Look
Between The Lines
Anon
ref:
March 99 Heroinsight
I
am involved in a `Drug Support' telephone line.
Week after week I listen to and console parents
regarding their wayward kids. It's heart-rendering.
I listen to parents or the users express their fears
and concerns. The sheer chaos that comes down the
phone line is so distressing. For about half an
hour I have a brief insight into what people are
experiencing.
Not
that I don't know. I have had the benefit of 18
years' experience using drugs, all types of drugs,
but mainly heroin. I have never been clean in my
life until now. now I have 12 months up. I am not
so far away from drugs that I don't remember. I
remember the personal battles it caused me. I remember
the daily guilt. I will never forget the pain I
caused to those who loved me. And I don't pretend
to forget the enjoyment I thought those toxins gave
me.
I always thought that I loved heroin. Heroin gave
me pleasure, didn't it? Heroin was my release, wasn't
it?
I
think in the beginning this was exactly what heroin
did. In the beginning . . . But later and not so
very much later heroin was not so much creating
pleasure as it was stopping pain.
My
problem was I couldn't distinguish between the two.
Everytime I had a taste I thought `this is pleasure'
when in fact the only pleasure that I actually felt
was the cessation of pain. It got to be that I didn't
know the difference. Try and imagine that. The only
happiness you will ever experience is when you stop
the pain.
All
of this I understand better in hindsight. Through
most of my using life I never considered stopping,
not because I didn't want to but because I couldn't.
I mentally and physically could not fight heroin.
I had tried, really tried, only to fail and go through
all that hard work and be back where I started.
So I stopped trying. What was the point of battling
mind over body, heart over soul, to go through all
that pain and stress to start again at the beginning?
I imagine there are a lot of users out there who
feel the same. I was lucky.
I
know I was lucky. I stayed alive; I didn't get AIDS;
I didn't go to jail (God knows I could have). My
kids are healthy and my relationship is intact.
Even
though I haven't been clean long, I have been clean
long enough to know real joy-real happiness-enjoyment
from living, not just existing. Laughing and taking
pleasure from the simple things in life-like a sunrise-like
the smell of flowers-a brilliant star-filled sky.
The sun on my back and most importantly, waking
up like I've always wanted to-bright and fresh and
healthy with my only worry being whether it will
rain or not . . . Like a child.
I
know I will never use drugs again. I have had distance
from them. I can feel now and I can see way into
the distance rather than just tomorrow. It's a beautiful
life. I know it's early but drugs don't even tempt
me these days. I can do things I never believed
were possible. Like walk through Cabramatta with
a pocket full of money.
When
I think of drugs now they frighten me-the way they
should have but didn't when I was young. They scare
me because they represent taking from me all that
I now hold precious. I don't feel guilty anymore.
I don't have to guard secrets and watch what I say
anymore. I feel useful. I feel worthwhile. I have
learnt to love myself a lot and forgive myself a
little.
I wish I could give you the answers. When I think
back on it, I have to wonder: Why did I get clean?
How did I get clean? I've spent a long time thinking
about this one. There is no `one size fits all'
answer. Part of the solution for me was that I wanted
to be clean. The other part of me had no idea what
clean was- but somewhere deep down I knew there
had to be more to life than this. I was sick for
weeks and sometimes I felt like I was going backwards.
But I had a good doctor and I was surrounded by
good people who believed in me, so eventually I
got better-without using.
But
that's me. What about all the people who are stuck
there. I talk to them. I hear from their relatives.
I know how the user feels and I don't underplay
it. And I know how the parents feel. I am able to
sit on both sides of the fence. I tell each of them
what I know. I tell the user there is hope. I tell
the parents not to give up hope. Their addict is
a person, a person who only acts badly because they
are most likely stuck in a rut. They are angry with
themselves for feeling weak; they are angry because
deep inside they hate hurting the ones they love.
They are truly defenceless and their anger is their
only weapon. It's a way of pretending that they
are happy with their life, and their biggest burden
is just you and your interfering ways. They can't
change-like I couldn't change-so the best offence
is to pretend they don't want to. And frankly, some
of them truly don't want to.
I
don't tell people who I am or what I've done. I'm
not sure how relevant it is. I try to diffuse their
anger and their frustration. I offer sympathy and
empathy for those who can discern the difference.
I offer a shoulder to cry on. I try to give out
hope to the most wayward of causes. I believe in
what I say and I hope that that in itself will convey
my story. I wish I could travel down the telephone
cord to those most desperate of families to see
them, to touch them, to hold them, until they are
spent-to show them that my concern is real and not
just a distant voice on a phone.
Each time I finish a shift on the wires I literally
feel a bit broken. It's almost like I'm carrying
some of the burden. I don't mind. I think it's important.
If the people who ring me hang up and feel just
a little bit lighter it's all worthwhile. When I
put the phone down I just relax and think about
each of my calls and go over it in my mind. Could
I have said more? Have I helped? I convince myself
that this is so and then I am able to let go of
you all. If I didn't always feel this way, if I
didn't feel a bit bruised, I would not believe that
I had connected with you and I would believe my
effort was useless.
I
never used to feel this way but where there is life,
there is hope. Sometimes I admit the burden can
become far too overwhelming to carry. When this
happens, it is necessary to let go. Your addict
may be trying to destroy all those in his path.
He may be too angry to live with. Sometimes for
your own sanity and the well-being of your family
you must step aside. This doesn't mean you will
stop loving him; it merely states you need a break.
Families become very fragile when you live with
drug abuse. You let them know exactly that-that
you love them no matter what. You will support them
in their darkest hour and you will always be there,
but you need respite. Everyone needs respite even
those who are addicted.
Try
and remember that no matter how bad life gets, no
matter how ugly your addict becomes, he is still
a person-only this person has lost his dreams. He
never feels good unless he has the drug. The drug
allows him to dream, if only for a moment. But he
pays a price. He doesn't always know this because
he lives on borrowed credits, always promising to
cash in on another day, a better week. This is the
nature of the drug, not the person.
But
if you look very closely, underneath that metal
armour which every user needs to wear, you will
see a semblance of someone you use to know. Just
look between the lines.
