To the drug dealer who sold to my husband the morning he died and to all the other dealers out there. As much as I don’t want to, I find myself thinking about you from time to time. My mind often travels back to that day, having just found out Daniel was gone forever just a few short hours prior and then seeing you, walking down the road. I remember jumping out of my sister’s moving vehicle as unearthly sobs and screams escaped me. I physically put my hands on you, at first to rip you apart but that slowly turned into me, hugging you and begging you through sobs to get help before it was too late for you as well.
I wonder if you knew how many nights Daniel and I spent crying, hating what we were becoming. Yet no matter how many numbers we blocked, you would still somehow find a way to get ahold of us. I wonder if you went through the same things before becoming what you were. Daniel tried to save himself and every time you watched, lurking in the shadows, calling to him… Even though you didn’t put a gun to his head, you sure helped hold the pipe to his lips.
While your pockets grew, I watched my husband shrink and slowly disappear, folding in on himself until all that was left was an empty shell, full of used to be’s. I wonder if you were full of used to be’s as well…
For whatever reason you seemed to always escape law enforcement. Meanwhile our small town police force arrested your victims and filled our jails with those who possessed your drugs. They arrested those who stole in order to buy your dope. They arrested those who sold off small portions of your drugs or sold their own bodies, just to support their habits. Yet you went on dealing. To you I suppose dealing drugs was a business that brought income. For us though, it was a plague that preyed on life.
You didn’t have customers; you had victims. I wonder if you ever looked hard into Daniel’s eyes. If so, you’d have found desperation, not adoration. I wonder if at one time you had that look of desperation, if you still did. I suppose I’ll never know. There is a price on everything and on every action in this life. We each reap what we sow. Future consequences are inevitably shaped by present actions. You died of an accidental fentanyl overdose just 17 short days after Daniel died. Reaping what you sowed. You smoked what you thought was “H” and you laid your head down for bed never to open your eyes again. I felt no joy at the news, as you left behind a daughter who now has to live without a mother, your parents without a daughter and so many others who knew and loved you. I rejoice over the loss of no one, even you.
I have been open about my addiction since checking into rehab August 4th, 2022. I get often asked why I am so honest and blunt about my struggles. I’d like to be able to say it’s because I know their pain, while that is very true, that’s not the entire truth. If I am honest completely, it has more to do with Daniel, who died from an overdose. Daniel who never fully made it to the rooms of recovery. My husband, who suffered in silent desperation for a very long time. My rock bottom landed me in a nice treatment facility with a chance at recovery. My husband’s landed him in an urn reduced to ash. That’s been really hard for me to come to terms with. But seventeen months later and I’m still sober and I’m still here. I still matter, even without him.
I wish you the best 