post was about heroin. In the end I wondered a little bit about if your choices were even your own when you're an addict. I also was thinking a lot about the powerlessness one must feel when they are addicted to a drug. I said I'd never understand this feeling, so it was hard for me to understand Blake. I think this dream gave me the answers and the insight into what I was questioning before bed last night.

I think this dream/nightmare gave me the opportunity to feel how Blake might have felt either before going to rehab or at the end of his life. Clearly I had no idea in the dream I had a problem. Mine was even more extreme because I didn't even know I was doing drugs at all. When my family was trying to give me an intervention, I didn't even realize it was for me because I was so convinced in my head I was fine. I'm pretty sure even at the end of my dream before I woke up, I still hadn't really accepted that my family had any right to be concerned about me. I thought it must have been a mistake and was trying to think of other people that clearly were worse off than I was that I could divert the attention to.

Maybe I'm interpreting this wrong, but I feel like this dream was my first dive into putting myself in Blake's shoes for a moment. I have felt sorry for him and wondered why he did the things he did and made the choices he made, but I never tried to really understand how it was possible to not get help and not know how deep into his addiction he was.

So much to think about.

Heroin

Heroin.

Wow.

On our very first date at the Suns game, we watched very little of the game because we talked about our whole lives the entire time. When I was asking Blake about what he did for work, he seemed to have a pretty large gap between one thing he did and his current business. I asked him why that was.
He took a deep breath and explained to me that he went to rehab.

On our first date? He was telling me all about how he went to rehab? Really? 

He explained that he got into an accident, was prescribed pain killers, and then got hooked. He explained how his life spiraled downward from that point on. He was surrounded by bad influences, felt alone, felt desperate, and didn't like who he had become. Finally after realizing how far his casual second income, pain relief, and partying habit had come, he agreed to go to rehab to get his life back.

I had two choices at that point: I could smile, thank him politely for a nice night and scurry back to California or I could continue this date with the guy who just revealed more skeletons than I've ever seen in anyone's closet. I didn't know whether to run away or admire him for his honesty. I chose to do the latter.

Maybe that makes me crazy, but I saw something in him that night. I saw a man that just wanted a new start. I watched him explain what he learned, what he wanted for himself, and his determination to become the person that he always knew he was capable of becoming. I looked in his eyes and I felt something powerful. I knew I'd be missing out on something amazing if I walked away. So I stayed.

Heroin.

When his mom told me he had an overdose, I assumed it was from pain killers because that's all I ever knew that he did. I had to call her back and check it wasn't some crazy rumor. When his friend said he couldn't believe it was heroin, I snapped back that it wasn't! Blake never did heroin! Who started that rumor? But sure enough, it was. 

Wow.

Heroin to me always seemed like THE WORST drug you could ever do. Only a homeless person would even consider doing heroin. If you did heroin, you must LOOK like you did heroin. I'm not sure what that "look" would be, but I knew it was probably distinct. The idea that Blake, my charming, sweet, preppy boyfriend ever touched heroin was ridiculous. But when I found out he did, my world crumbled. I dated a person who did heroin. What did that say about me? Am I a horrible judge of character?

I've had a lot of people from all different places contact me about the note I posted on Facebook. Two weeks ago I had my first heroin user contact me. I used this as an opportunity to learn more about it.  This man explained heroin in a way that finally humanized Blake for me.

He explained that heroin was basically the same thing as Oxycotin, only much cheaper and more accessible. He said that if you don't have a prescription for it, each pill could cost $40-60, while a balloon of heroin (which contained roughly the same as two pills) was only around $20. When you're addicted enough to pain killers or running low on money (or both) heroin was not only an option, but actually an inevitable one. 

Wow.

So now, instead of thinking Blake was evil or I was an idiot, I immediately started to feel awful for him. Of course he turned to heroin, it completely made sense. How awful. What started out as a doctor prescribed and suggested form of rehabilitation from an injury eventually sent him on this path. The combination of the accessibility due to his prescription, the extremely addictive nature of Oxycontin, and his addictive personality, created a perfect storm. Couple that with being in college and living a party lifestyle... my heart breaks for him.

I know he was not completely powerless in all of this. He definitely made choices that got him to that point. But were the choices ever really his? Is addiction so strong that even your conscious choices aren't really yours anymore?

All I know is that I will never again assume anything about drugs and the people that use them. I will never understand the true power of an addiction and how it renders people completely helpless. It is only when the person acknowledges that he or she is helpless that any progress can be made. How much pride must you swallow to admit you're helpless? It's amazing to me what a person has to go through to get out from under something like that.