Powerlessness

Since I have advocated for the blanket legalization of drugs in the past and been accused on such occasions, not without reason, of proposing a culture in which heroin is as accessible as nicotine; have been accused likewise, but without reason, of ignoring the near certain increase in use and dependency; have been accused, in other words, of proposing a system amenable to my own hedonism and recreational use at the expense of the real costs of addiction, I suppose I'm obliged to say that the death in my family last week was my brother, who was twenty-six, and who died after an overdose of OxyContin following a year's struggle with addiction.

Let me qualify. His addiction predated the past year, but it was about a year ago that he lost his restaurant job due to pilfering and other work habits of addicts in the hospitality industry, i.e. the hospitality industry. It was at that point that his family sought first to actively intervene by sending him (willingly) to a residential rehab program, then to "separate with love," as the Al-Anon credo puts it, which is to say, remove ourselves from his affairs, cease our monetary and material support, leaving him responsible for his own recovery, and finally, in the last few weeks, reconnecting with him as he seemed to make tentative steps toward addressing his problems. I emphasize seemed. A central tenet of the 12-step movement is that only addicts can recognize other addicts' bullshit, and regrettably, that belief is almost always true.

Of course, Oxycodone is legal with a prescription, but that's a distinction without a difference, as it was illegal for my brother to buy, possess, and presumably sell from time to time. His addiction existed in a curious demimonde wherein the whole treatment and rehab and recovery cultures attempted--I emphasize, attempted--to ignore the plain fact that the disease they were treating, attempting to treat, was a crime, and although making it not a crime might lead to more use, it might also lead to more recovery; it might lead to more regular doses, less adulteration with other substances. It might have meant that my brother didn't have to die in a cheap roadside motel room after a late-night visit to some dealer's ramshackle house.

It is worth noting that the police had staked out that house, and that its inhabitant was a known dealer, and that they watched my brother go in and out but did nothing to stop him, which should tell you something about the Drug War's concern with addiction and its human toll. The transaction was just evidence. His death will ultimately be evidence, I suppose. Evidence. That's all.

In any case, you can't extrapolate a political position or personal philosophy from one occurrence, however close to you, and it would be crass to claim that since my belief in legalization survived the catastrophe of my brother's death, it must have real internal consistency and coherence. Well, hell, or maybe it's just totally deluded. What I want to point out is this: that the very idea of treating "drugs" as a thing about which a society can craft "policy" is totally preposterous, completely absurd. What is your drug policy? What can it possibly mean? The decision to pick up a drink, crush a pill, or do a line, is at last just that, and no law or lack thereof alters this basic and fundamental fact. Addiction is a disease (although like Crispin I have some quibbles with the notion), and the idea that by exerting some kind of totalitarian control on the lived environment we can eradicate it is as foolish as the idea that we can eradicate cancer by labeling every foodstuff and cosmetic.

The 12-step credo is that the catalyst for addiction is the desire for control, and that only by letting go can one begin to recover. There is a lesson in that for the lives of men and nations.