Losing Someone to Addiction Is the Hardest Thing I'll Ever Do

I want to write clear and concise about the passing of one of my closest, childhood friends.

But, how can I do that when all of my emotions are balled up in tight bands? How can I even begin to pick them apart and lay them neatly side-by-side in an effort to better understand how I feel?

When my heart is broken it doesn't just split in two. It bursts into thousands of glittering shards. I work feverishly to put the pieces together again, and the focus on the work keeps me from delving into what each piece represents.

I know this much — on December 17, 2014, Shannon left this world and took some of my happiest memories with her.

I grew up in a blue collar, working class family. My mother stayed at home, while my father worked long hours to help us stay afloat.

It was the 90s and the economy seemed strong. My family struggled to cover the rent sometimes and even had a car repossessed, but we were well fed and clothed and that’s all that mattered.

When my sister was born, the last of three, my mother began taking computer courses at the local community college. She wanted to work, and she wanted us to move out of our apartment.

My parents worried about the neighborhood affecting us. No matter how much they tried to shelter us or redirect our attention, circumstances always arose that injected us with a reality too mature for children.

We dealt with derelict neighbors. One beat his wife and son, which ended when we took them in and called the cops. We dealt with a couple who were alcoholics and speed addicts. They wound up on an episode of Jerry Springer.

There were always reports of break-ins and robberies. My parent’s bedroom, in the basement, shared a wall with the laundry. A group of men tried to kick it in and rob us. The wall proved too strong and they were arrested quickly.

But, the neighbors across from us were genuinely good people. They were an older couple who took us in a few days a week when my mom started her first job.

They cooked hearty meals and served us on plates kept in a china cabinet. We drank out of glasses instead of colorful, plastic cups. We used knives instead of being served pre-cut meat.

Harry took us to the local 7–11 to buy five and ten cent pieces of candy while his wife, Linda went walking with my mom. They celebrated our birthdays with Betty Crocker or Duncan Hines cakes and loaned me encyclopedias to do homework. We missed them the most when we finally moved.

I didn't want to leave my hometown. I was friends with everyone at school. My grades were high and I was popular. I won many school competitions and even helped run the school store during lunch.

Leaving before I graduated hurt the most. I left in the summer leading up to fifth grade, which meant I'd only be in my new school for one year.

Then, the middle school would welcome kids from three nearby elementary schools. This meant having to make new friends all over again for a second time. I was miserable and journal entries from that time reflect my darkening mood.

We moved as soon as school ended and I said goodbye to my favorite teachers and friends. My parents bought a house only ten minutes away, but it might as well have been an hour for all the difference it made to me.

The neighborhood was very small, only three blocks. The kids played at the park bordering the right side of the neighborhood, where there were two baseball fields, swings, slides, and benches.

One group of kids played soccer in full gear, a dead giveaway that they were on a real team. I knew they wouldn’t want us in the game. My brother played football and my sister and I were cheerleaders. I already felt like I wasn't going to fit in.

But, they came over to introduce themselves and tells us there were other kids in the neighborhood. I was relieved that I didn't have to try to befriend them. They weren't my type of people; they were scowl-faced and pushy.

Eventually, we got to meet everyone in the neighborhood. There was a girl who lived across the street named Heather, who I immediately liked. She had a head full of spiral curls and a bright smile.

Then, I met Alex, who was a little more serious, with her long brown hair and flannel shirt. I liked her dark humor and no bullshit approach to people and life.

Lastly, I met Shannon, who was more like me. She was in dance school and was on the honor roll. She had an older brother and younger sister. She liked to read, watch movies, and experiment with makeup. Soon enough, we started spending all our time together.

We roped Alex and Heather into our friendship and started a little group opposite the soccer kids who were mean to me on that first day in the neighborhood. The four of us did everything together.

As time progressed, we all took turns hanging onto the group for dear life or leaving it to live out other parts of ourselves. Shannon and I were the mainstays. People knew us as a unit. We called ourselves a “package deal”.

We were well liked at school because we were outgoing and liked to have fun and laugh. But, we always had each other’s back and consulted each other for everything. When one of us was invited to move up the social ladder, we didn't do it unless the other came along, too.

So many of my teenage years center on Shannon. I practically lived at her house. When I quit cheerleading because it was “fake” and she quit dance because it was “controlling [her] life”, we knit ourselves together — for the good and the bad.

The bad started when we began experimenting with drugs. We loved to go out, even on the weekdays, to get high. We started a small business of selling weed for our dealer. He gave us a certain amount and told us how much he wanted for it.

We'd separate what we could smoke ourselves and what we had to sell. We only sold to people we knew, and usually at parties. But, there were plenty times we wound up smoking the whole supply and had to pay our dealer back with our allowance.

As more and more people wanted to hang out with us, the more and more we experimented. We snorted coke and smoked blunts laced with it. We took ecstasy, ate shrooms, popped prescription pills, and usually drank at the same time.

We went clubbing at teen night and dressed in revealing clothes with heels we could barely walk in. We danced on bars that only served water and took phone numbers from guys we were knew were much older. Shannon even dated one of them.

We spent nights at random houses. We didn't know anything about the owners, just that they were old enough to have their own place where we could do whatever we wanted without getting caught or in trouble. That was enough.

Things between Shannon and I got tense when my depression became too much to handle and I began introducing too much drama into her life.

I started cutting myself. I only ate when I was high or drunk. I fought with everyone over perceived injustices. I clung to my first love, but wasn't particularly faithful or truthful to him, which meant he often turned to Shannon for help.

I became a different person and started dressing differently. I got involved in the “punk” scene (as punk as the suburbs can be), and then the emo scene. For a long time, Shannon and I let go of each other.

She continued to surround herself with the popular kids. She kept doing whatever drugs were around at the time. She started dating different guys and getting close with girls who made my skin crawl. She changed the way she dressed and even the way she talked. She was desperate to fit in and it pissed me off.

Alex and I bonded over that, and we became the new “package deal”.

We didn't do the hard drugs I did with Shannon. We smoked cigarettes and weed. We drank when we got our hands on liquor. But mostly, we sat in her basement for hours, listening to music and hanging out in AOL chat rooms.

We went to shows. I had a nightstand with stacks of tickets from all the bands we saw. We'd show up early and smoke cigarettes outside, then stay late to meet band guys, which almost always worked.

We got really close, maybe even closer than I did with Shannon, because we were both heading in similar directions.

I loved to write poetry, fiction, and personal essays. She loved to paint, draw, and take pictures. We felt that at our cores we were creative people and that’s what kept us sane. We shared and connected on a deeper level.

Shannon didn't want a deeper level. She was all about surfaces. She wanted her exterior to live up to social standards of beauty. She wanted her personality to deflect from anything happening to her emotionally.

She always wanted to be laughing, surrounded by upbeat people, and constantly moving. It wasn't until recently that I saw this as diversion, not social climbing.

When I went to college in fall 2006, I barely had any friends. My sabotaging behavior burned too many bridges. I didn't have the strength or the humbleness to repair them. I just kept moving forward and focused on my future.

But, I always kept in touch with Alex. In my junior and senior year, we made conscious efforts to get together and reconnect. With Shannon, it was more like trying to catch up on the fly.

The only times I spoke to her or saw her was in local bars, where she surrounded herself with the same girls from high school.

Once I graduated and started working, my life stabilized a little more. Alex was in school for photography and I was a writer at a newspaper. We rejuvenated our friendship over our creative pursuits and I even brought her on some of my assignments.

It was through Alex that I was able to stay updated on Shannon’s life. The two of them still got together and were close friends for a while. Then, their relationship slowly faded, too.

They began to only meet for lunch or coffee, which was more than Shannon and I did together. It upset me but I didn't think there was much I could do about it. She didn't want the type of friendship we used to have.

Then, suddenly, it was as if Shannon disappeared entirely. No one saw her or heard from her. The rumor mill had no information, and neither did Alex. It was another time in my life when I just carried on and barreled towards my future.

Brian, the boyfriend I had during college, proposed. We bought a house in town and started to settle down. I got wrapped up in renovations and looking for a better job.

We wound up with two dogs that required a great deal of work, and I went from a newspaper writer to a marketing associate. Our lives were growing together very rapidly and I couldn't focus on much else.

Alex met someone too, and eventually moved in with him. She was also in town, about five minutes away from me. It made it easier for us to still keep in touch.

Our busy lives meant we didn't hang out like we used to, but we still made time to see each other. Sometimes we went out to eat or have drinks, other times we hung around my house.

On one such occasion, Alex brought Shannon back into my life.

I hadn't heard from Shannon in a few years. The rise of social media didn't bring us together either. One day she had a Facebook profile, then the next day it was gone.

I felt somewhat abandoned by her. We were like sisters until she chose counterfeit friendships over the one we had growing up. It hurt in a way that I refused to articulate. Instead, I just shrugged it off and tried to manage my own, ever-changing life.

One night, Alex called and said, “Guess who I’m with?!”

It was eight at night, late for the old, boring person I'd become. I didn't even pretend to be enthusiastic, until I heard a very specific laugh in the background. It was Shannon.

I told them to come over and have a few drinks. Brian wasn't thrilled because he’s old like me and wanted to go to bed. But, I couldn't resist seeing Shannon after all that time of not even hearing or speaking her name.

When they finally showed up, I could tell something was off. Alex looked anxious and was unusually quiet. Shannon looked tired, her eyes were barely open and her speech was slurred.

I ignored the alarm going off in my head telling me they were high. Instead, I invited them inside; and it was like no time had passed. We were laughing and reminiscing. Even Brian felt the excitement buzzing through our home, and it didn't take long before he joined us.

I offered them wine, beer, or soda. They eyed each other before asking for water. Again, I ignored the signs and got two Poland Spring bottles from the kitchen.

But, Brian isn't like me. He doesn't avoid confrontation or difficult situations. Plus, he had his own experiences with drugs; not to mention that he’s known Shannon and Alex almost as long as I have. He came right out and asked, “Are you guys high?”

Shannon was never a good liar. I don't know how her parents believed all the shit she’s told them over the years. She smiled at us shyly and said they took Percocet before driving to our house.

Brian and I exchanged our own looks, but didn't say anything. We still occasionally smoke weed and drink on the weekends with friends and family. We didn't think we were in a place to say anything or pass judgment.

However, that’s all it took to deflate the feeling of the night. Alex and Shannon decided to leave. I pulled Alex aside and asked her to drive home. Shannon was nodding off at our dining room table and I was worried about their safety.

As they pulled away, with Shannon in the driver’s seat, Brian looked at me. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head before saying, “That was fucked up.”

The information came to me the same way when I found out about Heather — through the ever-busy Woodbridge rumor mill.

My mother’s best friend ran into Shannon’s mother and got caught in her web of chatter. Turns out, Shannon was in a Florida rehab for heroin. Her mother said it started with pain pills prescribed after a surgery.

I didn't buy it. Shannon messed around with drugs, but not with stuff like that. She would never be an addict. She would never be like Heather, whose friendship I lost when she started running away and doing stints in jail for heroin.

I reached out to Alex. She didn’t know if it was true either. All she knew was that Shannon disappeared again, as if she went off the grid. Her latest Facebook profile was full of posts from people asking her where the hell she was.

I found out the rumor was true when she popped up on Facebook again. This time she was posting status updates and pictures from Florida. But, she didn't say anything to anyone about where she'd been.

Then, she sent me a private message and said she missed me. We spent some time talking and I gave her my cell phone number. It was when she called me that night that I got to hear her story.

It was horrifying. She stole jewelry from her parents, sold a car she owed money on for cash, crashed at some crack house in Newark, and abandoned her whole life for heroin.

(Note: Shannon wasn't ashamed of her story and told anyone who wanted to hear it. She wouldn't be upset to see my version of it.)

She spent time in different rehabs going through detox and residential treatment, only to relapse again. That was why she disappeared from time to time. The cycle of addiction seemed like it would never end. This time, she felt, was different, and she wanted to come home and see us.

When I did finally see her, she looked fantastic. She was clean and healthy. She wanted to reconnect with her true friends, and she counted me among them. I felt honored and overjoyed.

I spent as much time with her as our conflicting schedules would allow. We went out to dinner and hung out at my house. Brian and I took her to and from NA meetings; and she even came to New Jersey for my bridal shower and wedding.

But, like every other chronic disease, a flare up occurred. She met someone in NA who was newly recovered. I’m sure she thought she would be a good influence on him, and that being nearly a year sober made her resistant to pressures to use. It didn’t.

I was angry when I found out what happened. Yet again, Shannon disappeared from my life and left me wondering when she would return.

It wasn't too much later that she came back via Facebook, this time in Pennsylvania. I love Shannon, so I wished her the best and told her I missed her. I was really upset when she visited and I wasn't home to see her.

In the end, Shannon’s inner darkness took her away from us. All the superficiality in the world cannot kill depression. And, we can only speculate why the overdose happened.

It could have been the overwhelming helplessness that comes from the realization that addiction is a disease one struggles with for the rest of their life. Or, it could have been the feeling that we all got to move forward while she was stuck on replay.

In reality, the motive doesn't matter because we can't undo what’s already been done.

When I first got word of what happened and learned that Shannon was in a coma, my heart stopped. My breath caught in my throat and the world stood still.

I saw her on Monday. She was in the CCU at some hospital in Pennsylvania. Alex, her boyfriend, Brian, and I drove together. We wanted her to know that we were there for her.

I sobbed as I recounted some of my favorite memories with Shannon, from sleep over parties to that contagious laugh. I cried for not mending our relationship earlier. It hurt to have lost such a beautiful soul that only wanted to be accepted, and to be happy.

I planned to return and sit with her. I thought about playing her a song we loved in 2001. I wanted to be alone with her to tell her how much I missed her and loved her.

None of that happened. She was taken off life support earlier than intended. The doctors were forthright in their positivity that she had no brain activity and couldn’t breathe without machines.

They said she wouldn't come out of the coma. She went twenty minutes without oxygen until someone found her. It was time accept that she was gone.

When I went to bed last night, I didn't know what to feel. I was sick and sad and angry and lonely and frustrated all at once.

There is a theory that Shannon’s death was a suicide. My stomach knots up when I think about this. Shannon’s life should never have ended that way.

I want to be sick when I think that she didn't feel close enough to me to turn to me, knowing I went through something similar. Knowing how hard it was for me to just be alive.

My heart is heavy with grief for her family. Her sister looked up to her and used to follow us around when we were teenagers, as did my own sister. They were even closer near the end.

Her brother also cared for her deeply. He just wanted her to be ok and to be the person she was before the interest in drugs became such a big part of her life.

Her parents are anguished most of all. They never gave up on her, and they lifted her up each time she fell. They supported her through the recovery process and welcomed her home every time she visited, even if it was just to see friends.

I’m violently angry that this happened. I confessed to Alex that I want to exact revenge on whoever sold Shannon the heroin that killed her. I want to backtrack through her life and hurt every person who enabled her or pressured her into using, like that asshole from NA.

I want the throw everything off my desk and smash my computer into as many pieces as my broken heart. I want to scream at the top of my lungs and pull at my hair. I want to fight with someone just so I can spit out the most vile insults and verbal barbs.

I want to expel every last bit of rage burning in my lungs because that’s all I can do. I'm troubled by the fact that I couldn't help her and that no one involved in this incident helped either.

Why didn't the hospital refer her to a psychologist after her first overdose? Why weren't the people at the halfway house informed about it? Why didn't they refer her back to detox or simply search her bags upon her return? Why didn't somebody do something?!

I don't understand how this could happen. It seems unreal and unfair. We lost a good person who touched so many lives and who left us quietly on a Wednesday night.

Shannon, I hope you find peace and comfort wherever you are, and know, there’s nothing superficial about that.