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/

Knowing You're Not Alone

Three:
the number of girls I talk to about losing our boyfriends.
Although that number takes up less than a hand's worth of fingers, three somehow feels like thirty. Three hundred. Three THOUSAND. Counting doesn't seem to do them justice because numbers fail to quantify how much those three women mean to me.

Our four stories are not the same. One death was a tragic accident, another medical, and the other involved the same drug that took Blake's life. For a couple of us it's still fresh, the other two it's been a few years. There are also differences between how long we dated, the role we were allowed to play in the funeral, our continued relationship with their families, how we react to new men, and our general methods of coping with this unfathomably difficult situation.

But connecting with these women isn't about comparing who has it the worst or who is the strongest now. It's not about our disparities at all. What sets us apart melts away because we have this immediate and innate foundation of understanding. I feel like I can tell any one of these girls my scariest fears, most shameful thoughts, or wildest hopes. They may not feel the same things, but I know they would accept these confessions with a love that can only come from having "been there."

This is the power of knowing 
you are not alone.

It makes me sad that we've been conditioned to mask ourselves in front of each other. We are taught that the truths about our lives that may not look as pretty splashed all over Facebook are worth hiding. Ignoring. Denying their existence. When in fact, these are the building blocks that shape who we are and create meaningful bridges between us and other people.

I may never have met these three courageous and inspiring women if it wasn't for us reaching out to each other. If in that moment we chose pride over vulnerability, we would've never known the power of each other's company. We might have spent months, years, our whole lives thinking we were alone, believing that no one could possibly understand what life is like for us.

Four:
I was contacted tonight by a girl in South Carolina who's boyfriend also died in May of a drug overdose. Although we have no mutual friends, she stumbled upon my blog and bravely shared her story with me.

As we messaged back and fourth, I was reminded that the world is such a confusing, but beautiful place. Somehow the ugliest experiences are the ones that provide the pathway to the most life changing connections. If we open ourselves up and risk judgement, we will be rewarded with the unparalleled gift of knowing that we're not alone.

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.

Hindsight is 20/20

There was a pivotal moment from the last day Blake and I were together that I always think about.
                                                  _______________________

It was the last morning of our Memorial Day week together. As we were talking, Blake started nodding in and out of consciousness. At first he was alert and texting someone, but then his body slowly melted into his phone; his fingers frozen mid-movement. I yelled "BLAKE!" He stirred and then immediately went back to texting like nothing had happened.

I didn't want to brush off such absurd behavior so I questioned, "Why are you falling asleep like that?" He shot me a look that instantly had me thinking that I needed to back down or this would escalate quickly. Blake explained defensively that I knew he hadn't slept much the past two nights because of all the stress he was under. He assured me that I would be falling asleep too if I was him. He asked what exactly I was trying to accuse him of anyway? Was I trying to say he was on drugs or something?

"No..." I thought to myself that I actually hadn't been trying to say that at all, but since he mentioned it so defensively maybe I should have been. But instead I told my brain that what Blake said made sense. He was rattled by upcoming challenges and the fact that I was leaving for a whole month. This was keeping him up all night and had him worrying himself sick. Blake must have been sleep deprived. This was just his body shutting down. Besides, I thought to myself, he already went to rehab and recovered. I didn't want to ruin our last hours together so I just apologized and gave him a kiss.

When I get to the end of replaying this moment, my mind sweeps me up into a different fantasy. In this new version I've concocted out of pain, sadness, horror, guilt, whatever you want to call it, our conversation doesn't stop where it did.

When he questions me "Are you trying to say I'm on drugs or something?" I silently walk over to where he's sitting on the couch. Without a word, I sit on his lap and wrap my arms around him. When I start to squeeze him tightly I notice that his breathing becomes a little shallower and he chokes up. Before I know it he's crying, harder than I've ever seen him cry. It's like the floodgates of his heart burst open and all the sadness he's been damming up can finally rush out. Without a single word we have the conversation he'd been meaning to broach with me for months.

I like this alternative ending better because it gives me hope that he was always just moments away from letting me in on his addiction. But inevitably I pass from thinking that to feeling horribly upset at myself for never uncovering the pain that was clearly right under the surface. Maybe I was so caught up in myself that I never thought to question deeper about what was going on with him. Maybe all it would have taken is one knowing hug to help him understand that I would always love him no matter what. That he had no secret too dark for me to handle. That there was no burden I wasn't willing to help him carry.

I get lost in that for a while, allowing myself to think I could have saved him. I push it further and start thinking that if I would have cared just a little bit more, he'd still be alive.

But that's when I stop myself. Although now I know that "nodding off" is an effect of heroin use, at the time I had no idea that the two were even connected. Now I know that Blake was using, but at the time I had no idea that the state he was in at the end of his final weekend had anything to do with drugs. I can fantasize all I want about how I could've gotten him to open up and come clean to me in that moment, but in that moment I had no idea there was anything he needed to come clean about!

                       _______________________

I hope that in writing about this moment, discussing my fantasy, and absolving myself from blame that I have set myself free from it. Although this memory will probably still float through my mind from time to time, I need to remember that hindsight is 20/20. I see that moment with a completely different pair of eyes than I saw it through the first time. For this reason, I can't compare what I did and what I now believe I could have done, should have done. It's not fair to torture myself that way, so I won't.

Resiliency

I had a paper due today for one of the counseling classes in my grad program. The assignment was to write about a time of hardship and resiliency in our lives. Tonight, we had to read our papers aloud to each other.

This was mine (some of the parts have been taken and modified from earlier blog entires):

When people are deeply in love, they sometimes tell each other dramatic and romantic things like “I could never live without you.” Although a cliché like that sounds over the top, somehow love makes you say it with such conviction, like you were the first two people on earth to declare that to each other. When I said I could never live without Blake it was with complete sincerity. But now, even though I meant what I said with every fiber of my being, here I am living without him

In college, my boyfriend Blake was in an accident where he was injured and subsequently prescribed the painkiller OxyContin. Due to the extremely addictive nature of this drug, he got hooked. This addiction to painkillers eventually lead him to experiment with heroin, which is actually a cheaper, more accessible drug derived from the same source. Blake overdosed on heroin three months ago. The entire time we dated I knew nothing about his heroin addiction. He somehow managed to keep it completely hidden from me until the day he died.

I went through, and am still going through, a million emotions in coping with both finding out about my boyfriend’s double life and mourning him at the same time. The thing about lies is that just one has the power to breed contagious doubt about all other truths. Finding out about his hidden drug use initiated an overwhelming insecurity about whether a relationship I felt so proud of was just a product of my imagination. How could someone who actually cared about me keep such a huge secret? Were any of his feelings real? Did I know him at all? And then there are also the feelings of guilt for not being able to help him and confusion in wondering why he never let me.

But above all there has been an overwhelming sadness for the loss of my love and best friend. When I was with Blake, I felt like I could say anything, do anything, be anything. Anything and everything seemed possible because of him and how he made me feel. When he died, that was all taken away from me without warning and without any chance of getting it back. It was, and still is, devastating.

In the aftermath, the hardest thing in coping with such a tragedy has been feeling so torn to pieces on the inside, but looking normal on the outside. I almost wish I had an illness, broken bone, scar, something so it’s more obvious that I am not ok. If this were something physical, people could actually watch as I heal and know by looking at me that I'm still recovering. It's not like I want any of these physical maladies to elicit sympathy from others, I just want them to know that I'm not the same. I'm not normal. I'm not entirely myself.

But what is normal? Who am I anyway? These are things that I have begun to ask myself.  In order to manage what happened and look towards the future, I have given myself the permission to analyze anything I need to question, reflect on whatever I want to process, and feel any emotion that decides to grip my heart. I’ve done all of this through writing. 

I created a blog after a friend told me that reading how I explore my grief might be helpful for those who loved Blake, people who have gone through something similar, and most importantly, me. By opening myself up this way, so publicly and unapologetically, I have made my internal pain visible. Not only am I able to release what’s swirling around inside my mind, but I can also share my recovery with whoever wants to read it.  Whenever I feel like the pain is weighing me down or I can’t focus because it’s clouding my thoughts, I take out my laptop and allow it all to flow through my fingers. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m writing about until the entry is done. Then, I can read my message and discover new things about myself: who I am, what I value, and how I feel. Giving myself space to write has become both cathartic and essential to my well-being.

At the point when I first created the blog, I decided that this tragedy could either become a pain buried in the depths of my heart or a scar that blends into the landscape of my skin. It was my choice. I chose to wear the hurt openly because I couldn’t burden my heart with the weight of a secret. I realize, however, that I need to get to a place where I acknowledge this experience as part who I am without letting it define me. This is something I continue to navigate every day.

Through my journey of resiliency, I am beginning to realize that telling Blake “I could never live without you” wasn’t actually a lie. I’m not living without him because Blake has become a part of me. If I truly believe that I carry him with me wherever I go, I feel strong. Of course it's devastating to know he will never physically be with me again, this blow is lessened when I realize that I never have to say goodbye completely. He can be the reassurance in my head that whispers words of confidence, the pulse in my heart that beats with pride, and the air that fills my lungs and leaves me with a sense of calm. I don’t have to live without him because our love continues to shape who I am every day.

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. 

What Would Blake Want?

My blood is boiling and my heart is pounding out of my chest. I am going to try to remain calm so I can get my thoughts out.

I was just about to go to sleep after finishing my last post when I got a message from an acquaintance that I went to school with at USC. I am going to copy the entire conversation because I think I'll lose important details if I try to paraphrase:

Him: Hey I met someone who was friends with Blake, and they said they were really mad that you posted all those things about his heroin problem on Facebook. You totally have a right to grieve, but that is a really private thing that you publicized to thousands of people that didn't know him and now know him as a heroin addict. I really agree with him and felt I should say something.

Me: Well I respect your opinion, but I had full permission and encouragement from his family

Him: You should respect Blake, what would he want?

Me: He would want people to learn from his death. He wouldn't want people to have to hide their addiction because people would judge them for it. He would want people to find strength and get help. He would hope that what happened to him could serve as a lesson to others.

Him: Well I really hope that’s the case

Me: It is. Whoever is "mad at me" probably doesn't know me or Blake that well, so they can be mad at me. That’s fine.

Him: Ok....

Me: I know what I’m doing is right, so you can be mad at me too. That’s fine as well

Him: I’m sorry but I felt they should of told you

Me: Will you tell me who it was? (no answer for several minutes) I'm glad you at least told me yourself so I have an opportunity to talk to you about why you feel this way, but I think it's really a shame to not tell me who it was so I can have the same opportunity with the person you met. How can any of us grow from this if we say things behind people’s backs instead of confronting them? If that person is so mad at me, then I'd like to give them an opportunity to confront me about it

Him: Because it isn't my place. Just like saying certain things isn't certain peoples rights. You are in a bad place

Me: I am in a bad place?

Him: and you need love and I understand why you are doing those things

Me: I need love?

Him: but you should take that stuff down

Me: I am trying really hard to not judge you for your accusations about me, but how are you so certain you know so much about me, what I'm going through, and why I've chosen to do the things I've done? None of this is because I need love. It's out of love for Blake

Him: Look, it is up to you, but I think I have a very valid point. Goodbye

...And then he blocked me.

Rereading the conversation now that I’m not in the heat of the moment, I realize there are definitely places where I let myself get upset and combative instead of really hearing him out. Although this confrontation would’ve meant a lot more to me coming from a person who is actually friends with Blake and not some random person who barely even knows me, I do see his point. I was very quick to rattle off several reasons why Blake would want me to share about his addiction, but I had to ask myself, is serving as an example to others what Blake would’ve wanted his legacy to be or is that what I want?

The interesting dilemma here is that once a person has passed away, you can no longer ask him what he wants. All I can do is trust that his family and I knew him well enough to know what would make him proud. But this brings up the hardest thing about finding out about Blake's addiction.The terrifying question that I had to ask myself: Did I ever really know Blake at all?

This is a really big point of insecurity for me. With all of the lies and secrets, it's easy to convince myself that everything must have been a lie. But when I look at the way we look at each other in the videos of us, read the heartfelt and romantic messages he wrote me, think back on all of the deep, intellectual, spiritual, and emotional conversations we had, I know without a doubt that our love wasn't a lie. I knew the real Blake Norvell. So what if I didn't know about his drug use? His drug use was his addiction, not who he was as a person. And who he was as a person is COMPLETELY separate from that. 

It's very unfortunate that people can't separate the person from the addiction, which ironically, has been a lot easier for me because of the way Blake hid it from me. People like this guy and "Blake's friend" see the addiction side of him being represented and talked about and are blinded by that. Yes, addiction was part of his life- there's no denying that. To deny that and sweep it under the rug would only perpetuate the same stigma that causes addiction to persist and get exponentially worse. I can only imagine that he completely hid his addiction because people view it as a sign of weakness, a flaw of character, a horrific label that makes you lesser. Who would want to come clean and get help if they knew it would be greeted by those kinds of judgements? So yes, addiction was part of Blake, but it was not who he was.

Anyone that knows me or has read anything I've written knows that I have nothing but love, admiration, and respect for Blake. Learning about his addiction hasn't changed my view of him, and it pains me to think that it might have changed others'. I wish with all my heart that that wasn't the case. I wish that people could look at an addict with compassion and see their heart and their struggle and know they are the same person inside, but they just have a disease. Maybe then they'd have a fighting chance of finding the love and acceptance they need to start getting better.

So now that I've had time to cool down and think about his question "What would Blake want?" I have a better answer. The Blake I knew would do anything and everything in his power to help others, even strangers. I know in my heart that if his story could help save even just one person, he would give me his blessing a million times over to share any detail of what happened. He would risk people thinking badly about him if it meant that others could see him, a popular, well-liked, respected person, and know that if he struggled with addiction, maybe it can affect anyone. Blake was generous and truly selfless. He would want people to hear about his addiction and learn from it.