Pubdate: Sun, 19 Feb 2012
Source: Berkshire Eagle, The (Pittsfield, MA)
Copyright: 2012 New England Newspapers, Inc.
Contact:  http://www.berkshireeagle.com/
Details: http://www.mapinc.org/media/897
Author: Chris Hayden
Note: Chris Hayden is development coordinator for the Berkshire Arts 
& Technology Charter Public School in Adams.
Bookmark: http://www.mapinc.org/find?132 (Heroin Overdose)

A HUMAN FACE ON ADDICTION

PITTSFIELD - I don't have an issue with opening an addiction 
treatment center in Pittsfield. Granted, North Street might not be an 
ideal location, but it's clear there's a growing problem that needs 
addressing.

In our state, two people die every day from overdosing on some kind 
of opioid, according to a recent release from the Massachusetts 
Department of Health. The same report shows that in 2007, 637 people 
died in the state from overdosing, and 92 percent of those deaths 
were unintentional.

Open the newspaper on nearly any day of the week and you'll read 
about a drug-related crime. Let's not brush this under the carpet and 
pretend it isn't there, or more importantly, only in another part of the city.

To me, it's a personal issue. Not that I'm an addict, but I know 
someone who was. And I loved him.

Three years ago my 37-year-old brother, a lifelong alcoholic and drug 
user, entered Berkshire Medical Center's emergency room around 
midnight and asked to be admitted to a rehabilitation center. He was 
asked to sit down and wait. Likely getting anxious (he also had ADHD 
and OCD), he went to the bathroom to shoot up heroin one more time.

It was the last time. He died, officially at 5 a.m., when the 
cleaning crew came across a locked door and found my brother's body, 
with needle and tourniquet still attached. According to the state 
medical examiner, in overdose lungs stop functioning and my brother 
effectively drowned. In the time since, my only redeeming thought is 
the drugs made it painless and easy.

My brother was a troubled soul from the start. Adopted at birth in 
Miami, Fla., he was born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, meaning his 
biological mother consumed alcohol while was in the womb. His 
behavioral and mental problems no doubt grew from this start.

He was 6'2", and trips in and out of jail made sure he was more 
muscle than fat, though liquor and drugs had turned most of that 
slack. He had a shock of curly black hair, sky-blue eyes, and a laugh 
that was not only easy but loud and ringing. His face, arms and hands 
were scarred with burns and cuts and several prison tattoos stood out 
prominently. His signature mustache was grown out when he was about 
13 and I can't remember him without it.

Our family spent our early years in Miami, and moved to New Hampshire 
when I was 7 and my brother was 10. He was always a good brother to 
me. His development was slightly stunted, and we were generally on 
the same plane maturity-wise.

Upon moving to New Hampshire, things quickly spiraled away from him 
and our family. Our parents divorced shortly upon arriving, and my 
brother was removed from public school soon after and placed in a 
school for "emotionally troubled" youths in Merrimack Valley, 
Massachusetts; the first of many.

I can assure you that things did not improve. Alcohol first reared 
its head at 12. My brother was caught with a two-liter bottle of 
Purple Passion. From there it was beer, liquor, pot, and the list 
steadily moved to harder, heavier and riskier drugs.

His education came from those like him. People struggling with 
addiction, or even worse, those who stopped struggling and just gave 
in. There wasn't an alley in our hometown where my brother didn't 
have friends.

As he got older a predictable cycle began. Strung out he would enter 
a rehab or get arrested on some misdemeanor and straighten out for a 
week or some number of months. The promises of sobriety and change 
became as inevitable as the eventual fall.

Our family always ended up back at square one, visiting my brother by 
talking on a phone with a pane of glass between us, or sitting in a 
generic lobby with Muzak lulling the occupants to sleep while we 
listened to him explain it would be different this time.

In our last conversation, I once again heard about the new life he'd 
begun, how it would be different this time. He had a question, 
though. Did my wife still take the occasional Xanax and if so, could 
he grab a couple? I told him no. He ended up stealing some money from 
his new girlfriend, and finding his way from Holyoke to Pittsfield.

It all ended fairly typically. Homeless. Strung out. Hopelessly 
addicted. Bridges burned and alone. Then the inevitable phone call arrived.

Beyond the death of a brother, the hardest part was telling my 
parents and sister. It was a day that still hasn't ended. The wails, 
tears, and resignation linger and likely always will.

I tell this story to those of us who are insulated from such lives 
and to put a human face on addiction. It can strike anyone of any 
socio-economic background. I grew up in a middle-class setting, with 
a typically broken American family, but one where we were provided 
and cared for.

The only person who can stop the inevitable cycle of addiction is the 
addict. I know, that's basically a T-shirt slogan, but find a way 
it's not true. You can't beat it into someone, force, guilt, or 
otherwise convince them. Trust me. I've tried.

After standing with my mother in Berkshire Medical Center, looking at 
that broken but empty body, wishing he'd at least met his new niece, 
I can tell you I will never judge an addict again. I know the pain 
they feel, I know the pain they inflict, the shame they feel and 
while death hopefully brings a measure of relief to the addict, it 
haunts the living. 
- ---
MAP posted-by: Jay Bergstrom