Royal - Howling Up to the Sky: the Opioid Epidemic

Contents

Howling Up to the Sky

The Opioid Epidemic

Edited by Jaynie Royal and Ruth Feiertag

Anthology Copyright 2018 Regal House Publishing

Edited by Jaynie Royal and Ruth Feiertag

First published in 2018 by Pact Press, an imprint of

Regal House Publishing, LLC

Raleigh, NC 27612

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN -13 (paperback): 978-1-9475483-2-9

ISBN -13 (epub): 978-1-9475483-3-6

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018930047

Interior design by Lafayette & Greene

Cover design by Lafayette & Greene

lafayetteandgreene.com

Cover art by Mikadun/Shutterstock

Pact Press

www.pactpress.com

Regal House Publishing, LLC

https://regalhousepublishing.com

All net proceeds from the sale of this anthology, without a maximum cap, are donated to the Shatterproof for the duration of time that this work is in print. This nonprofit organization was selected due to its dedication to relieving the suffering associated with addiction. As its mission stipulates:

Shatterproof is a national nonprofit organization dedicated to ending the devastation addiction causes families.

Additional donations can be sent directly to the Shatterproof at:

Shatterproof

135 West 41st Street, 6th Floor

New York, NY 10036

www.shatterproof.org

Acknowledgements

Any book is a work of collaboration and co-operation, but an anthology, especially one expedited to speak in a timely

manner to an ongoing nightmare, requires exceptional efforts from many people to see the light of day. We cannot thank the contributors to this volume adequately. Many of them bared their souls in their desire to prevent addiction and heal the wounds caused by this scourge. There is real risk in announcing to the world that one suffers from this affliction and we stand in awe of our authors courage and compassion. All were responsive to our truncated time-table and turned around their revisions at warp speed.

We owe huge and particular thanks to Alma McKinley and Anna Schoenbach for joining us in writing an effective introduction that provides the background readers need to bring to the articles, stories, and poems contained in this volume. Without their invaluable research, Howling Up to the Sky would be a much less cogent contribution to the discussion raging through our society about this epidemic and how to find effective and humane solutions for it.

We also want to acknowledge the inspiration provided by Shatterproof and Roots of Recovery, two groups facing down the storm and offering different kinds of refuge to addicts and others affected by the ravages of the opioids that are coursing through the body of our country. Their heroic efforts cannot be overstated.

Gobs of gratitude go to Avery Feiertag for his perspicacious observations and assistance in the late stages of preparing this manuscript. Especially since he was supposed to be on vacation.

And finally, exceptional and abundant gratitude goes to Jeffrey Royal who, if he is not careful, is likely to become the sine qua non of Regal House Publishing.

Ruth Feiertag

Boulder, Colorado

Jaynie Royal

Raleigh, North Carolina

A Bad Night

Barbara Lodge

Are these okay? My son motions towards the red plastic bowl containing a few pieces of torn sourdough bread. Too big?

Zach, theyre fine. Any way you tear them is fine; theyre just for stuffing.

Still, he hesitates, and as I sit next to him at the table and watch him labor over symmetrical circles or squares, I sense that his post-rehab confidence is tender and new, just being born. His fresh skin and crystalline blue eyes suggest that ten months clean and sober have agreed with him. I hope hes agreed with them; we havent seen each other much in the few weeks since he found work, moved out of sober living, and into his own apartment.

Tonight I want to take hold of his hands and ease his mind of any uncertainty or discomfort. I want to reassure him that Im proud of his new life, hes doing a fine job with the bread, and all he needs to do is stay away from drugs and good things will begin again.

I grab an unopened loaf and start haphazardly tearing pieces, hoping hell notice my nonchalance. How have you been, Zach? Youre looking great!

Im good But then he says, Except everyones overreacting to what happened. The overdose wasnt a big dealit was just a bad night.

What? Where is this going? Why now? I stay silent, stunned.

He tells me hes not like those guys in rehab, and hes definitely not an addict. After being sober for almost a year, he has a new plan. Ive decided I wont take pills; Ill just drink and smoke weed. Ill be sober enough.

Sober enough? Bullshit. After all youve put me through? You almost died, for Gods sake. Get out of my house and come back when youre sane. Havent you learned anything?

But I say nothing. If Ive learned anything, its that I dont know anything, especially about whats going on inside of my son. Especially about what underlies his drug use. He is harder on himself than any twenty-one-year-old has a right to be. Although I try, I dont understand how or why he suffers, what his fears are, his insecurities, what lurks in his dark places. I should know those things, but I dont. My yelling at him is nothing more than white noisefrustration at my limitations crashing into his.

So, I steel myself and calmly inquire, Um Zach? Im not sure what youre saying. He looks at me, imploring (or is it manipulating?) glistening oceans in his eyes. Mom, I cant imagine being sober forever.

Hes twenty-one and cant fathom a lifetime of abstinence. Drugs and alcohol feel good. He doesnt want to be a drug addict. Who would?

For two decades, Ive been sheltering him from the storms of his fathers addiction, our divorce, lifes tragedies. I built a lifeboat of the finest wood and thought we were happily bobbing along. I made things easy, loving him in the well-intentioned yet materialistic way my mother loved me, shielding him from even his own mistakes; rewarding him with things for the least amount of effort. Denying, denying, denying the hard stuff.

We watch an episode of Modern Family as we chip away at the eight loaves of bread. Mom, you sure this size is okay?

Since his overdose, since he was found in a hotel room barely conscious foaming-at-the-mouth, since his music partner called 911 and the ambulance came and took him to the hospital, since he was given back to us whole, Ive tried not to blame myself for missing something, for falling short as a mother. For loving too hard; for loving too soft. In theory, I accept the truth of his addiction and of my own powerlessness over his choices, but in practice, I still torment myself with what I could have done, or not done, that may have kept him safe.

In our family, denial is a force of nature.

When the show ends and the loaves are done, he stands to leave. So soon? Werent we having fun? Please dont go. We hug, and while I cover the bowls with Happy Thanksgiving kitchen towels letting the pieces harden overnight, I call out, Im excited for tomorrow.

Me too, love you Mom, see you at two p.m.

But on Thanksgiving Day, as scents of turkey and stuffing fill the house, two p.m. turns to three p.m., then four p.m., five p.m., then dinnertime, and he hasnt arrived. I call his dad who tells me, Dont worry; he probably had something better to do. But I know my son. He wouldnt miss this holiday. My family sits down to eat and be thankful while I quickly check outside just one more time. Petty conversations, discussions of world events, and a few gushes that this turkey is the best youve ever made do nothing to calm my nerves because something is very wrong with this picture. I look at my partner wide-eyed with terror, my hands shaking, losing their fragile grasp on serenity.