Answer Addiction

Tag: dopesick

  • A Dopeman's Grocery List

    A Dopeman's Grocery List

    The reality and gravity of the entire situation was this: if I don’t steal this shit, I’m not getting high. If I’m not getting high, I’m dying. That’s how bad I was strung out on opioids; that’s how much of a slave I was to the drugs.

    The following story is based on actual events. In an effort to protect anonymity as well as keep people out of potential legal trouble; names, places and identifying characteristics have been modified. I hope you enjoy these stories. Whatever you do. DO NOT try this at home.

    What happens when you run out of money and need a fix bad?

    What happens when you just don’t have it in you to stick someone up on that particular day?

    What happens when you run out of shit to pawn?

    What happens when there’s nothing left to post on OfferUp, LetGo and Craigslist?

    You can always go grocery shopping for your drug dealer like I did. I mean, I didn’t have any money at the time and I already traded my food stamps for dope that month but I knew there were a few items that “D” needed me to pick up from one of those big-box-retail-stores. If I could get the items he needed, he would trade me 50% of whatever it cost in cash or trade me 75% of what it cost in dope. This was a no brainer. Get the grocery list, steal the items, get the dope and get high.

    I’ve always been a fan of “heist” movies. Mission Impossible, Ocean’s Eleven and Catch Me If You Can come to mind when I think about the excitement I felt when the “bad guys” got away with whatever it was that they were taking. Sometimes rooting for the bad guy feels good. Every time I received one of these lists via text message from D, I felt like Ethan Hunt accepting some kind of grand mission that was of the utmost importance. The reality and gravity of the entire situation was this: if I don’t steal this shit, I’m not getting high. If I’m not getting high, I’m dying. That’s how bad I was strung out on opioids; that’s how much of a slave I was to the drugs. When opioids told me to jump, my response was always: how high?

    It’s been four and a half hours since I last shot up. My stomach is beginning to turn like that sensation you get when a roller coaster takes its first plunge, except it felt like it was my life that was diving into utter oblivion. My palms have begun to get clammy. I got the cold-sweats and it’s pissing me off. It’s 73 degrees in my room but I’m soaking wet like “Dollar Debbie” taking a stroll down MLK in the middle of August. Life sucks and I need to get “one” in me… like yesterday.

    BEEP! BEEP! A text comes in. God I hope it’s D. I unlock my phone and see the good news I’ve been waiting for:

    1 bottle of Pine-Sol
    2 boxes of Huggies
    Peanut Butter and Jelly – not that shit with the peanuts in it
    1 Mop
    1 Case of Ramen Noodles
    5-10 assorted girl’s tees
    1 pair of white sneakers, size 6 – I don’t care what the brand is

    Oh, I also need a new Bluetooth speaker, some crackhead stole mine last night. See if you can get one of those dope ass Dyson vacuums too.

    And hurry the fuck up, I’m trying to go to the casino. You got one hour!

    Finally! I got the grocery list! Now I have to find a ride. That means I have to cut somebody in on the payoff, which means fewer drugs for me. Fuck it, I’m hurting bad. At this point, I’m not going to argue over whose half of a dilaudid is bigger. It doesn’t matter anymore.

    I scroll through my contacts and find the guy I’m looking for. I just hope he’s awake. It’s three in the afternoon, a little early for Tony. He usually gets up around four or five because he’s been up all morning trying to come down from the “shards” he shot up the night before. I know an offer to score some dope to come down off the shit will lure him into my latest scheme.

    “But what color vacuum does he want?” Tony asked, dazed.

    “Does it fucking matter?!” I yelled back. Tony had a way of asking questions that didn’t matter. He was slow, he was sloppy, and he smelled like a piece of toasted Chore Boy. It’s mind boggling to me that this guy was ever successful at pickpocketing when he lived in New York. He had been down here in Florida for only six years and had already visited the local jail well over 12 times. Thing is, he always stayed high, had a car, and was just as sick as I was.

    “I’ll be there in five minutes.” he murmured. “Meet me two streets over by the bando,” he instructed before hanging up.

    Twenty-five minutes later, Tony pulls up in a hurry, looking annoyed like I’m the asshole who’s twenty minutes late. I’m livid. He always does that; he’s worse than a drug dealer and I hate waiting. I need a fix bad. My nose is beginning to run and I’m getting these random sensations in my stomach. Feels like someone is taking a blade and stabbing me erratically. My body is telling me that I’m supposed to eat but the appetite isn’t there. The worst symptom I get when withdrawing is when I smoke a cigarette: I gag every time I hit it and they don’t taste the way they normally do. It doesn’t help that the cigarettes I’m smoking are the ones I’ve collected from all the public ashtrays around town. They already taste bad. This life sucks. I need a pill, now.

    “Here’s the plan,” I say to Tony as I get in the passenger seat. “We have a half hour to grab the shit and meet D at his place before he leaves for the casino.” Tony is already driving to the store. Like me, he knows which one to go to at any particular time of day. We know when loss prevention does their shift change, we know which side of the store the greeters are on, we know which store we hit last time and that dictates which store we hit next.

    “Five minutes or less!” I say assertively. “If it takes longer than that, we’re going to the other store.” I know that if I have to come up with a story to buy more time with D, it shouldn’t be a problem.

    “Flip a coin to see who’s building the cart this time?” Tony asks.

    “Run it,” I reply.

    “Heads!” He yells as I flip the coin. “Yes!” He screams. He gets to build the cart. I’m getting excited. As we near the store, the symptoms of my withdrawal seem to lessen. I’m getting turned on over the idea of committing a crime. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Not only am I addicted to drugs, I’m in love with the crazy and dangerous lifestyle that comes along with it.

    Let me break down the lick for you.

    This is a two man job. Park near the front and keep the car running. Pop the trunk but leave it down so it looks shut. Leave all the doors unlocked. First man goes inside alone to “build the cart.” Building the cart is the easy part, that’s why we flipped a coin for it. You basically go in the store, acquire the items on the list, and place them inside a shopping cart. This must be done in five minutes or less. The other man, the one in the car, is on the phone with you, the cart builder, talking in your ear while he looks through the store window, informing you on what the employees are doing. Are they watching you? Is there an undercover loss prevention guy following you? These are things that must be known.

    General rule of thumb when building a cart: look like you belong there. Just go shopping. Smile; say hi to an employee; maybe ask them where you can find a particular item. You’re the customer, act like one.

    Tony gets everything on the list in less than five minutes. His slow ass must really need a pill as bad as I do. If he’s hurting, he’s not showing it. I think he’s as excited as I am.

    Once the cart is built, head to an aisle that runs along the cash register that’s nearest to the exit. Ditch the cart. Leave it in the aisle and get the fuck out. Once you get back in the car, look your partner in the eye, wish him luck, light a cigarette, sit back and relax. Your work is almost done.

    Here’s the dicey part. It’s the driver’s turn to enter the store. I exit the whip and walk to the entrance. Tony keeps his earpiece in and puts the car in drive while he keeps his foot on the brake. I almost forgot to mention, never pull into a parking space. Back in, so when it’s time to make the getaway, you just let off the brake and get the hell out. No one is trying to get into a little fender-bender while trying to elude potential law enforcement. I mean seriously, if my ass goes to jail over a fucking bottle of Pine-Sol, I’m killing somebody.

    I’m in the store. My heart is racing! Do I look like I belong? Do I look like a junkie? I know I showered. My shirt is wrinkled but my shoe game is on point. I don’t look homeless but I feel like shit. Do the employees notice? Keep walking. Eyes forward. Listen for Tony on the phone. It’s going to be okay.

    I find the cart. My palms are sweaty as I grab it and head towards the exit. I dig into my pocket and pull out an old receipt from the gas station. This is what I’m going to use as I walk out the door with my head down. I’m going to make it look like I’m going over the items I “just purchased” as I walk out; never mind the fact that nothing is bagged up.

    “How’s my back, T?” I ask nervously.

    “I don’t see anyone behind you, bro. Just keep coming. The trunk is already open.”

    We chose the correct side. As I near the exit, I notice there aren’t any greeters, AKA receipt checkers. This is expected but I still don’t get it. There are two entrances, spaced out on either end of this store, but they keep a greeter on only one side. Idiots. I’m about to walk out; just a few more steps.

    “Excuse me, Sir!” I hear behind me. I ignore it and keep on walking.

    “Sir! Excuse me, hey sir!” I hear again. She sounds cute. I stop and begin to turn around. I got to be honest, my heart is racing and I’m extremely turned on at this point. Why does crime excite me so much?! I can hear Tony screaming and yelling expletives in my ear.

    “What’s up?” I casually ask while making eye contact with this cute employee. She can’t be older than 22 and she looks perfect, like those black pants and blue vest were custom made to wrap around her beautiful figure. I wish I wasn’t a junkie. She seems like a good girl. If I wasn’t so concerned with getting high, maybe I’d ask a woman like her out. I don’t have time for women. They get in the way of my using. Just give me a crack-whore that wants to fuck before or after we get loaded. That’s all I have time for.

    Shit. I forgot what’s happening here. My ADHD gets the best of me sometimes. I’m supposed to be walking out of a store with a shopping cart full of stolen goods.

    “Sir, are you forgetting something?” She asks. I stare blankly back at her. I don’t have a response and I kind of just want to stare at her before she calls the authorities and I have to turn around and make a break for it. The only thing I can muster up to answer her question is “I don’t know, am I forgetting something?”

    She raises a fist and begins open to up her cute little hand. I quickly picture her cute fingers with the chipped nail polish dancing all over my body. Focus!

    “Get the fuck out of there!” I hear Tony screaming in my ear.

    She opens her fist. “You dropped your lighter, Sir,” she says as she hands it back to me. Tony can hear her on his end and I hear him let out a sigh of relief.

    “Okay we’re good” I hear him say as I thank her and head out the door.

    I throw the items in the trunk and we head over to meet up with D. We’re in a hurry to get high; he’s in a hurry to get to the casino. Both parties are bitching at each other. We engage in the usual small talk that really is just a load of bullshit. D doesn’t care about me or my well-being, and I could give a shit about him and his family. I just want my dope and I want to go home. He just wants his shit and wants me to leave. We do the same shit every day. Act like we’re family. Like there’s some “street code” of honor or something. The truth is, nobody cares. Everyone is out to get theirs and theirs only.

    Tony and I head home and split the shit we scored. As soon as I get mine in me, all in the world is right again. For those brief ten seconds of numbness and euphoria, as the opioids flow into my bloodstream, I forget that I am a slave. I forget that just ten seconds ago, my body was writhing in pain. I forget that I was almost stopped inside of a store for shoplifting while on probation. I forget that if I violate, I’m going up-the-road for at least five years. I forget about that girl that broke my heart. I forget that I’m a lying piece of shit that steals from my mother every time she goes to sleep. For ten seconds, I’m free…

    And in four hours, I’m doing it all over again.

    If no one told you today that they love you, fuck it, there’s always tomorrow. 😉

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • All My Friends Are Junkies

    All My Friends Are Junkies

    Once we switched our attention away from getting high and learned how to stay sober, we quickly realized that if we put at least one percent of the same effort it took to get trashed into other areas of our lives, the results were astronomical.

    All of my friends—each and every last one of them—are junkies. I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill junkie. You know the one: steals your purse and helps you look for it. No not that kind. Not even the one that bangs four bags of boy then tells you five minutes later that they’re dopesick so you help them out by splitting your shit. Not that type of junkie. I mean yeah, they meet that criteria, but I’m talking about the other type, the been-there-done-that kind of junkie.

    All of my friends have been to hell and back. They’re the type of junkie that society labels as hopeless. But for whatever reason, they’ve found a way out of their living hell and have begun living and pursuing a life worthwhile, a life greater than anything imaginable. Any goal they set, anything they dream of, it comes to fruition and then some! It’s unbelievable, very encouraging, and, from my experience, it’s very contagious. Words like: seductive, attractive, inviting, enticing, alluring and captivating come to mind.

    They’ve entered into a lifestyle that appears to be nothing but hope to any outsider looking in. So much so, even “normies” wonder what the fuck my friends are on. It’s next-level type shit.

    I bet you’re wondering why I still refer to my friends as junkies if they no longer get fucked up. It’s a valid question. Why would someone call their friend a junkie when they have years sober? Why would someone use a word that carries such a bad connotation when describing another individual that they themselves currently see as the opposite of that word? Why the hell does Walmart only keep two check-out aisles open on a Saturday afternoon?!

    To answer that first question, let’s break down the word “junkie.”

    According to Webster:

    Junkie

    noun |  junk·ie | \ ˈjəŋ-kē \

    1. a narcotics peddler or addict
    2. a person who gets an unusual amount of pleasure from or has an unusual amount of interest in something

    Okay, that first definition sounds about right. My friends sure as hell qualify as addicts/alcoholics. They also know how to acquire and distribute their drug-of-choice quite successfully until that dreaded day comes where they break the cardinal rule, “don’t get high on your own supply.” If you’re a junkie like me, then you know we have another term for that rule: “mission impossible.”

    Now, let’s take a look at what good ol’ Webby had to say in that second definition: A person who gets an unusual amount of pleasure from or has an unusual amount of interest in something. Sexy, right? Did you hear it? Did you relate when the word “unusual” appeared twice in that definition? Did something deep inside you begin to stir when the words “pleasure” and “interest” hit your shot-out way of thinking?

    I hope so. If you’re fucked up the way I am, then you felt something. I also know from a personal collective experience that once my friends and I got sober, the world became our oyster. What I mean by that is, once we switched our attention away from getting high and learned how to stay sober, we quickly realized that if we put at least one percent of the same effort it took to get trashed into other areas of our lives, the results were astronomical. It’s like a one thousand percent return on our investment. Crazy, right? Sure. Sounds like bullshit? Fuck yeah it does. It took me a while to grasp it, understand it, appreciate it and then cultivate it.

    When I see the word “unusual” appear in that definition I can’t help but laugh. I know that my friends and I—or any junkie I know, for that matter—are far from normal. When I think about “pleasure” and “interest,” I think about all the dreams that I had shit on in the past as a result of the bridges I burned. Now, those dreams have come back, I have goals that appear to be attainable, relationships that bring my life an overwhelming amount of joy, and opportunities to take part in unimaginable endeavors. Sound good? Sign me up!

    I geek out over music. Since my money ain’t going to the dope man anymore, I’ve been able to create some really dope recovery-based music. I’m a music junkie. And I got friends that have turned their attention to their physical health and wellness, and they’re seeing amazing results. They’re fitness junkies. I got this one friend who’s got the “lick” on all the best spots to eat around town. I mean you can pick an ethnicity, voice your preference and he’s got a spot for you. My little, hipster, foodie junkie. He’s adorable.

    Do you get it now? My friends and I are still junkies. We find ridiculous amounts of pleasure doing the things we love and pursuing the things that interest us. We enjoy it so much that you might call it unusual. Crazy ass ex-dopefiends turned into super-cool people. 

    I know we all have a million stories of where we’ve been and what we’ve done to get high and stay high. I know what it’s like to be in rehab and exchange “war stories” with the guy next to me. After a while it gets old. If you’re a repeat offender like me, then you know it gets old really fast when you check back in and hear the same shit again. It’s the same story with a different face. I get it.

    Having said all that, I want to let you in on a little secret: I’ve solved my existential crisis that I’ve always run into when trying to stay sober. I never found my purpose before, that “something” that brings me an unusual amount of pleasure… until now.

    It’s in these stories. It’s in the telling you, the reader, what my junkie friends and I have done, where we’ve been, what we’ve seen, what we’ve felt, how we’ve died, how we’ve lived, how we’ve found relief, how we’ve recovered, how we’ve relapsed, how we’ve come back and how we’ve survived one day at a time. If The Fix allows it, I’d love to share with you some of these “ghost stories,” as I lovingly refer to them these days. It would bring me an unusual amount of pleasure to get some of this shit off my chest and outta my head.

    I want to let you into my world, tell you why “All My Friends Are Junkies” (and I’m pretty sure all your friends are, too). I want to take you through drug court, through my first time in “the rooms,” through my first love in recovery, through that heartbreak, through that first relapse after believing I’d be a one-chip-wonder. I want to take you through that probation violation, that geographical change I thought would help, and holy shit, I want to bring you to that six-month inpatient rehab I went to that turned into a 13 month stay, the place I “loved so much” that I went back for another six months. I want to tell you about the relationships I made in these places, the fun we had, the crazy cool road trips we took. I want to tell you about all the musical gigs and the junkies I met there. I feel like recovery has brought me around the world while my lifestyle of addiction brought me to the deepest darkest areas of Satan’s ass crack. I want to tell you about that too.

    So for now, I’ll leave you with this: If no one told you today that they love you, fuck it, there’s always tomorrow.

    Check back next week for the first Ghost Story, “A Dopeman’s Grocery List.”

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • Dopesick: An Interview with Beth Macy

    Dopesick: An Interview with Beth Macy

    It takes the average user eight years and five to six treatment attempts just to achieve one year of sobriety. And in an era of fentanyl and other even stronger synthetic opioids, many users don’t have eight years.

    As recently as a few years ago, the opioid crisis could be referred to as a “silent epidemic,” perhaps in part due to its degrading nature. Opioid addiction is frequently described using metaphors of slavery, or enslavement, and those within its clutches are liable to feel acutely ashamed. No longer, however, is it possible to argue that the scourge of opioid addiction is being overlooked.

    No doubt that is partly due to the growing enormity of the problem. For each of the past several years, more people have died from drug overdoses than American service members were killed during the entire Vietnam War.

    Meanwhile, energetic and compassionate journalists have been doing outstanding work, covering the crisis from various vantages. Chief among them is Beth Macy, a New York Times-bestselling author, who first began noticing the effects of opioid addiction as a reporter for the Roanoke Times, where she worked for 25 years until 2014. Now she is out with Dopesick: Dealers, Doctors, and the Drug Company That Addicted America. Gracefully written and deeply reported, Dopesick should act as a vade mecum — a handbook, a guide, an essential introduction — for anyone who may be seeking insight into the deadliest and most vexing drug epidemic in American history. 

    Beth spoke to The Fix over email:

    The Fix: The first chapters of your book, on the origins of the opioid crisis, cover some material that others have explored (most notably Barry Meier, in Pain Killer: An Empire of Deceit and the Origin of America’s Opioid Epidemic). Still, I don’t have the sense that many people are aware of the role that Purdue Pharma played in setting off current epidemic. Briefly, what is their culpability? And why do think their crimes aren’t crimes better known? 

    Beth Macy: I think Meier’s book, Pain Killer, was too early, initially published in 2003, and it was largely set in central Appalachia — a politically unimportant place. Also, let’s not overlook the role that Purdue took in stifling Meier. As I write in the book, company officials had him removed from the beat after his book came out, arguing that he now had a financial stake in making Purdue look bad.

    After the 2007 plea agreement, in which the company’s holding company, Purdue Frederick, pled guilty to criminal misbranding charges and its top three executives to misdemeanor versions of that crime, Purdue and other opioid makers and distributors spent 900 million dollars on political lobbying and campaigns. Purdue continued selling the original OxyContin formula until it was reformulated to be abuse-resistant in 2010, continued for years after that pushing the motion that untreated pain was really the epidemic that Americans should be concerned about. Their culpability in seeding this epidemic is huge.

    You weren’t able to talk directly with any of the Purdue executives who made fortunes from OxyContin, and who criminally misled the public about its addictive potential. But you spent an afternoon interviewing Ronnie Jones, who is currently serving a lengthy prison sentence for running a major heroin distribution operation in West Virginia. How were Jones’s crimes (and his rationalizations for his behavior) different from those of the Purdue executives you wrote about?

    Great question. Jones refused to see that he brought bulk heroin to a rural community in ways that overwhelmed families and first responders in the region with heroin addiction; he told me he believed he was providing a service — his heroin did not have fentanyl in it, he argued, and it was cheaper than when people ran up the heroin highway to get it in Baltimore (and safer because they could stay out of high-crime places).

    At the 2007 sentencing hearing, Purdue executives and their lawyers repeatedly claimed they had no knowledge of crimes that were happening several rungs down the ladder from them; that the government had not proved their culpability in the specific crimes. According to new Justice Department documents unearthed and recently published by The New York Times , that was simply not true. For two decades, Purdue leaders blamed the users for misusing their drug; they refused to accept responsibility for criminal misbranding that resulted in widespread addiction and waves of drug-fueled crime that will be felt in communities and families for generations to come.

    You quote a health care professional who said that previous drug epidemics began waning after enough people finally got the message: “Don’t mess with this shit, not even a little bit.” That provoked a thought: Shouldn’t we be long past this point with opioids? On the one hand, I’m enormously sympathetic to anyone who is struggling with addiction. But it’s frustrating to realize that the opioid crisis is still building. Why aren’t more people as risk-averse about heroin as they obviously should be?

    The crisis is still building because the government’s response to it has largely been impotent. And it’s been festering for two decades. Opioid addiction doesn’t just go away. It takes the average user eight years and five to six treatment attempts just to achieve one year of sobriety. And in an era of fentanyl and other even stronger synthetic opioids, many users don’t have eight years. I hope we will soon get to the point of public education where no young person “messes with this shit, not even once,” but right now we still have 2.6 million people with opioid use disorder. Even though physicians have begun prescribing less, we still have all these addicted people who should be seen as patients worthy of medical care, not simply criminals. Too often that doesn’t happen until we’re sitting in their funeral pews.

    One of the women you write about, Tess Henry, slid down a long road. You got to know her and her family quite well, over a number of years. And some of the other stories in this book are just as heartbreaking.

    It was a lot of pain to absorb and process, yes. And yet my heartache was nothing at all compared to what these families are going through.

    In a couple instances, Tess reached out to you directly, asking you for help. How did you calculate how to respond?

    I took it case by case; I just went with my gut, and I got input from my husband and trusted friends along the way. I decided it was okay to drive Tess around to [Narcotics Anonymous] meetings, recording our interviews as I drove, with her permission. But it wasn’t okay when she texted me late one night to come get her from a drug house. (I referred her plea to her mother and recovery coach instead.)

    I occasionally gave her mother unsolicited advice because I cared about her and I cared about Tess, and I felt I had access to objective information about medication-assisted treatment that Patricia didn’t have. When Tess was murdered on Christmas Eve, I put my notes away and for several days just focused on being a friend to her mom. But I did accompany the family to the funeral home when they made arrangements (taking occasional notes), and I was there in the room of the funeral parlor with her mom and her grandfather when they said goodbye to her. It took funeral technicians two days to prepare her body for that. It was the most heartbreaking scene I’ve ever witnessed. There was no need to take notes in that moment. I will never forget it as long as I live. I said a tearful goodbye to our poet, too.

    Was there ever a risk, over the course of your reporting, of becoming too involved in the lives and predicaments of the people you were writing about? 

    Always there’s a risk, but I’ve been doing this for more than 30 years now, and I know that my greatest skill — which is that I get close to people — can also be my Achilles. When I trust my gut and try to do the right thing — always also getting advice from editor and reporter friends along the way, including my husband, who is just so smart and so spot-on always — it usually works out.

    I’m grateful to have read Dopesick. But at various times it left me infuriated, appalled, and depressed. Can you leave us with anything to be hopeful about? 

    There are some pretty heartening grassroots efforts that I spotlight at the book’s end, mostly involving providing access to treatment and harm-reduction services. And Virginia just became the 33rd state to approve Medicaid under the Affordable Care Act, which will help 300,000 to 400,000 people in the commonwealth have access to substance use disorder services. Seventeen more states to go! There is so much more work to be done, especially in Appalachia, where overdose deaths are highest and resistance to harm reduction programs (easy-access MAT and syringe exchange and recovery) can be severe. My goal is that Dopesick not only educates people but also mobilizes them to care and create what Tess Henry called “urgent care for the addicted” services in their own hometowns.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • New Book "Dopesick" Explores The Opioid Crisis From All Angles

    New Book "Dopesick" Explores The Opioid Crisis From All Angles

    “My goal with this book was not to just show you how we got here and what it’s going to take to get out of it but also to inspire people to care,” says author Beth Macy.

    Journalist Beth Macy set out with a mission: to address the opioid epidemic from every possible angle. 

    In her new book, Dopesick: Dealers, Doctors and the Drug Company that Addicted America, she does that through examining the opioid epidemic from the very beginning to its current state. 

    According to NPR, Macy begins the book by detailing the story of Jesse, a 19-year-old whose struggles began with pills and ended with heroin. Jesse is one of the many lives taken at the hands of the opioid crisis.

    “He was one of these rambunctious kids who rarely napped,” Macy told NPR. “As a little boy, he would fall asleep with toys still in his hands. And early on, they put him on ADHD medication. He also had some football and snowboarding injuries when he was 15 and 16 and was prescribed opioid painkillers then.

    “His mother isn’t exactly sure at what point he became hooked, at what point he realized he was dope sick. But he knew he could trade his ADHD medicine for the opioid pills. And one thing led to another. When the pills got harder to get because of doctors cracking down on prescribing, that’s when the heroin started coming in.”

    Initially, Macy tells CBS, Jesse’s mother was unaware of the depths her son’s use had gone to.

    “She said something else that I heard a lot, which is ‘I thought it was just pills,’ and it had progressed to heroin unbeknownst to her, and he never missed a day at work,” Macy told CBS.

    As journalists do, Macy comes at the opioid epidemic from all angles. Her book also details her conversations with a drug dealer named Ronnie Jones, who “ran one of the largest heroin rings in the mid-Atlantic region,” according to NPR.

    Jones had tried a few times to recreate his life after spending time in jail, but with little luck.

    “Ronnie’s story illustrates how little we do for felons trying to re-enter our society. You know, we don’t make it easy for them to get jobs,” Macy told NPR. “They often come out, and they owe lots of fines. And he tries to go legit. And he ends up—you know, he starts out selling weed again, which he had been selling before. But meanwhile, since he’s been in prison, this opioid thing has exploded. And somebody tells him in the break room of George’s Chicken, hey, man, if you want to make the real money, you need to be bringing heroin in.”

    Also in her book, Macy examines the role that Purdue Pharma (the manufacturer of OxyContin) has played in the epidemic. She states that when Purdue introduced OxyContin, it was marketed as being more safe than other painkillers because of its 12-hour time release mechanism.

    For the past three years, Macy says, she has been following Google alerts for articles pertaining to the opioid crisis. However, she says, none of them addressed every angle of the crisis as she hoped to.

    “Each of them only deal with a little piece of something going on right now,” she tells NPR. “And my goal with this book was not to just show you how we got here and what it’s going to take to get out of it, but also to inspire people to care. And I really hope that that’s what I’ve done.”

    View the original article at thefix.com