There’s a memorable scene in Alex Cox’s 1986 Sid & Nancy biopic, where Nancy Spungen calls her mom from a London phonebooth to ask for money.
“We got married. Me and Sid,” says Nancy, the American girlfriend of Sex Pistol Sid Vicious (played by Chloe Webb, who elevated Nancy to took an vilified character and performed her as a childlike woman who was as vulnerable and loving as she was clever and funny.) “Sid Vicious, you remember, from the Sex Pistols,” she explains.
“Anyway,” she continues, “why don’t you send us a present for our honeymoon.” After poo-pooing her mother’s offer to send them sheets, Nancy cuts to the chase: “Why don’t you send us some money?”
Then, after a muffled response from mom, Nancy says, “Why not?” The anxiety in her voice, snowballing into a familiar hostility — the pain of familial rejection.
For those who know, a parent’s rejection can feel agonizing in a primitive incomprehensible way. It seems to contradict all we’ve been taught about motherhood. Webb’s Nancy embodies this torment especially well as she screams into the phone: “I am SO married … I am! …. NO. […] Listen to me — if you don’t send us the money RIGHT NOW, we’re both gonna fucking DIE! […] YOU’D LIKE THAT, WOULDN’T YOU?!?”
“FUCK YOUUUUUUUUU.” A desperate, primordial rage takes her over completely. Smash, crash. She uses the receiver (and her palm) to shatter some phonebooth windows, then tumbles onto the street, with Gary Oldman’s (delightfully naive) Sid Vicious at her heels.
I thought it could be (at least morbidly) amusing to take the punchline of this phonebooth scene and imagine how Hillary Clinton and Barbara Walters might respond. All smiles, I bet.
Jokes aside, a scene like this requires a thorough understanding of what it’s like to be dopesick, broke and abandoned. We see this all the time in drug user advocacy — unless you know what it’s really like, you don’t know.
It’s easy to pick out writers, actors and movie makers who have no idea what it’s like to take hard drugs, to be enslaved by them (and we’ll talk about this in future posts, I promise). To reach inside and dredge up the terror of knowing their time (as healthy, able bodies) is about to expire — unless and until they find a fix.
If they don’t find it — and they aren’t on any type of opiate replacement drug, like methadone or Suboxone1 — it is almost certain that their minds and bodies will commence a journey so frightening, painful and isolating that aggressive bodily trauma is practically guaranteed.
By the time we meet them in the phonebooth scene, it’s likely that Nancy and Sid have already lost much of their comfort and safety. Why else would Nancy risk calling her mother, who, by this time, is a staunch believer in the perils of enabling (at least, according to Deborah Spungen’s memoir).
And yet, Nancy is apparently so weakened by her aggravated, vulnerable state, that she risks adding fuel to the flame. What other option is there?
Or maybe she hopes to accelerate her torment by pushing the only button that might just kill her. When the person who gave her life refuses to extend a life preserver; the moment we learn the gruesome limits of our mothers’ love — a pain to end all pains.
“What doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.” — Friedrich Nietzsche
It is not uncommon for Nietzsche’s quote to be taken out of context — especially by those who haven’t read Nietzsche. What he means (I think) is that adversity can make us more resilient — provided we are open to learning from it.
In the recovery and self-help worlds, we may hear a more literal interpretation of Nietzsche’s quote. Read in this way, it is easy to assume that growth is always possible, no matter how painful our experiences — as long as we’re alive to process them.
The subtext, of course, is that people who aren’t made stronger through trauma are inherently weak — maybe even “constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves.”
The problem with this assumption is that there’s compelling evidence suggesting that activation (or triggering) of traumatic events creates physiological stress responses that are exceptionally hard to treat. We don’t just forget and move on. And the activation mechanism isn’t one that’s easily controlled — if we’re even aware of it.
Trauma disorders (like PTSD) can be treated. But effective treatments are costly, and usually require time and focus (a luxury not afforded to many working class or poor folks).
Merely surviving a trauma doesn’t mean the work is done. Among those survivors privileged enough to receive any of the approved treatments, it’s possible to learn new coping skills and manage symptoms. But recovery, for many, is a life’s work; rarely — if ever — does it follow a linear path, causing some to doubt its efficacy.
Opiate withdrawal is a brutalizing experience. Especially when we consider that many folks use opiates to (at least, in part) squash physical and emotional pain. The pain of rejection and fear, or boredom and existential dread. The pain of sexual and physical assault, whether it happened to us or we saw it done to someone we loved2.
Some of us use drugs to silence the voice telling us we’ll never do something we can be proud of, like write a book or publish a poem, compose an album of original songs, produce a one-woman show, finish high school or graduate university, or find a partner to raise a family with.
Some voices tell us we will never be loved; that we are unlovable. That we should have never been born. And we should feel ashamed of who we really are, underneath our masks and shells.
Do you know these voices? I’m sure most of us can relate.
I’m also sure that many of us have tried — whether through food, alcohol and drugs, or over-spending, over-working, under-eating and compulsive caretaking — to get some peace from our own intrusive thoughts. Some of us use sex and dating to repress pain.3
I’m also sure that we weren’t born with those voices; we inherited them — from our parents, through our ancestry, on TV, in church and on the school playground.
When Chloe Webb’s Nancy Spungen says she’s going to fucking DIE if she doesn’t get money for dope, she’s not kidding.
While it’s true that dope sickness doesn’t, itself, cause death, it can certainly make sufferers want to die.4 Suicide isn’t uncommon, especially when folks are withdrawing from longer-acting opiate agonist mediations, like methadone. Heroin, by comparison, has a shorter half-life, meaning it is possible (no guarantees) to feel better after five days to a week (though every body is different — and those differences must be acknowledged and treated accordingly).
When Suboxone (the brand name for buprenorphine) rose to power in/around 2015, it boasted the longest acting partial agonist on the market. This meant that people stabilized on Suboxone could easily go a full 24-to-48 hours (some have said even longer) without feeling any withdrawal symptoms. Methadone, by contrast, was known to have shorter “legs” (meaning, people could wake up in withdrawal, needing to rush to their — often daily — dispensing pharmacy).
When I started Suboxone in 2017, program nurses and doctors told me that, when compared to methadone, Suboxone was far easier to taper off of (provided the person was ready). This gave me some comfort — until I realize it was bullshit.
Of course it’s not “easier.” Suboxone is known for it’s high receptor binding affinity. And the extended half-life alone makes tapering a long/painful experience.
In 2017, I was 32 years old. I couldn’t believe I’d ended up on an opioid replacement medication, and (what felt to me like) a prisoner to an oppressive, often privatized, penalizing, stigmatizing system of care, knowns as the OAT system.
I could not believe I’d become an opioid dependent person. I felt shame, despair, and hopelessness. I couldn’t even really talk about it with anyone. In recovery circles (like 12-Step-based groups) stories about opioid replacement were often met with callousness, hostility and fear-mongering.
“That’s like substituting one addiction for another” — a common response by abstinence-only proponents. But how is that different than finding a new outlet to replace the need to drink and/or drug? I’m confused. Isn’t that what we do, in recovery programs? Find activities, friends and communities (even lovers, despite the controversy) to fill the HOLE we used to jam up with drugs and partying? Isn’t the point to stay busy-busy-busy, silencing our inner party animal and/or self-flagellating inner critic.
As Courtney’s mom reportedly said, “You can’t walk around with a hole inside you.” Indeed, we can’t. But, in all fairness, few (if any) of us were ever taught to identify the hole, or how to quell it. It’s not good enough to cover it over.
But North Americans are experts at patching up holes (with a stick, says Dear Liza, which I never understood). We clean the cut, bandage it, apply pressure until the bleeding slows or stops. Hopefully, we don’t bleed out.
When Courtney Love told the kids at Kurt’s memorial service that the “80s tough love bullshit doesn’t work,” she was right. And this was not long after she’d agreed to hire an interventionist to help his family and friends confront him about his heroin use.
I’ve known an interventionist or two (and, I’m ashamed to say, I’ve watched that stupid show). Interventionists, IMO, are the bottom feeders of the helping profession. And, in BC (and probably elsewhere), they aren’t even regulated, or recognized as legitimate healthcare professionals.
I wonder how they can sleep at night, knowing that tomorrow they are probably going to some duplex in the suburbs (like Burnaby) to help threaten some poor drug user with total isolation from family, friends and pets, and removal from his home…OR ELSE.
This is tough love.
After Kurt’s intervention, he agreed to enter an inpatient recovery centre in LA (perhaps to pacify his wife, bandmates and manager). But he left treatment the very next day. Now, either he was a most fickle Pisces indeed (and it takes one to know), or he never had any intention of staying. One overnight is barely enough time to get a thorough program orientation.
Liking, loving or relying on drugs did not mean [Kurt Cobain] did not, or could not, love his wife, daughter and family.
Sources confirm that Kurt felt appeared betrayed — enraged — by the ambush intervention. And who can blame him? He was 27 years young, a massive international rock star, with radio hits he’d already tired of playing.
He was married to, Courtney, the love of his life, and they had a cherubic infant, Frances Bean. Kurt was, by most accounts, happy to be a family man — despite his relative youth and inexperience.
Kurt also had stomach pains he described as “burning” and “nauseous.” And, like with many stomach ailments, doctors and specialists were stumped. I believe him when he wrote that heroin gave him a rare reprieve from his pain.
I also believe that Kurt liked using drugs. Loved them. Even before heroin, he was known to take acid, Vicodin, coke, crack, and drink booze. Not unusual for a teenager from a small logging town, Kurt liked to party. He also listened to records, learned guitar, wrote music, and started a band that took him out of Aberdeen forever.
Liking, loving or relying on drugs did not mean he did not, or could not, love his wife, daughter and family.
I would bet that on March 31st, 1994, Kurt Cobain wasn’t ready to quit heroin. But what choice did he have? One by one, his friends read letters they wrote, about how worried they were and how they didn’t want him to die. One by one, they told him that he’d lose everything — his wife and daughter, the band — if he didn’t seek help immediately. Now. Today. A car was waiting to drive him to the airport, where he’d fly to LA.
Imagine how he felt. Kurt’s been described as a sensitive guy. He may have also been needy, haunted by a feeling of rejection and abandonment. Sound familiar?
When Kurt was nine, his parents divorced, throwing his stability into flux. He lived with his father, Don, until Don remarried. Then he was sent back to his mother’s, where he was eventually kicked out of her house. He lived with relatives, and eventually got a place of his own.
Kurt’s childhood sounds a bit Monroe-esque. Marilyn Monroe was a child when she was sent to live with neighbours, grandparents and family friends. She also spent time in an orphanage, despite knowing she had a mother.
Marilyn’s last lifeline was marriage. She was 15 and he was a marine. It’s hard to doubt that such instability (especially during her formative years) wouldn’t result in fear of abandonment, as well as a need to find love. And a need to cope using drugs.
Today, we know that folks using toxic street drugs have a far less chance of changing, ceasing or surviving their use when they have no family (or other) support.
For me, this is a no-brainer. When I arrived at Pacifica Treatment Centre in 2019, I left my dope behind. But I still couldn’t discard the armour I’d spent my whole life unconsciously building up around me. I barely knew it was there, even as it was crushing me.
For the first time, I felt what it was like to belong to a community of people who couldn’t have been more different, but who shared the ultimate agony of self-suppression. Evolution, I learned, was not a linear path. Finally, I was open and honest — even vulnerable — about where I’d been, what I’d done, about my shame, my trauma, my abuse; about my fears and anxieties.
I learned that I didn’t need to change or hide parts of myself to be loved. And I learned to hold others, as they held me, with as few conditions as possible. (This is not easy, btw.)
So, what’s the conclusion here?
Should Deborah Spungen have sent her daughter, Nancy, the money she needed? Even as she knew her daughter was physically dependent on what was then considered once of the more dangerous drugs. But that would be enabling Nancy’s addiction, no?
The funny thing about the word enable is that is has a few interpretations, and some of them are almost contradictory. To enable someone or something can be to make it easier, to make them able — as in, to give them power, competence or means. At the same time, enabling can also encourage or support “bad behaviour.” Not one of these definitions is more right than the others. Instead, they co-exist, as if taunting the reader. As if telling us that we can decide how to apply the word
Not sending Nancy the money isn’t going to change her habbit; enabling her drug use won’t make her stop using drugs. When it comes to hard drugs, like fentanyl or benzo dope, quitting isn’t easy. In fact, it’s nearly impossible without treatments informed by evidence and data.
In 2022, our treatments for substance use disorder (also known as “addictions treatment”) are tragically, fatally insufficient (IMO). Science and public health has not caught up to the mass poisoning epidemic (still referred to as the “overdose crisis”) that, since being declared a state of emergency in BC seven years ago, shows few (if any) signs of slowing.
This isn’t any one person’s fault. But it is everyone’s responsibility. Because we all know someone — we all love someone — or many someones who are impacted by a drug supply cut with poison.
Back to Nancy: let’s look at the pros and cons (or the more and less harmful assumed impacts) of giving money to someone who is dopesick.
Giving Nancy the means to acquire heroin means that she could overdose and die from whatever batch she purchases. Overdose is always a risk, regardless of where/how she gets the money to buy said drugs. These risks can be reduced if Nancy is a more experienced user (someone who has been dependent for a year or more), if she knows and trusts her source, if she is on methadone (or some other opiate substitution drug) and, most importantly, if she doesn’t use alone.
On the other hand, sending Nancy the money to relieve her dope sickness may prevent her from doing something rash or dangerous. When we are dopesick, our ability to make informed decisions can become impaired; we may move quickly, clumsily, we sweat, feel chilled. This can increases our risk of buying from an unknown — but conveniently located — drug dealer. Our risk of infection and abscess goes up, too, since we may not have time to obtain safer gear and/or practice other harm reduction best practices.
Our method of obtaining drug money may be degrading or illegal; we might do something we wouldn’t otherwise do in a quest to alleviate our pain (like survival sex work). And guess what happens when we pile pain on top of pain? Like a trauma layered cake. Maybe the cake becomes too dense to slice into, and we can’t rescue even a sliver.
Today, we know that folks using toxic street drugs have a far less chance of changing, ceasing or surviving their use when they have no family (or other) support.
Maybe the trauma is like a Russian doll. The kind we pull apart, only to find a smaller doll inside. Gradually, the girl gets smaller and smaller, until we’re sure we’re about to uncover something that tells us something — anything — about her. And when we do find the smallest, original part of her, all that’s there is dust. From neglect. From rejection. From lack of love, whether she uses drugs or not.
Whether she uses drugs for fun, or whether she is physically/psychologically dependent on them, she needs to be cared for in the way that she knows will best alleviate her pain — keep her out of danger — at least for one more day.
Don’t believe the lie that people who use drugs don’t know what’s good for them.5 They may not know how to stop using — if and when they’re ready — but neither do you. So stop talking. Stop thinking you know anything about drugs — especially if you’ve never tried or been dependent on a drug.
Learn to respond to a call for help from the present moment, the one you are in, right now. And listen to your source — the one asking for help; she will guide you.
You might not make the right decision. Maybe you’re afraid, or you don’t want to be responsible; you’ve got enough on your docket. If that’s the case, own it. Know that your rejection most certainly hurts your loved one in pain. Know that you are leaving her open to predators, other dangers and, yes, even death. Know that your rejection might become a pain that ends up on the pile, making it that much harder to get help — when and if help is possible.
We can’t control the affects of our actions. They all cause ripples. But opting out isn’t an option; arguably, it screams louder, travels farther, than any action ever could.
1 In BC, today, it is harder than ever to treat street drug withdrawal with a partial or full opioid agonist (also called opioid agonist treatment).
2 Adverse childhood experiences (ACEs) are linked to physical illness, mental health diagnoses and death.
3 I’m not saying any of these coping tools are bad, btw, just noting that most of us have learned — often from our own parents — to reach for easy fixes when challenged. Ours is not a culture that prioritizes learning healthy coping skills.
4 In BC, in 2022, illicit benzodiazepine analogues have flooded our street drug supply. And benzo withdrawal can kill us. It’s highly probable that folks using street drugs today, are unknowingly consuming benzos (or knowingly, but without many/any alternatives). And aside from a few curt attempts to reduce illicit benzo dependence with prescription alternatives, like Ativan or Valium, our public health system lacks the solutions required to curb this phase of the epidemic.