What my addiction (and recovery) has taught me about hard work and community

The final months I lived out of doors in my addiction in downtown Seattle were cold and challenging, but I wasn’t totally alone.

From December 2014 to April 2015 I struggled daily to ensure I had enough heroin to forget about the discomfort of the elements, let alone trying to stave off opiate withdrawal. The ability to string together enough money for a hotel room had long since become unrealistic because the only thing that really mattered to me was heroin. I didn’t care where I was, inside or outside, just as long as I could drift off to a place that felt warm and tranquil. That’s what heroin did for me.

In my experience, being a homeless addict required specific skill-sets, and in my case some criminal and some natural, to survive. Being knowledgeable of services, restrooms one can access, and where to get something to eat, (to name a few) required some kind of routine and coordination, and usually this info was passed along by others who had been out there much longer.

By late February I had found a stoop in front of a restaurant in Post Alley behind Pike Place Market, and that became my sleeping spot for 2 months. I never stayed there during the day, not during business hours. Most of the day I spent in the company of other addicts. But after the eatery closed at 11 pm, I knew nobody else really had any business down at that end of the alley, and I could be at whatever peace I could find in a foil of heroin, rock of crack, and 32 oz beer. That to me, was the measure of a good day in my life as an addict. (A truly superb one was having those previously mentioned and a wake up hit of H and a bag or two to sell and get the next day off on the right foot.) These were now considered the ‘finer things in my life’. These were also some of the darkest and solitary moments of the final days of my using.

I came to know many people while out there in the throes of my addiction. Some of these folks I might run with for a few days, and we would hustle together, whether it was committing crimes or using, or both simultaneously. During this time I heard the stories of almost every addicted person I encountered. It was rather impossible not to hear the continuum of how folks ended up bottomed out, chasing dope, trying to escape some kind of hurt or pain, only to create more suffering in the process. Like me, most of them were alienated from their friends and family at this point.

And truth be told, I loved these people then, and still do now. I’m quite certain I couldn’t have survived out there without these connections. Somehow, this subculture that exists within the networks of addicts serves a sole purpose: community necessary to survival.

As disconnected from society as one can get after years of substance use disorder, this was the only thing keeping me going everyday. The ability to have a community of individuals that suffered the way I did, that knew the challenges of the way I lived life, this was the common denominator that tied us all together, and really the only thing that I felt separated us from the rest of society- we truly understood one another.

The people I stayed around while I was out were more thoughtful and compassionate than many humans I’ve met over the years. The first night I ever stayed out in a doorway, I was shivering trying to shelter myself from the cold wind rolling in off of Elliot Bay through the towering buildings around me. I remember this guy came over and threw me a blanket and then covered me with the remainder of his. Another friend used to come find me in the afternoon to hit the burrito stand by Pike Place Market, where the guy working would hook us up with a plate of food before shift change. A lot of the heroin users would do damn near anything to keep those they knew from having to be in withdrawal, and most of the ones I knew were generous with anything else they had.

I believe many addicted populations living out of doors just get it-you can’t really make it alone in this world. They have no delusion about that. Yes, as addicts we can absolutely be greedy and self-centered, probably because we feel people don’t understand us, why we do what we do, to the extent that we do, looking for relief. But once we get around other addicts, we know we’re home. We know we’ll die alone in any other pocket of society.

People experience joy and happiness on multiple levels, but to suffer, to be in pain, everybody understands what that shit’s like. Nothing brings people closer together than the shared experience and understanding of pain.

The day of my final arrest I remember sitting in the back seat of the cruiser for what seemed like an eternity. It was as if the officer could sense what I was feeling. I don’t want to make this sound like I was suddenly sold on getting sober. Nope. To be clear, I had no idea how that would happen. But I really felt like anything could be better than going through this shit again. Anything. It was almost as if this officer knew this was going to be my last high for a long time, and he would let me ride it out for a few before the booking process at the county correctional facility.

Looking back now it wasn’t so much the idea of being in withdrawal while in-custody that drove the feeling of impending doom, but more of the sense that I was being extracted from my environment and subculture that had kept me alive.

Especially in addiction, every decision I’ve made and experience I’ve had has shaped things right up to this moment, and look at this mess I’m in. The worst part is I worked my ass off in the process of destroying things around me-and the community that understood that the best without berating me, will now be mostly inaccessible.

Or so I thought……until eventually I found a recovery community.

In brief that process wasn’t easy, and for the most part I had to trust people I didn’t know when they said things like, ‘hey I was strung out on x, y, or z and went through that shit too, and here’s how I handled it” or “here’s some advice another person in recovery gave me.”

So when the idea of committing to a therapeutic court model, 30,60 or 90 day treatment program, or going to school seems baffling to a client I’m working with, I always ask “how hard did you have to work to survive in your addiction?”

There’s usually a brief chuckle from them, and I always follow it with “Recovery has asked me to do a lot of things, some of them uncomfortable, but nothing as reptilian and demanding as the unbearable things I had to do at the end of my days in active addiction.”

If I got up at that time to score dope, I get up at this time to meditate. If I worked this hard to meet my addiction’s demands, I work equally if not more diligently for my recovery goals. If I put garbage in my body then, I put sensible things in my body now. If I stole materials, time and energy, I now give freely of of my time and resources where possible.

Black and white. This in contrast to that. That’s how I choose to see things today. It has to become clear what needs to be done. It sure was clear what needed to happen when I woke up dopesick (fill in the blanks/choose your own adventure)

With that being said, I find that any of our efforts have to circle back to the importance of finding and building community. Just because I’ve now found one in recovery and do my daily regimen doesn’t mean that I forget about those that helped me survive on the streets. No. If anything I think it means that rooted in that need to rely on others, I understand I have a duty to those still out there. Ensuring them that in the transition from addiction to recovery we help each other identify who our supports are and who is rooting for us.

Two days ago, I left my drug court office to stop by the treatment agency my position is contracted through. As I approached the entrance, I saw a familiar face in discussion with one of the staff outside the main door. He was visibly frustrated and intoxicated.

It was David-the guy who offered me warmth from a blanket almost 5 years ago on a freezing January night in downtown Seattle.

As I got closer my presence caught his attention, and he turned toward me and lit up right away.

“Holy S@#* man! How long has it been….3 or 4 years?” he asked.

“It’s been almost five now Dave…we were both in county for 100 days this time in August 2015.” He had the cell next to mine for about 45 days.

“I can’t believe it!” he said.

We went on to participate in the same diversion court program and outpatient classes for some months throughout late 2015 and early 2016. I was able to gain enough supports back in my life and complete the program (where I now work as a resource and peer counselor) and he had some difficulties and was eventually let go, having given it everything he had at that time. He is from out of state, and most of his family resides out of country, so I’ve been aware his support systems were lacking in the areas mine flourished, and it had lasting impacts on his ability to foster the necessary empowering community in early recovery.

He went on to tell me how he was trying to get back on medication to help initiate his recovery, and was trying to retrieve a number to schedule an evaluation. He expressed his desire to get back to work and into his daughter’s life; both things I have received as gifts of supportive community and recovery.

After asking where he had been staying, we exchanged stories of our time together on the street, and I closed by giving him my card and personal cell number to reach me once he felt stable enough to seek employment and other resources. As we gave our traditional parting street gestures, a bystander had provided him with the number he had initially requested in the lobby, which had led the agency staff to chat with him outside where I walked up on him in distress.

Dave walked away with a big smile on his face, and I felt assured he had a renewed sense that recovery is possible for him. He threw two fingers up in the air, looked back and nodded as he rounded the corner.

The shared understanding and experiences of pain between two addicts once again revealed it’s power to connect individuals and inspire hope…. for both of us.