No peace, know peace
From Heroin, to Death to Rest
I searched for purpose as one would search for a missing sock. I was holding the sock up to a variety of other different socks, hoping to find a match; the longer the search went on, the more discouraged I became. I found myself living to obtain two things: shades of brown and shades of green; heroin and money became who I was. Heroin became my identity. Out of my identity came my behavior, and my behavior as a junkie, became my identity. I was selling more than drugs, engulfed by depression’s smother, and hissing at any reality of truth. I hid from life like a dog would to a rolled up newspaper; scared and ashamed, fixing anything was beyond my capabilities. I existed to do two things and two things only: get high, and piss people off.
I was dying, physically from overdoses, mentally and spiritually I was hollow. Five treatment programs under my belt deemed me a lost cause. My parents couldn’t bear the jail calls, or the surplus of tar in my blood that would occasionally inhibit me from breathing. They dropped an ultimatum in my lap in the same fashion that an angry boss would slap a file in a temp’s face and demand, “I WANT THESE ON MY DESK BY NOON!!” I was either to go to a program of their choice, or I was to not hear from them again. Of course I agreed, for why would I cut off the two people that I could easily manipulate into giving me cash?
A week before I walked into the doors of their program I had intentionally ingested too much heroin and klonopin. It was my last hoorah before the hell of detox set into my bones and the torturous painful sweats overtook my pores. I was too familiar with detox, and knew what was to come. If I was to die, my preference was on a lofty cloud rather than by spontaneous combustion from pissed off nerve endings. I was exhausted.
It felt like it took more energy to stand still than it did to run.
The program my parents set up for me was the program that absolutely wrecked my heart, shook my soul, and opened my eyes for the very first time. Just like my previous five programs, I figured I would bull my way through; I knew what to say, I knew how to “do” program. And I tried with this one… boy, did I try. I felt like I walked into a trap. The more I lied to them, the more they confided in me. Only faking my progression increased their compassion and patience. As I was spitting in their face, they were telling me how much they love me. I was so confused. I was convinced these people were insane.
But my heart started flipping, as a fish would out of water. So uncomfortable with my surroundings, for it was a foreign substance I was breathing. What was happening? One morning I was in the prime of my resistance, shut off, cold; then my heart started doing that awkward dance again every time this woman I was listening to would say ‘freedom’. I wanted freedom. What is freedom? My mind couldn’t pinpoint the idea of freedom. I started drinking when I was eleven, and started doing heroin at 16; freedom for me was the disconnect from heart and mind, through substance.
By the sixth or seventh time this woman mentioned freedom I couldn’t bear to be standing. I fell on my knees and began to violently weep. My heart was speaking contrary to what I was used to hearing. For ten years all I could hear was, “MORE… MORE… MORE!” But what I had heard on December 12th was something so sweet and delicate, yet powerful and commanding, “REST.” It felt like I was a fly stuck to honey. So despised, how is it possible I am being swallowed up by something so sweet?
Christ moved into my heart that day. He wrecked my heart, shook my soul, and opened my eyes for the very first time.