Empathetic Addiction

             My name is Maxwell Faber, PhD and for medical purposes, I am twenty-nine years old, six feet and one inch tall, one hundred and ninety-five pounds, without any major health concerns, in peak physical condition, and of subjectively sound mind. Over the past three years I have worked in a residential treatment center for individuals suffering from substance abuse. My educational background in counseling and subsequent experience working in the addictions field has compelled me to pursue a deeper understanding of the multifaceted affliction. My initial involvement with this tortured demographic was approached with genuine sympathy, compassion, and understanding, but was soon replaced with ineffective indifference, skepticism, and resentment. Following years of hearing the same stories with themes of trauma and helplessness, I quickly regretted my career path and wondered if this particular social service sector was at all a good department in which to continue my career. After much resourceful contemplation, I eventually decided that the only way to re-ignite my passion for treating addicts would be to instill a sense of empathy in myself.

              In order to re-train my brain to accept the testimonies and struggles of my patients as realistic rather than exaggerated depictions of unprivileged lives, I must engage in similar behaviors to provoke comparable emotions. Therefore, I will introduce a substance containing highly addictive properties to my body until I become psychologically and physiologically dependent on said substance. If this risky form of participant observation proves to enlighten my hardened view of addicts, it will be a success and thereby able to return to my career better able to help my patients. However, if I am unable to become dependent on my chosen narcotic, I will resign from my current position and re-evaluate my professional goals outside of social services.

             Despite the overt disagreement and overwhelming criticism from my colleagues, I feel as though I have been left with this single experiment before losing hope in my abilities as an effective counselor. Having said that, I am fully aware of the lethal risks involved with drug abuse and will use my vast knowledge of opiates in determining safe ways of ingesting the illicit version of the widely used opiate, Hydromorphone- known on the streets and in rehab centers as heroin. In addition to involving myself in a safe needle exchange program, I will avoid acquiring this substance from unethical suppliers, instead relying on the cooperation of progressive medical doctor, Dr. Hancock, who practices pain management at Creedence Memorial Hospital. As to preserve the integrity of this career development trial, Dr. Hancock will be obligated to give me as many doses as I request at any given time; both he and I have signed a liability waiver stating that any potential overdose will be unequivocally a result of my own actions, avoiding any sort of malpractice. Agreeing to partake in my unorthodox experiment has given Dr. Hancock my highest regard as well as insight into clarifying the age old question of nature versus nurture.

            Being the product of a privileged upbringing, I received the necessary coping skills from my parents and private school educators on how to live a life independent from intoxicants- except for enjoying the occasional single malt scotch or English lager at annual alumni dinners. In possession of the essential emotional regulation skills and in-depth knowledge of the detrimental effects of drugs, I was successful in leading a relatively sober lifestyle within the bounds of legal confines. Consequently, my reasons for pursuing a career in the addictions field have been questioned, to which I consistently respond by stating that my interest is mainly on susceptible human behavior and not the affliction itself. Other recreational activities such as sex, binge eating, and anorexia are also of equal interest to me, but I cannot perceive a way of developing one of those complex disorders within such a short timeline. In order to make an educated decision towards which fork in my career path to follow, I am forced to indulge in a predictably addictive hobby. Far be it from me to underestimate any tantalizing substance or entity, I will cautiously enter into this arrangement as to avoid my ego luring me into a false sense of security.

           In all honesty, I believe this study will be short-lived once the first dosage is administered. Due to my inherently dominant personality traits characterizing me as a thinker rather someone who acts in response to a particular feeling, I believe the lack of control and apparent euphoria will instill an immediate aversion to the substance all together. If that is the case, I will humbly halt the proceeding trials and submit my resignation to the Thompson Treatment Center effective immediately. In the spirit of unanticipated empirical findings, I do hope this isn’t the case as to allow sufficient trials to yield a valid conclusion. As for preserving both my physical and psychological health, I have little concern for permanent repercussions as my self-awareness will undoubtedly prevent any prolonged abuse to my well-being.

          As Dr. Hancock prepares my first dosage of Hydromorphone, I must admit that I am fairly reluctant to engage in intravenous drug use as I am quite squeamish around needles. As per my orders, the first dose would be administered by Hancock to properly demonstrate how to locate and puncture my skin without causing permanent damage by collapsing a viable vein. Once I’ve been given the one and only tutorial, I would be responsible for administering any subsequent doses as I believe the process of handling and preparing the narcotic shot can contribute to a social dependency. As a pipe smoker might look forward to the steps of pinching a cluster of dried tobacco, then packing it into his favorite smoking device or how a routine coffee drinker might find tranquility in grinding specialty beans then pressing firmly down on a French press plunger, my theory is that preparation can be as addictive as usage. Although my future opiate consumption will be quite literally in my hands, Dr. Hancock will take on a supervisory role to ensure that my life is not.

           Laying out an alcohol swab, gauze bandage, and packaged insulin syringe on the padded armrest of my chair, Dr. Hancock first put on a pair of latex surgical gloves before tearing the pouch containing the swab. He thoroughly wiped my forearm after finding a desirable vein by tapping my arm with two fingers, and then removed the syringe from the sterile packaging. Inserting the needle into the tiny bottle of Hydromorphone, he drew back on the plunger until the liquid filled the clear cylinder. Placing the syringe back on the armrest, the doctor pulled a thick blue elastic band from his white overcoat and wrapped it around my bicep until the ideal vein protruded from beneath my fair skin. Warning me that he was ready to inject the narcotic, he raised the needle before my eyes and asked if I was still willing to go through with the primary trial. Feeling as though there was a rigid morsel of toast stuck in my throat from breakfast this morning, I tried to gulp down the imaginary irritation before verbally agreeing to Dr. Hancock’s compulsory need for consent. Averting my stare from the penetrating needle, I looked towards a bare white wall while I was injected with the sharp point of the needle.

           Feeling the intrusive discomfort of the burning steel burrow into my vein, I instinctually- albeit inadvisably- looked down at my arm only to notice my blood flowing into the syringe, turning the once transparent contents to a cloudy red. Indicating that he had found a suitable vein, Dr. Hancock considerately told me to brace myself as he pushed the depressant into my bloodstream. Seconds after flooding my circulatory system with high grade opiates, the doctor slowly pulled the needle out of my arm and taped the gauze onto the puncture wound to prevent infection. As he finished dressing the injection site, I suddenly felt a conflict of emotions as euphoria and nausea simultaneously attempted to grab the reins of my body. Similar to the response I have felt after being duped into walking into a surprise party, my excitement and anxiety were as combustible as gasoline and a lit match. Reacting to the foreign substance, my body tried to expel the toxin by regurgitating it, but was unsuccessful in ridding it from my poisoned veins. Once the relief from vomiting eased my stomach, the coursing opiates reached my brain, flooding my synapses with transcendental dopamine.

           Basking in the unfamiliar sensation of utopian bliss, the drug embraced me like a comforting electric blanket capable of heating me from the inside out. Convinced my arteries and organs were veritable space heaters scattered around my body, my skin radiated with warmth as if I had received an instant tan. Entranced by the instantaneously magical effects of the Hydromorphone, my body was happily weakened to the point of not being able to keep my head held up in its original position. Having no choice but to allow my head to bob back and forth like a narcoleptic, I let my heavy skull hang forward to my chest. Trying my best to ignore Dr. Hancock’s assessment as he determined whether or not the dose he had given me was excessive, I simply opened my eyes as wide as I could- probably a centimeter or two- to assure him I was blissfully alive.

            Sitting back on his chair as he chaperoned by first passionate encounter with the potent drug, Dr. Hancock watched over me as the escalating euphoria incapacitated my movements and speech. Reaching near-orgasmic levels of pleasure, the opiates worked at full-steam to carry me away to an alternate reality where elation and lethargy seemed to be the only two sentiments worth experiencing. Unable and unwilling to snap out of the unwavering trance, I found solace in that hospital room, oblivious to the world outside. Turning an intoxicated blind eye to the research itself, my suffering patients, or any other troubling entity in my life, I was devoid of concern for anything that wasn’t provided by that single shot of Hydromorphone.

           Unaware of time, I sat slouched over in my own world as Dr. Hancock waited patiently for me to sober up. What could have been minutes, hours, or days, I never wanted that extraordinary feeling to dissipate. Unfortunately, the effects of the narcotic eventually did fade, selfishly allowing my sober mind to surface above the numbing stupor. As my body processed the toxin, I was slowly able to engage with Dr. Hancock, finally in a state capable of expressing my disbelief towards the fantastic elixir. Contrary to my previously held opinion, I abandoned my preconceived notions towards the narcotic by articulating my newfound respect for the substance. Unconditionally devoted to the wonder drug, I voiced an allegiance to opiates as my enthusiasm led me to propose off-labels treatments with its prescription for depression, anxiety, and trauma. Astonished by my prior ignorance towards the drug, I could not comprehend why psychiatrists did not utilize opiates for its multidimensional medicinal properties. Having deceitfully persuaded me into advocating for their use, I realized the error of my premature advocacy as I began to endure the terror from the diminishing opiate supply in my body.

           Instantly understanding the excruciatingly intense symptoms of opiate withdrawal explained by countless patients, I was successfully able to empathize with their fear of detoxification. Plagued by uncontrollable nausea, bodily fluids expelled from my orifices without warning, soling myself in the most humiliating of ways. Continuing to experience the harsh nausea as if I had severe food poisoning while in the throes of a gastrointestinal disease, the once comforting warmth of my skin ruthlessly transformed into an unbearable scorching sensation. Feeling as though my blood was boiling, I expected my vital fluids to begin evaporating while my bones crumbled from the inexplicable throbbing seeping from my marrow. With an already low tolerance for pain and discomfort, I could not suffer the symptoms any longer. Turning to Dr. Hancock, I pleaded with him for another dose before my body ceased vital functioning from the inhumane torture.

           My longstanding knowledge into detoxification symptoms was ignored as my panicking survival instinct provided me with a fatally delusional sense of rationale. Adhering to our agreement, Dr. Hancock obliged my request by handing me another sealed vile of Hydromorphone. Incapable of holding onto the vile, my shaking and perspiring hands kept dropping the glass container to the floor. I begged the doctor to administer the drug one more time, but once again preserved the integrity of the experiment by respecting its parameters; he instructed me to inject the drug myself. Hardly amused by his dedication to my study while I felt as though my organs were turning to ash, I berated him as I retrieved the same needle that had just been inside my arm, skipping the precautionary sterilization step, jumping straight to puncturing my arm.

           Sensing the agony resulting from my inexperienced hand, the needle poked around below my skin until a spot of blood appeared in the syringe. Introducing another dosage shortly after my first, I could not stop to weigh the risks of overdosing on a substance my body had insufficient time to build a tolerance towards. Focused on easing my pain and relieving the frightful withdrawal symptoms, there was no time to consider alternate options. Once the second dose took effect, the sickness subsided, allowing me to relax and breathe an unrestrained breath of relief. Though I was enjoying the lack of internal distress, the euphoria that had lured me the first time around had faded, thereby disappointing my expectantly hedonistic mind.

           While my anguish was effectively subdued while the Hydromorphone provided functionality rather than intoxication, I decided it was the opportune time to head home. Ending the first and second volatile trials, Dr. Hancock gave me his personal phone number and insisted that I call him if I experienced any cardiovascular or respiratory problems before our next trial tomorrow. Taking his number as a way to satisfy his concern, with no real intention of reaching out for help, I made my way home, walking towards my car as if my legs felt like foreign objects- as if I was merely borrowing them from a strange donor. By the time I reached my car after many uncoordinated steps from my unsteady legs, I did not have the energy to drive home, opting to rest in the car until the disorienting effects of my second dosage wore off. I reclined the driver’s seat and tuned the radio to a classical music station in hopes of the complex melodies carrying me to a resting state of slumber.

          Abruptly waking up to a particularly up-tempo symphony, my shirt and dress pants were soaked, feeling like I had driven through a car wash with the windows down. Wiping my drenched hair away from my forehead, I flicked the residual sweat on the floor mat and turned on the air conditioning to cool myself down. As the freezing air blew from the vents into my face, the sweat seemed to crystalize, turning the hot sweat into beads of freezing rain. Hoping I was not getting the flu, I soon came to the more likely realization that the withdrawal symptoms had started again. Noticing that the dusk skyline was unveiling the night’s stars, I feared that Dr. Hancock went home for the night. Hoping to catch him before he left the hospital for the night, I ran to the entrance doors as my body convulsed with shivers, making it hard to steady my hands long enough to rap on the locked glass doors.

           Facing an unforeseen obstacle, I pulled out the piece of paper on which Dr. Hancock had written his phone number and dialed it into my phone. After a string of headache inducing rings, his voicemail message started to play, prompting me to hang up as I could not organize my thoughts well enough to leave an emergent message. Instead, I started walking in an arbitrary direction, assuming I would find a solution along the way. Forgetting about my car, I walked forward with urgency to find a temporary cure for my worsening ailments. Not knowing where I was headed, my feet led the way, bringing me to a decrepit part of town postponing gentrification. Oblivious to the dangers of walking alone in an unfamiliar part of town, portraying symptoms of drug withdrawal, I hoped not to appear weak to predatory onlookers.

           Walking up to a condemned strip mall that would eventually be developed into an estate of luxury condominiums, I sat in front on a crumbled concrete step. Taking a break to rub my throbbing legs and to scratch the irritated injection site from earlier, I felt the unfamiliar sense of helplessness. Ordinarily equipped with exceptional resourcefulness, I am frustrated to be stalemated caused by a chemical imbalance. Trusting that our dependably deviant society would momentarily offer a solution to my self-inflicted ill health, my cynical assumptions were proven to be correct as I was approached by a man with as few brain cells as he had remaining teeth hiding behind his sunken, gashed cheeks. Recognizing the progression of my withdrawal, not to mention the amateur way in which I was able to cope wish said symptoms, he generously offered to sell me a bag out of his own supply. Thinking for less than half of a moment, I agreed to purchase enough narcotics to help me survive the night- at least until Dr. Hancock responded to my call with a remedying dose of Hydromorphone. Going astray from the original parameters of my study, I rationalized my actions by assuming the stigma associated with heroin was in essence superficial, as it was equally as harmful as the Hydromorphone. Satisfied with my quick rationalization, I gave the twitching man the crisp ten dollar bill in my pocket in exchange for a folded piece of paper.

          Suspecting I had been deceived by the transient with questionable business ethics, I held the miniscule package between my index and middle finger and wondered what I had been holding. What seemed to be a Chinese take-out menu folded over twenty times, I carefully folded back each edge as if I was deconstructing an origami swan until the contents were revealed at the center of the paper. Discovering what looked like a dash of brownish-white sand, I assumed what I had purchased was in fact heroin. Having never personally held or seen the substance in the real world, I relied on depictions I had seen in social commentary documentaries and descriptions wistfully described in detail by patients. Continuing to rely on such mediums of information, I scrounged around the corners of the building to find the necessary utensils to transform the powder into a liquid in order to inject it.

          On a veritable treasure hunt for drug paraphernalia, I left no rock or used prophylactic unturned as I searched high and low for the tools I needed to cure my aggravating condition. Finding what I needed with ease, I first found a bent blackened spoon that had recently been used to cook drugs, then scooped up some contaminated water from a puddle collecting from an eavesthrough drain to mix the powder. Striking a discarded match against the side of the brick building to heat up the impromptu cocktail, I was able to watch the granular substance turn into a liquid. Remembering patients telling me that they would be triggered to relapse by cotton balls in the pharmacy, I resourcefully tore open a cigarette filter and dropped it in the liquid to screen any debris from being sucked up by the syringe.            Having forgotten that I was missing the key tool in treating my detox symptoms, I would need a syringe to inject the heroin, which presented a problem. Not that there was a lack of discarded needles sticking up from the grass and laying ajar in the storm drain, it was just that the idea of using a dirty needle seemed to be the epitome of irresponsible drug use. Considering my options, it was apparent that I would have to use one of the contaminated syringes, but convinced myself that I would only use the most visibly clean one to prevent contracting communicable diseases such as HIV or Hepatitis. Picking up an array of needles varying in size, color, and contagion, I held five of the cleanliest needles in my palm and then used discretion as I eliminated the questionable ones. Left with one, relatively clean, needle, I redundantly wiped it on my sleeve before putting the tip in the cigarette filter to draw from the toxic liquid.

          Once my second-hand syringe was filled to the brim with my ten dollar illegal purchase, I stared at it as if I was about to hear a bell before confronting a physically superior opponent in a boxing ring. Intimidated by the sheer power that synthetic substance had over varying demographics of unsuspecting, vulnerable humans, I was ashamed to realize how quickly I allowed myself to plummet towards the notorious rock bottom. Even as a self-proclaimed professional in the addictions field, privileged enough to avoid the dismal side of the drug culture for most of my life, I fell prey to the imprisoning effects of heroin in less than twenty-four hours. Terrified by my late onset of clarity, I threw the syringe at the brick wall, smashing its hypnotic contents all over the faded spray-paint graffiti. Still feeling then debilitating symptoms of opiate withdrawal, I hunched myself over in hopes that my stomach pain would subside until I returned to the hospital. Returning to the hospital as a patient rather than a medical professional, I checked myself into the emergency room and explained my predicament.

         Expecting to be triaged into the hospital emergency room without delay, the attending nurse stated that I would have to secure a place at the local shelter for medically supervised detoxification. Confused by being turned away while in a visibly ailing condition, the stern nurse reiterated that there was nothing the hospital could or would do for me. Trying to explain my situation, the apathetic nurse cut me off mid-sentence to tell me to get out of line before she called the authorities. To avoid tarnishing my reputation and social standing by calling attention to myself with police intervention, I left the hospital and walked the seven miles to the local homeless shelter, where too many of my patients were turned away without any options.

        Appearing no different than my addicted patients, I was treated as a strain on society upon arriving for detox. I was greeted by a monstrous man with an ego as big as his pectorals- who most likely moonlighted as a strip club bouncer- saying with severe disdain for my existence that I had missed check-in and would consequently have to wait until the next day for admission. Baffled by the strictness of the homeless shelter, I questioned the purpose of such a banal policy, to which he replied that I had to follow the rules or be left without treatment (although he did not put his ultimatum as kindly as I choose to paraphrase). Adding obscurity to the bizarre timeframe, he suggested that I didn’t refrain from shooting up until then because a clearly positive drug test was obligatory for admission. Laughing at the mention of their unwillingness to help sufferers with more than one day of sobriety, I was asked to leave the premises due to a lack of cooperation.

         Left to my own devices, detoxing in the street like the thousands of individuals who needlessly fall through the cracks of social service programs each day, I was disgusted by the policy driven standards of our treatment programs. As I walked the seven miles back to my car, I had an epiphany. Even though I resented my very character and lack of judgement following a day of drug dependency, I realized that I had accumulated more empathy for my patients than I could have over the course of the rest of my career. It is in fact a shame that I had to put myself through hell to reach such an epiphany since I knew that most researchers and community service employees would justifiably never engage in such self-destructive behavior. Most of all, it is ridiculous how high of a cost it is to achieve some empathy- which should be instilled in humans innately. Having found out that each patient suffering from an addiction is an unprivileged version of me, I will have the understanding to give those who reach out for support, the resources and respect they deserve. As for my current condition, I will have a tumultuous road ahead of me to kick a physiological dependency, but I have faith that my newfound empathy will encourage me to return to a state capable of helping people just like me.