Tag: poverty

  • New Data Show Disturbing Racial Disparities in Combined Opioid-Cocaine Overdose Rates

    The problem is not just increased use of stimulants and opioids, it is also a lack of recovery resources, substance use disorder treatment, and a historical mistrust of healthcare providers.

    An exclusive interview with researcher Tarlise Townsend, Ph.D., reveals a definitive need for harm reduction policies plus investment in treatment in marginalized communities. In these communities, particularly lower-income African American and Latino neighborhoods, the opioid epidemic has combined with stimulant abuse to create a sharp spike in overdoses. These findings, from a study funded by the National Institutes of Health that examined death certificate data in the dozen years before the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, were published last month in the American Journal of Epidemiology.

    Driven by the three-headed dragon of fentanyl, prescription painkillers, and heroin, drug overdoses kill over a hundred thousand people every year in the United States. However, from 2007 to 2019, drug overdose deaths involving more than one substance increased dramatically across the board nationwide. Additionally, these multi-drug overdoses had a more noticeable spike in traditionally marginalized communities that lack substance disorder education, prevention efforts, and treatment opportunities.

    The Fix is honored to interview Dr. Tarlise Townsend about the implications of her study.

    The Fix: Why is the combination of stimulant abuse like cocaine or methamphetamines and opioid use disorder like heroin or prescription painkiller misuse hitting marginalized racial and ethnic communities so hard? As opposed to one or the other, what do you think is the reason for the two-headed dragon?

    Dr. Tarlise Townsend: The overarching response to that question, unfortunately, is that we don’t have an answer. Although we have diagnosed and identified the problem, we still desperately need to understand what’s driving it: Why are marginalized communities, particularly Black Americans, being hit proportionately hard by these combined overdose deaths? At the same time, the reality is that structural racism shapes everything, including access to resources. There is a lack of harm reduction options in this community, a historical lack of trust in healthcare providers, and a profound lack of access to treatment for substance use disorder.

    Also, criminalization is a really big factor when it comes to the increased risk of overdose. It is so much less likely that authorities will be contacted in time to administer overdose antagonists like Naloxone. After all, Black Americans, particularly men, are so much more likely to be criminalized for just being in possession of these drugs.

    As a result, there are many factors contributing to these racial disparities. Also, these disparities may not be specific to just these two types of drugs; stimulants and opioids. It may be a more systemic problem that right now is just manifesting as increased overdose due to the combination of stimulants and opioids. When you put this issue into the context of fundamental cause theory, you realize that the fundamental causes of health issues like socioeconomic status or racism affect health outcomes in almost every context in these communities. These overarching causes fundamentally affect people in so many ways because they basically bleed into everything.

    Even if you try to address other causes of these health disparities, socioeconomic status and racism will find another way to generate other challenges. Indeed, socioeconomic status and racism have been and continue to be fundamental causes of adverse health outcomes in these marginalized communities. The problem is not just the increased use of stimulants and opioids leading to more overdoses. It also is a lack of recovery resources, educational opportunities, and substance use disorder treatment in these communities.

    What drug is playing the driving role in this overdose crisis? Is heroin or cocaine proving to be more destructive in these communities?

    Our study did not look specifically at the type of opioids contributing to these overdose deaths. However, other recent research looking at the problem of opioid-stimulant deaths has found that fentanyl is playing the driving role. The story of this rise in overdoses is due primarily to a surge in fentanyl exposure. There is a contamination of these street drugs that the person who is using does not realize. Despite the increase in combined opioid-stimulant use, the inclusion of fentanyl in that picture is the driving force. 

    In developing countries, particularly in Southeast Asia, methamphetamine use has been connected with working long hours. Is that happening in the U.S. as well?

    I don’t feel like I can answer that question with any expertise or confidence, but it does bring up another perspective. There is evidence of people who use opioids in homeless populations on the street intentionally using stimulants to stay alert. First, these people are more readily targeted and criminalized for using. Second, they cannot afford to be oblivious when living in such extreme conditions. It could be that the stimulants counteract the opioids, allowing these people to avoid what we would describe as loitering and remain aware of external threats.

    Thus, the co-use of these two drugs by homeless populations could be described as an effort to cope with really trying conditions. However, despite such hypotheses about what is going on, there is not a lot of proven research. Thus, we know very little about those specific dynamics. Still, the idea of homeless people addicted to opioids using stimulants as a survival mechanism is a notion that deserves greater investigation.

    Specifically, what kind of harm reduction and evidence-based SUD treatment services are needed in Black and Latino neighborhoods? For example, if you had a billion dollars in funding to fight this crisis, how would you spend it?

    We need to look at both the money is no object question, and money is an object, so what do we do question. For the first, we need all the things. There is no specific policy solution or harm reduction solution that is going to address everything. There is no quick and easy fix to eliminate rising disparities in opioid and stimulant overdose deaths. We would think that when we implement a societal health intervention, the population in our society that needs the most help will receive the most benefit from such an intervention. However, this is not the case because health disparities will often widen unless you specifically target the communities with the greatest needs. If you want to help those communities, you have to target the barriers preventing them from accessing the help they need, like resource barriers, stigma issues, socioeconomic gaps, and racial and ethnic challenges. Often, the people who benefit the most from societal health interventions are the people with the most resources. The lack of resources in marginalized communities results in such health interventions often proving ineffective.

    In general, when we are thinking about policies and programs designed to target disparities in substance use and overdose, we need to be intentional about tailoring those interventions to the communities that need them most. We need culturally informed and competent efforts tailored to address the needs of these specific communities that are being hit the hardest by opioid and stimulant overdose deaths. Highlighting such tailoring, we need education and outreach materials translated into the languages primarily spoken in these communities. Awareness of substance use disorder treatment and harm reduction programs need to be raised in contexts that people in these communities trust. A great example is the role that Black churches are playing in Black communities. Since that setting implies a greater trust, it leads to a greater uptake of these recovery options. There is a lot of distrust in these communities when it comes to traditional healthcare settings.

    Beyond these efforts, I also think we need to be thinking bigger. For example, the safe consumption sites that just opened in New York are encouraging, and initial evaluations are already underway. Researchers are looking at how effectively they reduce opioid mortality and increase the uptake of treatment for substance use disorder and other health intervention efforts. I’m also eager to see what effects decriminalization like we are seeing now in Oregon will have on overdose mortality trends. When it comes to spending money to combat these problems, whether it is the limited funds that are now accessible or an imaginary unlimited amount, researchers need in-depth cost-effectiveness analyses. No matter how much money is being spent, many health interventions that people thought would lead to major results did not give us the greatest bang for our buck. In reality, resources are limited and scarce. Thus, the money spent needs to be used in the best way possible. We need to study which of these programs and policies will prove cost-effective. 

    An example of such a cost-effective study is seen today in the use of Naloxone, the opioid antagonist that can reverse an overdose in an emergency. Distributing Naloxone to people who most likely will experience overdose is highly cost-effective and saves lives. It has proven to be one of the most cost-effective medications on the market. Our experience with Naloxone so far is a good model for figuring out how we can best use limited resources to address this crisis and reduce the health disparities in these marginalized communities.

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • "Little Woods" Explores Family Bonds, Poverty, and Opioids in Small-Town America

    "Little Woods" Explores Family Bonds, Poverty, and Opioids in Small-Town America

    “I hadn’t set out to make a political film but my personal point of view about what’s happening right now is horrifying. I mean whatever way we’re dealing with the opiate crisis, it isn’t working.”

    Writer-director Nia DaCosta’s first feature Little Woods is fresh off the film festival circuit and now playing in theaters nationwide. The movie earned multiple awards including Tribeca’s prestigious 2018 Nora Ephron Prize. It’s the kind of thriller that makes you lean forward—a nail-biter. Tessa Thompson and Lily James keep the audience transfixed.

    This is a tale of two sisters living in Little Woods, North Dakota, a fracking town in rapid decline. Ollie (Thompson) is the stronger, tougher sib. She’s the one who gets things done. Unfortunately she got too careless as a drug runner and was caught transporting opioids across the border from Canada. When Parole Officer Carter (Lance Reddick) reminds Ollie that they have only one more meeting before she’s free to start a legit job in Spokane, his concerned look foreshadows looming problems. He says, “Please stay out of trouble,” but the audience understands: Uh oh. Something bad is gonna happen.

    Deb (James) had been the most popular girl in high school so it’s not a surprise that she paired up with the most popular guy, Ian (James Badge Dale). But now Ian is an alcoholic and deadbeat dad to their son Johnny (Charlie Ray Reid). Frail Deb is a broken and broke substance abuser with a knack for screwing up her life.

    The estranged sisters are together again in the house they grew up in, each feeling exhausted and alone despite their close physical proximity. They are separately grieving the recent loss of their mother after a prolonged illness, in which Ollie stayed to provide care while Deb did her own thing. Their family history is fraught with resentments.

    Easing their mother’s pain was the impetus for Ollie’s initial border-crossing opioid-gathering mission. Canadian prescription painkillers were cheaper. That was how the trafficking started; we get the bigger picture when Deb asks Ollie why she got caught.

    “I forgot to be scared,” Ollie said. “I liked it too much.”

    There is no money left after their mom’s death. Mortgage payments are overdue and Ollie finds a foreclosure notice on the front door. She is ready to just walk away, to blow this depressing town and let the bank take the house. With a new job to look forward to, she feels hopeful for the first time in longer than she can remember.

    Then everything comes to a screeching halt.

    Deb reveals that she is accidentally pregnant by Johnny’s no-good father.

    Deb tried to handle things herself: She went to see a doctor but was told that without insurance, the cost of prenatal care combined with the fees for the birth would run between $8,000 and $9,000. Disillusioned, she opts for an abortion only to discover that North Dakota abortion centers were shuttered. Finally, desperate, Deb researches where she can get a legal abortion in Canada.

    When Deb breaks down and tells Ollie the news, including that she’ll have to travel hundreds of miles in order to get an affordable abortion, the stronger sister kicks into high gear like the super-duper codependent she is. With only one week to pay the bank at least half of the $6,000 they owe on the mortgage, Ollie decides she can’t leave destitute Deb and Johnny homeless.

    That’s when I wanted to scream, “No! Go to Al-Anon!”

    But Ollie risks her freedom, her new job, and her safety to make one last drug run. The heart-pumping action begins. Luke Kirby plays the frightening drug dealer.

    Nia DaCosta talked to journalist Dorri Olds for The Fix.

    “They told me in film school, ‘Write what you know,’” said DaCosta. “At first, I took that literally. But I didn’t want to write about my life, I wanted to explore other worlds.”

    DaCosta figured out that she could use the same principle to write about topics she didn’t know but could learn if she was able to relate emotionally.

    “We look at poverty and addiction as personal failures, moral failures,” said the Brooklyn-born, Harlem-raised 29-year-old. “I had a great family. I mean we weren’t well off but growing up in New York City, I could walk to a hospital. I can get to a Planned Parenthood. Lives of deprivation, like Deb and Ollie’s, [were] completely unfamiliar to me.”

    Determined and hardworking, DaCosta spent time in Williston, North Dakota to write the fictional town of Little Woods. She was stunned by how little she knew about how dark life is for so many people in America, especially women.

    “I wanted to present what was happening. This is reality. This is where we are. Medications are overprescribed to a startling degree. I remember getting 20 Vicodin pills when I got my wisdom teeth taken out. I didn’t need any of the pills.”

    Alarmed, she threw them out.

    “I hadn’t set out to make a political film but my personal point of view about what’s happening right now is horrifying. I mean whatever way we’re dealing with the opiate crisis, it isn’t working. That is heartbreaking.”

    DaCosta confirmed that trafficking opioids was never about getting high for Ollie. But after smuggling affordable painkillers to help her mom, Ollie found out how much locals would pay for the ill-gotten opioids. The town of Little Woods attracted men who came for the oil drilling jobs, hard manual labor that resulted in body aches and chronic pain. The more Ollie became known as the go-to for “meds,” the more it went to her head. She liked being a badass drug dealer. In a town where there were few options, especially for women, she liked her tough persona and getting to hang with the boys.

    “It gave her a purpose,” said DaCosta. “It gave her a place where she mattered; a way to stand out.”

    The filmmaker decided to add substance misuse to Deb’s problems after she spent time in North Dakota researching for the movie.

    “I remember talking to people, and it was just a part of the ecosystem. Everyone I spoke to either knew someone, or they themselves had substance abuse issues and had been involved with it in some way.”

    Even though she didn’t set out to make a political film, DaCosta’s movie explores interrelated social, economic, and health problems that the U.S. is grappling with. In the red states, clinics that perform abortions and other health services for women are being shut down. Many fear that Roe vs. Wade may be overturned. The opioid epidemic has reached astonishing numbers. Click here for more information.

    Nia DaCosta and Tessa Thompson discuss Planned Parenthood:

    View the original article at thefix.com

  • How Harm Reductionists Keep the Faith

    How Harm Reductionists Keep the Faith

    Morning to evening, nearly seven days a week, Karen and Michelle endure taxing commutes to bring harm reduction services to drug users in North Carolina’s hard-hit, rural areas.

    It’s a bitterly cold afternoon in early March as Karen Lowe and I pick our way down the broken sidewalks of a semi-abandoned neighborhood in Statesville, North Carolina. All around us, squatter houses stretch for blocks. Every window is busted or boarded up. Thin, dirty mattresses lie on sunken porches and feral dogs scrounge in the trash-strewn yards for scraps. Some residents are huddled inside for warmth, though in most of these homes, there is no electricity.

    The neighborhood is a depressing sight, but it’s hard to feel blue when you’re on outreach with Karen Lowe. Co-founder of the Olive Branch Ministry, a faith-based non-profit that brings harm reduction services to the seven foothill counties of North Carolina, Karen is the embodiment of love.

    Harm Reduction in the Deep South

    As I burrow into my thin jacket, Karen strolls down the middle of the street extending warm greetings to the few brave souls who venture outside. Though the pockets of her cargo pants are bursting with clean syringes, naloxone, and other supplies to prevent death and disease among people who use drugs, she doesn’t flaunt her wares.

    “I just want people to see me,” she explains. “It’s about building trust. They know why I’m here. If they need something, they’ll come to me.”

    As we walk, the 52-year-old fills me in on the colorful cast of characters who call this neighborhood home, including a man who claims he hasn’t bathed in a year and an old woman who pees on the sidewalk. Karen describes everyone with great affection.

    “There is a certain kind of love that goes with being an untouchable,” she says. “And [the people of this community] have it. But it’s not allowed to grow.”

    There certainly isn’t much growing in this neighborhood. Judging by the columned porches on every house and what looks like abandoned flower gardens, this was probably once a desirable place to live. But shifting economic winds have devastated entire cities in the South and Statesville is no exception. 

    A small inland city—population 26,000—Statesville boasts neither North Carolina’s green mountain range nor its sparkling coastline. It’s stranded in the flatland area of the state, mostly buried under strip malls and fast food restaurants. But despite so few bragging rights, Statesville embraces its Southern pride, describing itself on its website as “a city where fish is fried (as our Lord intended they be) and a bottle of Kraft French Dressing is good enough for anybody — so get over yourself.” Also true to its Southern roots, while Statesville has recently invested in a splash park and a $330,000 home for veterans (more than double the average price of a house in the area), the city has allowed this particular neighborhood, in which residents are almost all black, to fall into ruin. The only people who venture into this place are the churches who occasionally come evangelizing and of course, the police, who make neighborhoods like this one their second home.

    But Karen brings cheer to this desolate area. Twelve years ago, she was homeless herself, struggling with mental illness and depression, and searching for both a literal and metaphorical place to set down roots. She found a surrogate family and a calling in a faith-based organization in Greensboro that provides services to people living with HIV. The community welcomed Karen with open arms and she became a regular at meetings, outreach events, and retreats, which she describes as “mad love and dealing with yourself, everybody crying and snotting.”

    Not Your Typical Faith-Based Outreach Organization

    Karen says she knew then that her life was about to change in remarkable ways. And was it ever. A couple years into her involvement with the faith community she met the love of her life, Michelle Mathis, a woman who shared her passion for helping people in need. Though they have the same heart for harm reduction, the pair is about as opposite as two people can be. Michelle exudes elegance with a powdered face and coiffed hair that somehow survive even in the god-awfullest North Carolina humidity. Her partner is more salt-of-the-earth.

    “I did the make-up and heels thing when I was young…somebody should have stopped me,” Karen laughs.

    The yin to the other’s yang, the two married in a private ceremony in 2009 where they exchanged olive branches instead of rings, thus creating what would become their joint life’s work, The Olive Branch Ministry.

    Olive Branch is not your typical faith-based outreach organization—and not just because its founders are an interracial queer couple spreading the word of Jesus in the Deep South. True to the tenets of harm reduction, whose guiding philosophy is “meet people where they are at,” Karen and Michelle serve without pretense or expectation.

    “We say faith is why we do [this work], but it’s not what we do,” Michelle explains to me over the phone. “If someone asks us to pray for them, we will pray for people…We take the message of harm reduction to faith communities…but we don’t evangelize.”

    During afternoon outreach with Karen, she utters not a whisper about faith. And yet, if God’s love for others were perfume, you’d smell her coming from blocks away. Helping others comes as naturally to her as breathing. Several times during our conversation she offers to assist me personally with everything from community partnerships to my writing career, and after I mention casually I’ll be traveling abroad soon, she offers me money to buy a goat or chicken for a family in need.

    Morning to evening, nearly seven days a week, Karen and Michelle endure taxing commutes to bring harm reduction services to drug users in North Carolina’s hard-hit, rural areas. They ask nothing in return for their services. In fact, they seem critical of faith-based groups who use community outreach programs as a carrot to boost membership.

    “It’s hard to be trusted in a neighborhood like this [because people think] everyone wants to take them to church,” Karen explains, adding that this is why she maintains such a low-key presence on outreach. Instead of rolling up in a van stashed with free giveaways, she roams the streets where people can see her, offering nothing but a greeting unless she is asked.

    The Intersection Between Faith Communities and Harm Reduction

    The Olive Branch Ministry’s approach could serve as an example for how faith-based communities and harm reduction can work together. The relationship is not always harmonious: some in the faith community accuse harm reductionists of enabling drug use or not doing enough to discourage problematic behavior. Conversely, many harm reductionists criticize faith groups for the hypocrisy of claiming to serve “the least of these” while refusing to help drug users, who belong to one of the most stigmatized and marginalized of all groups. Even when faith-based organizations do offer assistance, some peddle a strict, abstinence-only agenda or approach outreach with an attitude that appears to place more importance on gathering lost souls into the flock than on addressing people’s immediate needs.

    But despite the tenuous history between the groups, there is much cause for hope. Across the country, faith-based groups like The Olive Branch Ministry, Judson Memorial Church in New York City, St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Arkansas, the national Interfaith Criminal Justice Coalition, and many more are forming active partnerships with harm reduction groups. Other organizations, including the United Methodist Church, Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), United Church of Christ and National Council on Jewish Women have publicly proclaimed their support for harm reduction programs.

    The relationship between the faith community and harm reduction shows promise and room for growth. Especially in the South where faith is so important and drug users have so few services, these alliances are critical to stem the tide of deaths and disease caused by an unregulated drug supply, draconian laws, lack of sterile equipment, dearth of adequate treatment, stigma, and misunderstanding about what causes drug use to become problematic for many people.

    “I feel that faith communities in general think that harm reductionists are a bunch of left wing radicals,” says Michelle. “They think that we will come in and demand that the church hold drug user union meetings and do syringe exchange, but they don’t realize that we meet the congregation where they are…we figure out where they are comfortable and [decide] how to go from there.”

    Harm reduction groups and faith communities need to work together rather than at cross-purposes in order to reach and help as many people as possible. It’s not always easy to find common ground; an olive branch is a good place to start.

    View the original article at thefix.com