The Opioid Issue: Part 6

Part 6: Hope, Not Handcuffs

Handcuffs

In a growing number of towns, police aren’t arresting people facing addiction. Instead, they’re providing a doorway to treatment.

Judge Linda Davis hasn’t only seen the toll opioids take from the bench. She’s also seen it at home—with one of her daughters. “I thought our family would be the last family on earth this would happen to,” she says. “I was a judge and a former prosecutor who’d run the drug unit. We talked about these issues constantly.”

Then one of her daughters—a fine student and athlete—got hurt at age 17 and needed knee surgery. Pills were prescribed. That led to heroin. And later, a four a.m. confession: “Mom, I’m a heroin addict. I need help.”

That was 12 years ago: Davis’ daughter has been clean since then. “I’m just one of many parents with a story like that,” Davis says. “It amazes me that every time I share it, someone says, ‘I have a son or daughter or grandson or nephew or mother or grandmother with a problem like that.’ It’s that widespread.” Davis hasn’t stopped at telling her story. She volunteers her lunch hours to serve on drug court on top of her normal docket as a judge in Clinton Township, Mich. She co-founded a group, Families Against Narcotics (FAN), which has spread across the state. And that group is taking a leading role in promoting a new approach to fighting opioid addiction.

Angels Among Us

In May 2015, Gloucester, Mass. Police Chief Leonard Campanello posted a Facebook announcement: Anyone could come to the police department, report an opioid addiction, and police would get them into treatment. No arrests, no punishment. Just help. In the first year, 376 people showed up. Almost 95 percent got direct referrals for treatment. Today, that’s grown into a national program: the Police-Assisted Addiction and Recovery Initiative (PAARI), with nearly 400 participating police departments in approximately 30 states. Some 12,000 people have been ushered into treatment so far.

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The largest of those partners is Macomb County, Mich., comprised mostly of 860,000 Detroit suburbanites—FAN’s home base—where an important new element was added. FAN’s idea, successfully pitched to police and community leaders: Rather than burden police in such a populous area with getting people into treatment, specially-trained community volunteers—known as “angles”—would help with the load.

Under the Macomb County program—called “Hope, Not Handcuffs,” an angel is called to the police station to give one-on-one attention to the person reporting an addiction. The volunteer sits with him or her, helps fill out forms and makes the calls to get into a treatment center right away. The angel is there after treatment too—helping, if needed, to find housing or support services, among other things.

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It’s an approach which has captured a lot of hearts and minds. Some 250 people have stepped up to the angel role. Three emergency-service ambulance companies agreed to provide free transportation to treatment centers. Hope Not Handcuffs already is operating in eight Michigan counties, and spreading. “The program started a little over a year ago, and already we’ve placed almost 1,300 people in treatment,” Davis says. “We’re working with up to 90 police departments on implementing this in the state of Michigan. “We get calls from all over the U.S. wanting to initiate the program. But as an all-volunteer group, we don’t have the resources to coordinate with them. We can’t grow that fast.”

After decades as a judge and prosecutor, Davis is struck by the change in law enforcement’s approach. “Police officers are leading the charge for reforms,” she says. “We’ve had a big shift from the ‘lock ’em up’ mentality they were taught in the academies. “Now you’ll hear officers say it all the time: ‘We can’t arrest our way out of this. This is a disease, and locking up people with a disease won’t work.’ For them to say that is really changing the stigma of addiction and opening up new possibilities.”

Living Testimonies

Signs of that changing mentality in law enforcement are popping up all over. There are more than 3,100 drug courts in the country, the U.S. Department of Justice reports—specialized docket programs focusing mostly on treatment and rehabilitation. Roughly half of them deal with juveniles; the other half, with adults.

In Macomb County, a lot of people are grateful. And some are giving back. Micki Dodson’s mom was an addict. Micki, now 30, eventually followed in her footsteps, spending the better part of a decade on pills, heroin, and crack cocaine. Only after her mother died of an overdose last year did she turn the corner. Dodson has been clean since May 2017, and she’s scheduled to graduate from the drug court program in October. “I’m a huge fan of Hope Not Handcuffs,” she says. “Drug court has been my saving grace. I can’t thank them enough: They worked wonders for me. I couldn’t stay clean on my own.”

Now Dodson plans to undergo angel training, so she can do for others what someone did for her. “I have to give back,” she says. “It helps me. I want to let them know there’s hope. If I help one person today, I’ve done my job for that day.”

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Anthony Mattarella is giving back too. Much like Davis’s daughter, he was injured in his youth and went from prescription opioids to heroin and other drugs. That lasted eight years, with numerous fruitless stints in jail or rehab. Three years ago, when his case was bounded over to Davis’ drug court, things changed. “Before I got into the program, I wanted to die,” Mattarella says. “When I got in, I was willing to do anything they asked of me. I knew I was either going to kill myself or I was going to get sober.”

Now he’s a peer-recovery coach for 41B Drug Court in Clinton Township, Mich.—the same court where Davis serves. He’s helping lost people find their way, using his experience to connect with them and guide them. “It’s so rewarding,” he says. “I see them go through the [recovery] process; I see the smiles on their faces when they start to understand.”

Looking back, Mattarella marvels at the change in his life.

“It’s absolutely unbelievable to me,” he says. “I never thought I’d be here. I never thought I’d be someone who helps people.”

FOR MORE INFORMATION: To learn more about Hope, Not Handcuffs, go to familiesagainstnarcotics.org/hopenothandcuffs. For more information on the Police-Assisted Addiction and Recovery Initiative, visit paariusa.org.

Day 92

I am reading Tweak: Growing Up on Methamphetamines, by Nic Sheff. Nic was drunk for the first time at age eleven. In the years that followed, he would smoke pot regularly, do cocaine and Ecstasy, and develop addictions to crystal meth and heroin. He always felt like he could quit and put his life together whenever he needed to. (Man, that sounds rather familiar!) It took a violent relapse one summer to convince him otherwise. Nic spares no detail. The book is hard to stomach, yet difficult to put down. This kid can write.

Nic was 20 when he wrote Tweak. He unfortunately relapsed 5 times since the book was published. He was compelled to write a second memoir called We All Fall Down: Living With Addiction. It was released in 2011. He admits, in this book, that he was getting high while on tour promoting Tweak. Great news! He has not relapsed since writing his second book. Nic writes a regular column at https://www.thefix.com. I encourage you to check it out.

The following is an excerpt from Tweak.

Day 92

Recovery is strange, you know? I mean, it is so easy in a way and yet, well, so difficult. The woman who ran my Sober Living in L.A., the place I checked into after moving here from New York, describes addiction as a disease of amnesia. I think that pretty much sums it up. It’s not hard to stay sober at first. Sure, it’s hard as hell to get sober, to pull yourself out of the cycle of getting high every day and going through the horrors of detox. But, honestly, once the drugs are out of my system, it isn’t too difficult to genuinely feel like I never want to go through that shit again. Staying sober right after coming back from a relapse is no struggle. Every time I’ve come out of detox, the last thing I ever want to do is get high. This time is no different.

But the thing is, as the months go by, I always seem to forget why I needed to get sober in the first place. The bad shit starts to not seem really that bad. I start blaming other people, thinking they’re all just overreacting and whatever. I tell myself that I wasn’t really that out of control. At least that’s my rationale. I swear, every time I’ve relapsed has been the same story. And, each time, I get a little closer to being dead. Things fall apart more quickly. I hurt more and more people.

I cannot let that happen again. I cannot. Somehow, I have to make this different. But how do I accomplish this?

Anywhere, U.S.A.

You can say that drug addiction could happen to anyone’s child, because it could. You can say that it happens in every community, because it does. But what happens when it’s your neighborhood? The residents of Campbell County, Kentucky know.

When you mention Matthew W. to some of the people who knew him, when he was in high school, even if you don’t use his name at first, they’ll know who you’re talking about. “Of course,” they’ll say. “I figured you meant Matt.” And then the teacher or the counselor or whomever will smile a smile that is genuinely warm and thoughtful, and you will naturally figure that their memories of Matthew are unclouded.

And you can imagine why. His skin is pink gold, the kind of color Norman Rockwell mixed for his cherubs, and his hair has the sort of soft, nape-of-the-neck curl that mothers love to snip and save in baby books. Matthew W., Campbell County High School Class of 2002, is every kid who ever sacked your groceries or lugged an instrument across the field at halftime.

The year since Matt graduated from high school has been a hard one in Northern Kentucky’s Campbell County. This past Friday there was a dramatic community meeting held in the Alexandria fire station. The police chief called it an intervention, employing the word that therapists use when they talk about confronting a person who is an alcoholic. But it was heroin, not alcohol, that prompted the meeting. Nineteen-year-old Mark D. and eighteen-year-old Adam M. had died of drug overdoses within weeks of one another, within months of their high school graduation. The death of Casey W., 23, from Kenton County, raised the local toll.

Both the Cincinnati Enquirer and The Post wrote about the growing threat of heroin among teenagers and young adults. Reporters were careful to talk about heroin use by kids all over Greater Cincinnati, but it was pretty hard to miss the fact that the deaths of these three in Northern Kentucky had prompted their attention. Their high school graduation pictures formed a gallery of heartache. Matthew W.’s picture could have been among them. He knows that now.

When Matt tells his story, he’s still trying to make sense of it himself. Sometimes it seems like a whirlpool of events, snapshots and memories that trail off to nowhere. The part that seems clearest is the part that’s the furthest away. Growing up Catholic in an Alexandria subdivision, going to St. Mary’s School and then Campbell County High School with his friends. The same crowd that signed up for AP classes, played together in the band, and spent weekends going to movies or playing cards.

It was in the ninth grade that Matt’s depression began. He told his mother he was sad, but it was more than that. He felt like he was living in darkness, that everything he did was a chore. His family doctor dismissed it as a phase. Routine adolescent doldrums. But as the months plodded on, the shadows never lifted. By the time he was 16, he was “self-medicating” with alcohol. He partied at the homes of a few like-minded friends whose parents were absent, and arranged weekend sleepovers so he could sober up before facing his parents. The drinking alleviated the depression, but as a depressant itself, alcohol became a double-edged sword. Downing a whole bottle of Jim Beam in the span of two hours became almost commonplace.

In October of his senior year, Matt’s depression was deep. His grades suffered, and music became less of a passion. On a particularly miserable fall afternoon, he made not one but two suicide attempts. First, he shut himself inside the garage and ran his dad’s ’84 Thunderbird until he passed out from the fumes. The car ran out of gas and he woke up. Then, he went inside and dug through the family medicine cabinet, collecting old pills and the painkillers he’d saved from foot surgery. He arrived at a friend’s party, pockets bulging with pills, and proceeded to wash them down with swigs of Jim Beam. Then he stumbled outside and passed out near U.S. Route 27. People from the party had to drag him back to the house, tearing his clothes and scraping his head along the pavement.

When he returned home the next morning, Matt had a black eye and his clothes were in shambles. This time he didn’t use the sleepover excuse. He told his parents what he’d done. They hadn’t known about the drinking. Hadn’t the doctor said not to worry? This was “just a phase.” Matt’s parents got help immediately, taking him to a therapist who specialized in adolescents. The therapist prescribed Zoloft for Matt’s depression, and insisted he start attending AA meetings. Matt took the Zoloft and went to therapy, but continued to drink. Only after four months did he start attending AA meetings.

In January 2002, after binge drinking, Matt tried heroin for the first time with a classmate named Chad. Chad was on the fringes of Matt’s circle at high school, a brilliant guy in Matt’s estimation, who could come to class stoned and still perform well enough to rank in the top five percent of the class. Chad had been using heroin for about a year and was happy to show Matt the way. Within seconds of shooting up, Matt felt like he was saved. He was on a high that cast daily life as a mere caption to his new picture of health. Twenty milligrams, $20, one fix, and Matt had never felt better. Today, it’s hard for him to recreate the precise rationale that got him there. Only that, at the time, “putting a needle in my arm made sense.”

In the 1990s, when cocaine began to lose its cachet, Columbian drug traffickers needed to diversify, so they added heroin to their product line. Once they got into the business, they refined it, producing a purer heroin that was also cheaper. The higher-quality, more affordable powder could be snorted, which actually helped people become users. It’s one reason that heroin use rose in the United States during the ’90s. A survey by the Department of Health and Human Services found that between 1993 and 1999, overall admissions for heroin treatment at public hospitals increased by 11 percent. But that’s an average. Some parts of the country (especially the Seattle grunge scene) were especially hard-hit.

Things always seem to happen later in our part of the world, and heroin has been no exception. Police and drug rehab professionals speculate that when Northern Kentucky law enforcement started clamping down on illegal OxyContin distribution, the local Oxy traffickers phased in heroin to serve their customers’ habits. “We saw OxyContin users, and when that was being controlled there was the swing to heroin,” says Dr. Mike Kalfas, medical director of the St. Luke Alcohol and Drug Treatment Center. “I can’t prove it, but it’s sure a logical conclusion.”

Heroin changed Matt’s life instantly. Before, he had been sleeping 14 hours a day, but once he started using, he was happy and life became manageable. He took every opportunity to get high, in his room, in the garage, at Chad’s house. Once, during an AA meeting in a church basement, he shot up in the restroom. He convinced his mother that he was in control because he only used twice a week. If he forced himself to maintain some sort of schedule to his using, he reasoned, he wouldn’t become an addict.

By the first week in February 2002, Matt had spent all his savings on heroin. Stuck for cash, he asked his mother for money to get his girlfriend a Valentine’s Day gift. She gave him two twenties and asked for the change. Matt was gone for ages, and when he returned he had a card and a box of chocolates. Change from the $40? He insisted his mother had only given him two tens. The next day, Matt’s mom walked into his room when he wasn’t around and saw a cup of rubbing alcohol sitting out. Suddenly, the whole picture fell into place. She knew he was injecting heroin.

In early February of the following year, 12 months from the day Matt’s family faced his heroin addiction, 400 or so citizens of Campbell County crammed into the meeting room of the Alexandria fire house. The meeting had been called a couple of weeks after eighteen-year-old Adam M. died of an overdose. The idea was put together by law enforcement officers from several agencies, the county coroner, and the Commonwealth’s attorney, but it was Alexandria’s Chief of Police, Mike Ward, who organized it. He was sticking his neck out by hosting the meeting. Insiders said community leaders were worried about how it would make Alexandria look. But in the face of the tragedies, keeping up appearances didn’t seem so important to Chief Ward.

The conventional method of cleaning up a community drug problem, using informants to make controlled buys, then arrest dealers, wasn’t working. There was significant drug-fighting expertise on the south side of the Ohio River. Officers were prepared to deal with kilos of cocaine coming into the area, or an enterprising farmer harvesting marijuana. But keeping a kid from overdosing on a hit of heroin he bought five minutes before in another state seemed impossible. Unless you could keep him from using drugs in the first place. This was the intention of the intervention meeting at the fire house.

On April 2, 2003, Matt W. was one year clean. He was a freshman at a local university. During his first year of college, he attended NA meetings in Lexington, which was a two-hour round trip from campus. He continued to read books he purchased at an AA meeting. He kept busy, playing in the marching band, did tutoring for the math department, and carried 18 credit hours in the fall. In the winter, he started going home on weekends, and began rehearsing again with the band he’d put together in high school. It had fallen apart when he started using heroin.

One night he went with friends to a party where people were drinking and smoking hash. He turned on his heels and went back to his dorm. The same kind of struggle can be set off by the simplest of things. “I’ll wake up and I think it’s a gorgeous day, and I say ‘What a great day to be high!'” When that happens, he counters it with something equally simple. He simply remembers his mother crying one year ago on that February night before he went into treatment. When you talk to Matt now, he still doesn’t know everything there is to know about his addiction, or why he chose to do what he did. Nor does he know why he chose to stop when he did. But he’s learning about himself, which is one of the great gifts of recovery. He’s not afraid to go home again. After all, he comes from a good place.

References

Mandrell, L. and Vaccariello, L. (2003). Anywhere U.S.A., Cincinnati Magazine, 36(10), 62.

How Heroin Kills

The following information appeared in The Sunday Item, April 3, 2016, Sunbury, Pennsylvania.

Teresa Stoker gently pulls a sterling silver necklace from beneath the neck of her gray sweatshirt and holds it out beyond her chin. Ashes of 27-year-old Mark Stoker are piled inside a tiny cylinder, strung next to an imprint of her youngest son’s right thumbprint. His two siblings keep their brother’s ashes in keepsake key chains. Their mother has one of those, too. Mark died February 4, 2016 of a heroin overdose inside a New Columbia motel – one of 13 tri-county residents dead or suspected to have died of a drug overdose in 2016, according to coroners from Northumberland, Snyder and Union counties.

Mark was alone when motel staff found him after he failed to check out of his room. He was alone the day before, overdosed again in heroin and dumped by an acquaintance in the parking lot of a Burger King in Williamsport, PA, rain pouring onto his unconscious body, until passersby came to his aid and dialed 9-1-1.

He was supposed to be at his mother’s home in Shamokin Dam that day. They were supposed to have dinner and watch TV together. That had been the routine for days. He had stayed off heroin for six months, but he was growing irritable. His suboxone prescription was running short. He didn’t have consistent rides to counseling. He tried to make it work. He sliced the medicated film in half. As his supply dwindled, he sliced it in fours.

When Teresa pulled into her driveway on February 3rd, she could see through the blinds hung in the front window. “I knew he wasn’t in there,” she says.

Two months after his death, Mark’s family is left to reconcile love and pain, guilt and forgiveness – within themselves and within their own relationships fractured by a loved one’s fatal drug addiction. “He was the link that brought us together, and he was the one that pulled us apart,” says his sister and eldest sibling, Desiree. “He wasn’t long for this world,” adds Teresa. “He fought this to the very end,” says his brother Matt. “Mark didn’t really have a choice.”

The Stoker kids’ father died early in their lives. Mark was only 2 years old. Matt wonders if it was the impetus for mental health issues Mark would develop in life, particularly depression. Anxiety and depression are often evident in the psyche of a drug addict, according to the National Institute on Drug Awareness. “Addiction is a mental health issue,” says Dr. Rachael Levine, Pennsylvania’s physician general, who is among the officials at the forefront in addressing the Keystone State’s heroin and opioid addiction crisis. “It is not a moral failing.”

Mark sought help, and sometimes he sought it himself. He was no stranger to rehab. He’d been in and out of treatment several times, both in Pennsylvania and elsewhere. His family stood by his side the best they could, the only way they knew how. They encouraged him to lead a clean life, showed pride when he landed new jobs, sat bedside when he was hospitalized for an overdose. “Sometimes I look back and think we were fooling ourselves,” Matt says.

Matt and Desiree were the academics in the family. The former is enrolled in the physician assistant program at Pennsylvania College of Technology, and the latter is a registered nurse at Geisinger Medical Center in Danville, PA. Mark was no fool, either. His mind was for mechanics. He once rebuilt his own motorcycle after he wrecked it. Then he sold it and traded up for a better ride. His career path was in electrical work. On one job, he was hanging by a harness from a helicopter 200 feet above the ground repairing high-voltage lines. His family describes him as witty and charming, kind and sensitive, resilient and rebellious.

A quick learner, fearless in life’s pursuit, Mark hit dirt bike jumps taller than himself before he was a teen. He took quickly to Black Diamond slopes when he began to ski and bagged an eight-point buck on his first hunt. He was just 10 when he picked up on how to drive a stick shift. Accidents along the way created a need for pain relief. It’s very important to note that the American Society of Addiction Medicine found 4 in 5 new heroin users started by abusing prescription painkillers. Count Mark among the 80 percent. According to Mark’s mother, he was given pain meds at 14 when he had a wisdom tooth extracted. He took painkillers at 16 after having his gallbladder removed. Again, he took narcotic pain medication at 18 after being involved in a motorcycle accident.

Mark was 23 in 2012 when he developed painful kidney stones. His behavior suddenly changed. He became withdrawn, choosing to spend more time than normal alone in his bedroom. He was in legitimate need of relief from pain, but looking back, this is when his family says they first recognized signs of addiction. He’d been abusing oxycodone he was getting from three separate doctors. Maybe he needed relief the next summer when he stole Vicodin from his mother’s medicine cabinet.

It was September of that same year when Mark’s family first saw him experience a heroin overdose. He had borrowed his sister’s car. She found him slumped over in the driver’s seat as the engine idled – eyes glazed, sweat pooled in a cup holder. Mark’s sister dialed some of his recent calls on his cell phone. Someone told her, “He might be doing heroin.” She flipped out. The pock marks on the back of Mark’s hands weren’t bug bites as she thought on first glance. They were injection sites.

There would be more overdoses for Mark between September 2013 and the night he died in February 2016. Once his mother got a call from a Virginia state trooper. Mark overdosed in a hotel room while he was out of state on a job. Another time he was dumped at the doors of Evangelical Community Hospital in Lewisburg, PA, “dead on arrival,” as Teresa says. Attempts at recovery followed. Twenty-eight days at a Virginia facility didn’t take. The Stokers were more hopeful after a 28-day stay at Father Martin’s Ashley in Maryland, but again it didn’t help. He walked out of a rehab in White Deer, PA one week after he checked himself in.

Jobs, friendships, girlfriends – all lost by Mark to addiction, an addiction that strained an already complicated relationship, and ultimately led to his loss of parental rights to his daughter. He spoke often about the little girl, wrote about her in his journal. Teresa holds dear the few photographs she has of the two together.

A study on addiction by the Center for Rural Pennsylvania determined only 1 in 8 Pennsylvanians can afford treatment services. Geisinger Health System’s latest needs assessment says lack of insurance, cost of care, and transportation are barriers to treatment. More importantly, there simply aren’t enough providers to meet demand.

Mark had health insurance through the Health Insurance Marketplace. His mother says it didn’t cover the $150 monthly cost for suboxone, or the $100 cost per session for addictions counseling. His mother was in counseling herself, and with Mark out of work, she was covering all the bills. “We all knew he should be on [suboxone]…but we couldn’t afford it,” Teresa says.

And so the afternoon of February 4th, one day after Mark’s life was saved after he was found in the parking lot of the fast-food restaurant, came a familiar phone call to Teresa. One the whole family expected and equally feared. It was the state police. They didn’t tell her, but she knew. This time, Mark was dead.

21 Days Later

I apologize for not posting anything for the past three weeks. I had a personal emergency. Something that demanded my total attention. As you may know from reading “about” me, I have a history of drug and alcohol abuse. I’ve been attending 12-Step meetings since 2001. At that time, I was drinking a fifth of Vodka a day. My life was a mess. Unfortunately, I continued to lapse into periods of drinking and taking drugs from 2001 to 2008. I was able to stop using all substances in November of 2008. Things were looking up. I was getting healthy again, and I returned to some degree of sanity.

Then came another stumble. I started taking Percocet for back pain. I had an underlying anxiety disorder, and was put on Ativan. My addiction raised its head rather quickly after that. I began taking more medication than was prescribed. I figured one was not enough. I continued using opiates and anxiety medication at a rather heavy rate. When I ran out of my scripts earlier than I was supposed to, I started looking for other ways to get the drugs. Unfortunately, I stooped so low as to take prescriptions belonging to family members. I did this to such an extent that they noticed. I was confronted by them in an intervention. The end result of the intervention was admission to a 21-day drug and alcohol treatment program. I was admitted to the facility on December 29th.

I did not know what to expect. This was my first rehab admission. Lord knows I needed to do this long before I agreed to it. The experience was very positive. Treatment included numerous group sessions every day. Outside speakers would also come to the facility to hold NA and AA meetings. There were many opportunities to break off into small groups and talk about recovery and our drug and alcohol use over the years. I made some very good short-term friends. There was a small group of us who were Christians, and we held nightly prayer meetings and occasional Bible studies. I brought a Recovery Bible with me, which I read every day. It was very inspiring to see Christians in recovery coming together and exchanging their experience, strength and hope. God moved in a very noticeable way in our gatherings.

I was shocked at the amount of young heroin addicts that are seeking treatment. Many of them were on their fourth, fifth and sixth admission to treatment. A great deal of them were under twenty five years of age. Their stories were shocking. Heartbreaking. Many years of shooting dope and nodding out in their parents’ homes. I was surprised at how many of them overdosed. Even more shocking was the number of them who were pronounced dead and had to be revived by a doctor, yet they continued to get high afterward. It’s really sad.

I learned that I am not unique in any way. I am just as capable of sinking into a deep depression and active addiction. No longer can I live in denial, or look down my nose at other addicts or alcoholics. I am no different than they are. It was said to me once by an old timer at an AA meeting that you cannot be judgmental of others in the fellowship because you never know who is going to say something that will save your life.

I was discharged from rehab today. Although much was accomplished during my stay, now the real work begins. I expect my resolve to not pick up drugs will be tested on a regular basis. I have been given a bunch of new tools to use in fighting my addiction. Counseling sessions focused on anxiety, depression, relapse prevention, and identifying triggers. Of course, I have the basic text of Narcotics Anonymous and the big book of Alcoholics Anonymous. I have my Recovery Bible, and a fair amount of other spiritual books. Also, I am concentrating on improving my personal relationship with my higher power, Christ Jesus. I realize that I took my will back almost daily, and fell out of touch with Jesus. There is power in the Name of Jesus to break chains, renew minds, and heal bodies.

Twenty one days later, I am starting on a brand new journey. I’m on the road again.