Discussions about Substance Use
Disorder in its various guises often include ideas about “Rock Bottom”. The
notion being that sooner or later the afflicted have to experience a life
altering event — overdose,
incarceration, getting kicked out of school, losing a job, getting kicked out
of home, to name a few — that shocks
them into lasting change. Our family, too, heard this advice from multiple
sources while our son, William, struggled with his use of heroin and we
struggled to cope and understand.
The problem is this. The rocks at the
bottom are strewn with dead bodies, including that of my son. Death is rock
bottom. Anything else is just a serendipitous, albeit uncomfortable, landing on
an outcropping on the way down. It may be a tough climb back. There may be
other falls. But it’s not death.
I have recently come up with the idea
of writing a letter to everyone who helped treat William along the tortuous
descent to his rocky demise. I want to ask them whether his death has given
them any cause to reflect upon his treatment. If so, what have they learned?
Big ideas or tiny changes in practice? What change might they like to bring about
so that others might not only avoid his fate, but actually entertain a
productive lifelong recovery?
My suspicion is that very few, if any,
have reflected much on William and his treatment. Given a lack of time or
effort devoted to reflection, I suspect precious little, if anything, has been
learned. I am talking about good, well-intentioned people who have dedicated
their lives to important work. But is it work so trapped in orthodoxy of
practice, work so mired in bureaucracy, that it leaves little time for
introspection? How much are those who treat substance use disorder just like
those they hope to cure, repeating the same behavior over and over? We ask
addicts to look at what they do. We need to ask treatment providers to take a
harder look at what they do. Or how about, just a look.
Recovery is like a pinball machine. Up
at the top somewhere, protected by bumpers and barriers is a target, prolonged
recovery, hit sometimes by good luck, sometimes by good management. Your ball
may land in a hole temporarily and then get spit back into play again. That’s
Emergency Rooms or the court system. Points off for the court system. You might
get lucky and hit a treatment gizmo that puts two balls in play — one for
substance use and one for mental health issues. Your ball may just get
swallowed up for a while before reappearing somewhere by surprise. That’s
insurance coverage. Or relapse. Points off. The ball may disappear down a hole
until it pops up in the starting mechanism. You pull back, let go and start
over. Inpatient or outpatient. Or relapse. Points deducted. Up toward the top
are some flippers to keep you in play. Methadone. Suboxone. Side bumpers bounce
you repeatedly into the center of the game. 12 Steps. DO NOT TILT! The lights
flash, the bells go off and you do your best to tune out the frenzy in a game
slanted downhill. Over time too many balls roll through that last set of
flippers and disappear. Rock Bottom. Game Over.
So why don’t we tilt the table? Why
don’t we take the whole game and flip it on its end so that all the balls roll
toward WINNER!
I can hear someone calling me a bitter,
unrepentant enabler right about now. Unwittingly, or even knowingly,
maintaining the status quo. I’m tilting the table. Family members are hardly
the only enablers, however quickly blame may come our way. When physicians,
medical schools, therapists, Twelve Step programs, insurance companies,
pharmaceutical companies, inpatient and outpatient treatment providers,
politicians, judges, drug courts, police, schools and colleges take a good hard
look at themselves and ask how they enable addiction, how their actions and
ignorance perpetuate it, then we’ll have taken a step toward a solution. We
can’t expect answers and solutions when we resist even asking the questions
necessary to solve the problem. I’M FLIPPING THE GAME! Who’s joining me?
