duality & dialectics

For Handsome Doug & all the others that I’ve had the opportunity to love and grieve in addiction.

These are my reflections based on Euphoria season 3 episode 8. Tons of spoilers!

This episode starts off with Ali smoking crack. He cheats on his wife with a white sex worker, commits domestic violence against his wife, has a heart attack and procedure from said crack and then decides to turn his life around with Allah and NA. The show captures him as a sponsor offering guidance to his sponsee who is obviously struggling with his own addiction. He gives his sponsee, Ammanuel, an inspiring speech about hope, the future, and staying clean.

In the next scene, they show Ammanuel lying dead in a casket- presumably from an overdose. I immediately, really, instinctually hit pause because honestly up until this point, Euphoria hasn’t really shown me anything that I could intimately relate to. I’ve never lived Rue’s life or experienced those specific frustrations as a family member. I’ve never had an abusive partner or crazy friends that sleep with and then go on to marry them.. y’all get the point. I have, however, stood over many caskets of individuals that have died from a drug overdose.

My favorite job of all time is also the same place that changed my entire life. I worked for a drug and alcohol rehabilitation nonprofit organization, specifically at their detox center. Working at the detox center meant that I saw people coming in high and drunk out of their minds and met them with a breathalyzer and lots of questions to understand their situation better. I spent many days taking their vitals, making sure they ate, drank, threw up, took meds, called their sponsors, and attended meetings until they not only were able to do so on their own but most importantly- did so willingly.

I don’t remember the first client that relapsed after I worked with them, but I do remember my reaction. Pure confusion. What do you mean after 5-7 days and a recommitment to your life and goals you’ve relapsed?? *insert eye roll and laughter at my naivety*

I will never forget the first call that had me doubled over sobbing… or his funeral. That kind of thing sticks to you. It’s unshakable, really, for me at least. I remember coworkers telling me that I’d get used to this, that this disease is merciless, and that I can’t save anyone. A coldness that made me feel disgusted with the idea at the time was, in hindsight, a prophecy that came true. I did get used to death.

I often tell myself the story that I haven’t felt real grief since my grandma died in 2017, but that’s obviously not the case. My realization of this is literally coming as I write this reflection. I started this job the following year in 2018. While 2018 had its own ups and steep, steep downs- the next 3-4 years would bring over 30 drug related deaths of individuals that I knew personally whether through detox, residential treatment, meetings, or just in passing. Over 30 smiles, laughs, and stories- tragic and happy- stored in my brain belonging to individuals I will never see again. Happenings and events that will never be told from their mouths again.

I recently led a mindfulness meditation at work including journal prompts for mental health wellness and one stuck out to me, daring me almost, to open my own grief filled Pandora’s box: “if my anxiety, sadness, or anger could speak— what story would it be trying to tell me?” In true Omi fashion, I decided to lean in and participate in the activity. My response came by way of a poem:

If my sadness could speak, I don’t think she would.

Instead, I think, she would show me images and flashes -

She knows I’m nostalgic like that-

& she would hold me as I wept.

I think my sadness understands that pain is held in my bare hands

and at the front of my brain

She would realize that she wouldn’t have to dig deep for the memories because I replay them every night before I go to sleep.

What happens if this doesn’t go away?

If I’m doomed to be a bottomless bucket of yearning, grief, and sadness?

If the moments of good feelings will always be just that- “moments”…

I left the poem unfinished, just like I left Euphoria. After seeing Ali shake Rue and write her name and death date in his little black book, I decided I could no longer watch. Mostly because that’s another thing I used to do. I have a note somewhere in my notes app with the names of all the people I’ve gotten the opportunity to love. I know their birthdays, kids names, the first drug they ever tried, and why AA never worked for them. I know where they’re buried and I remember their favorite songs to play on the guitar.

The duality and also the dialectics of being a healer while holding immense pain are things I sit with often. Sometimes it comes in the form of questioning my ability. For example, “how am I someone’s therapist?” Is one I ask a lot. People trust me and look to me for help and support when I feel like I’ve failed so many people. And I know that “saviorism” is a thing- I made that word up but iykyk- but I think it’s different going into a situation believing you were sent there or meant to save people versus working with a person every day, them overdosing and dying, and you feeling ineffective and like shit for the rest of your life…? I don’t know, I’m still a very grateful member of alanon so bear with me.

Anyways, that brings me to the dialectics of it all that- maybe that is the contradiction I have been trying to solve when it was never meant to be solved. The same experiences that fill me with grief are also what make me capable of this work. I know what it means to sit with loss, sleep with loss, go out and try to have a good time with my niggas- with loss. I know what it means to watch someone fight for their life one day at a time. I know that hope and heartbreak are not opposites in recovery; they exist together. Every person who stays sober carries the possibility of relapse. Every person who relapses carries the possibility of recovery. I’ve literally seen it, witnessed miracles before my eyes. Daily.

The people in Ali’s pages and in my notes app are evidence of loss, but they are also evidence of love. The dialectic of this work is that we are asked to hold both at once: to grieve deeply without surrendering to hopelessness, and to keep believing in people while knowing we cannot save them (radical acceptance). The pain never disappears, but neither does the meaning. Somehow, both remain true.