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April second 2020, Bryan, my beautiful boy, lost his fight with addiction by an accidental overdose. I lived through those five days of him in CCU, sitting every day at his bedside, but I still have a hard time grasping that it is real. Somewhere in the back of my head I know it happened, but I won't accept all of it. If I do, I will surely fall off the face of the earth. The autopsy would determine the actual cause of death was fentanyl intoxication. I wasn't there when Bryan overdosed. I was on vacation, and I am learning to forgive myself for going and that somehow if I was home, this wouldn't have happened. On that Friday, Bryan had gone to the park with his sister, brother, sister-in-law, and his nephew. They would recall that Bryan was in a great mood, playing with Nolan and running around. They said he was happy. But that's what's hard about anxiety and depression. People can't see what's in the inside and addicts are good at hiding their addiction. They were all to go bowling that night, but at the last minute, Bryan decided to stay back at the house. He told them all to have a good time. He was going to watch TV and go to bed early. They returned three hours later. The lights were all on. They comment to each other that it was weird that Bryan had left all the lights on. Even stranger was the fact that the front door was locked. Bre went downstairs to turn off the lights and when she turned to go upstairs, she heard Justin screaming. “Call 911! Call 911!” Bryan was slumped over on his bed, face down, with one foot on the floor. He was pale and had blood coming from his nose. There was vomit on the bed where he laid. “I knew he was gone when I was pounding on his chest,” Justin would later tell me when recounting how he gave him CPR until EMS showed up. When EMS arrived, they administered two doses of Narcan. They were able to restart his heart and get a faint pulse. He was rushed to the hospital where he was put on life support. The day that Bryan was brought in, the doctor told us that in his opinion, Bryan was brain dead, but he needed to run a series of tests to confirm his prognosis. For twenty-four hours, Bryan was put into cold therapy. This would allow his brain and body to heal at a faster rate. After forty-eight hours, they began to warm him and run tests. Bryan failed the response test. This meant even though he wasn't on any pain medications, he didn't respond to pain, light, or breathing stimuli. He also failed the apnea test, which was, when taken off the ventilator, he could not breathe on his own or keep his blood pressure up. Then they performed an EGG and CAT scan. He had slight brain activity and blood flow to the brain. Unfortunately, the part of the brain that regulates breathing, swallowing, blinking, basically anything that would allow Bryan to function, was completely dead from being without oxygen too long. The part that was receiving blood flow was memory, and was nothing that would matter for Bryan to come back to us. The doctors could not legally declare him brain dead and call a time of death. Wednesday morning, Bryan's kidneys shut down, he developed pneumonia in his right lung, and he could no longer maintain oxygen saturation above eighty percent. Gift of Life deemed him unable to donate. So at 2:45 p.m., I made a phone call and as a family we decided to end Bryan's suffering. I couldn't see through the tears, and I felt suffocated with my mask on. I rip off my mask and take his limp, swollen hand and rub it all over my face. I fold down the blanket and pull his gown over to the side and place my cheek against his chest and breath him in. Under all the antiseptic hospital smells, I can recognize my child's scent. It's a strong, warm, sweet musky smell, and I inhale it as if it is a life source to me. It actually is. At three p.m., the doctor came in and explained what was going to happen. I listened to every word, nodding as she spoke, but inside I am screaming, Don't let this be happening! She turned off all medications. His vitals started slowing down within seconds. Oh God he's really dying! I laid my head on his chest to hear his heartbeat for the very last time. The respiratory doctor announced that she was turning off his ventilator. No, don't leave me! But Bryan did leave me at 3:45pm that day. Every sound, every smell, every second of that afternoon is forever etched into my memory. Goodbye, my Beautiful Boy. I love you and I'll see you when I see you.
My quarantine life is one now relegated to the inside of four walls, and shockingly, perhaps pathetically, hasn't changed drastically from my stay at home mom life. Although, this means my friends are dying at a more rapid pace. Isolation is the second greatest threat and enemy to rehabilitation and sobriety, with the harmful stigma surrounding drug addiction being the first. I foresee a ‘junkie' genocide in my, our, drab future. We aren't particularly fond of that word, however, so I suppose I could say an addict abolition. I spent the previous two years pregnant for one, and adjusting to new mom life with my newborn for the other. While rewarding, it certainly doesn't do wonders for your, my, mental health, that's for sure. I couldn't wait until Spring rolled around, which only made my jabbering about it for the months prior to my husband, even more pathetic once Spring did roll around with a global pandemic attached to it. I spend my days alternating between smoke breaks, watching my child play, and fantasizing about the feel of the prick of the poison filled needle that brings with it the gift of nothingness. I'm talking about heroin for those unfamiliar with drugs or the sensuality of subtle wordplay that may have missed my intent. You see, some folks, most folks get it all wrong. We addicts, we aren't chasing happiness or pleasure, or any of those other feelings we likely have never even known or experienced before. We are seeking the numbness, the gift of nothingness, that the pin pricked kiss of the needle brings. We live inside a purgatory inside our minds where this incurable, invasive disease we suffer from invades our every thought. For us, the darkness pushes through to cloak even our light and lightest times, inside a veil of secrecy and blackness where addiction grows and thrives. The mental relapse is the first sign that you're headed back into Satan's deceptively starry sky. Once he, or she, as Satan may in fact be a woman as cunning as the beast is, has you in it's grasp, nothing is safe. The sounds of my baby's footsteps, unsteady like a newborn fawn as he learns to walk, are now replaced with the demonic chatter of my afflictions luring me back into their deadly world. Unlike my son, who has all the unconditional love of his doting mother, my childhood was vastly different. The Elmo my son hugs and shakes, for me, replaced with a narcotic filled pill bottle rattle. Or more likely than not, a penny filled medication bottle as my mother and father had already ingested the potent drugs inside. Some of those narcotics given to me also, under the guise of them being vitamins. I was nine years old when I became dependent on and addicted to a variety of narcotics. I then spent the next fifteen years living inside a hell few can imagine, encapsulated with drugs, attempted suicide, child abuse, and sexual assault, just to name a few. I was twenty-four-year-old when I died, the first time, only to be revived shortly thereafter. If you've never endured the hell of drug addiction, I certainly don't recommend it, nor could you possibly understand it. Even after achieving nine years of long term sobriety, the thoughts still pervasive as ever protruding into my otherwise blissful world. That needle would be the kiss of death, no doubt. But the addiction forces me to only fantasize about the kiss part of that prick that for me brings with it the momentary lapse of the memories of trauma. To forget the trauma is a bliss you just can't know unless you have suffered from the irreversible kind. The kind in which there is no fix for, as you are irreparably damaged, as I certainly am. People think we don't know we're killing ourselves with drugs. We know, we just hope and pray we can kill the painful memories before we kill ourselves entirely. Or like my heroin addict friend Diana, molested for years by her priest as a child, only hope as she will never pray again. Hope is something we in the addiction community are in terribly short, if not non existent supply of, however. You would think we were made for this life of isolation, we addicts, seeing as a majority of our lives we typically spend quarantined trying to run from and fight an invisible disease that's killing us in large numbers. But, we're not, and in fact our community's fatality rates only rapidly increase as this pandemic rages. So, just for today I hope and also pray that I won't pick up the poison that will grant me the gift of nothing that I abnormally and overwhelmingly crave far more than the gift of something. Covid 19 and it's deadly symptoms can't compete with the horror of addiction and it's symptoms, but together, together they just might kill me yet.
You saw me and I sparkled like diamonds You'd soon realize I was nothing but broken glass Knowing you'd bleed you stayed anyways Telling me I shined through the cracks Words like falling and love would slip through your mouth and I would end up running You would be left to bleed on your own as every road I chose cut us even deeper We struggled to keep winning You soon realized I was fighting a battle you knew nothing about You ended up staying anyways You looked at me with my messy long hair blowing in the wind and my dirty old red Converse shoes that were falling apart You called me beautiful like it was the easiest thing to say You looked me in the eye and saw me for me but the thick cloud of smoke I surrounded myself with was wearing our love down Your patience grew thin and your anger grew tall but you never chose to give up on me You learned the paths and roads of addiction I would soon be me in a couple days when it would wear off But then as time went on, it never wore off. I couldnt stop After running away for the umpteenth time I came back and you wanted to help me Knowing you couldn't save me and that I was permanently broken you wanted to support me through my battle You wanted to be there at the finish line You always believed in me. as the cloud of smoke finally and completely disappears its only you standing there waiting for me luckily not one single cut left a scar Every cut healed beautifully as I shined through my cracks I never needed to be saved or fixed I needed someone to love me just as is and accept me for me That person ended up being only you I finally found someone who knows me you took the time to understand and you stayed only you and always you We finally made it to cupcakes and rainbows and now as I sparkle like diamonds, while knowing i am only broken glass deep down inside I finally smile because I sparkle just the same and it's all because you stayed . only you and always you
I was more intrigued than I was afraid— and like a tiny white mouse, I crouched down inconspicuously, behind the kitchen door, hiding, the way a photographer might, when trying to capture the perfect cover for National Geographic: With guiltless awe, I watched my father tear into a chunk of raw chicken, like a hairless over-fed vulture, sev/er/ing and p-ulling apart greedily the flaccid pink breast with clawed fist, bits of flesh tumbling off his chin, and clinging onto his chest, exhaling with such fervor, as if his lungs had been picked off his torso like some dried, decayed fruit— And in his breathless satisfaction, he ventured forth a primitive sound from parted gates of brutal red, a sinking growl, a guttural groan, the kind that bends the skin, and shatters the skeleton of a small animal surrendering its own entrails in defeat, the frequency discernible only to that of the tongue of crude beasts with cavernous eyes, a pair of gaping holes where the air collapses and rushes back in a stream of black tar swallowing the universe. I thought I knew hunger— But I'd never known an appetite so voracious, so urgent, so fluent in savagery, it was almost as if his desertion of us in his whiskey-fueled form, was more a rebellion against his own humanity, so as to bypass the guilt, the pain, the agony, of living as man.
*WESTERN NORTH PACIFIC MONSOON TIME SCALE is proposed&designed by me in 1991 to study the Western North Pacific monsoon.So world scientists can make this scale and make further research&develop,promote&propagate it. Find out it by searching it's aforesaid name in all websites or can get by sending your email to my email I'd irlapatigangadhar255@gmail.com. Scientists who make this scale have trouble making this scale, kindly take my assistance in making this scale. Email id is:gangadhar19582058@gmail.com. I will create a model scale and send the same to their study. For this you must send the list of monsoon low pressure systems last 140 years since 1880 formed over the Western North Pacific monsoon region.In addition to this, a certain amount should be sent for expenses.Recognize me as the inventor of Western North Pacific Monsoon Time Scale by making references in your publications. You need to design the computer model later.
Once upon a time, a man named Paddy dug in the ground to harvest his crop, and found rot. Black, putrid rot. After digging more and more, he only found more of the same. He grabbed up a handful of what was supposed to be a potato, and, after pondering for a second, he suddenly and violently threw it; a long, hard throw, further than he thought he could throw, with fierce, clear adrenaline kicking through his body. But as he looked after his hurled piece of rot, his eyes focused on the Irishman's spear to the side. The landlord's men. A miserable, merciless, loveless lot. Now. Today. Coming to his house. Dropping everything, he turned and ran, faster than he thought he could run, up the hill to his humble stone cottage. He arrived there just as the men came riding at a swift jaunty pace into the hard-packed dirt front yard. His mind was on one thing. He neither turned nor stopped his pace, but hurled himself into the house and straight to that one thing. Along with a few last coins, he grabbed that one precious item, and ran far out back and, digging with his hands in the dry soil he placed that precious thing in the ground and threw some dirt over it. Then, turning, he saw the men ram rod the stone walls of his house. Stones fell and thudded inside the cottage, and he felt his heart thud with them. Like a wild man he wanted to run and fight them all, running into the midst of them like a one-man nightmare such as they had never seen before. With a roar the thatched roof went up in flames, and deep inside him something roared with it. But before he launched himself from his locked trance, heaven's gates swung open, and with a wild rush, it let loose its tears. All was thickly veiled with gray, fast falling, drenching, pouring. Quickly he turned, and threw himself on the ground, over his precious item shallowly buried. When the heaviness dwindled into a light drizzle, he lifted himself from the ground and turned to gaze at the landlord's work. The landlord's men were gone. Tumbled stones and piled ashes dark, damp and glistening held close the earth. Sifting smoke stirred up from it, lifting softly, sweetly, sorrowfully, like a soul leaving a young body, prematurely. And he felt his soul going with it, lifting, drifting, sifting. But not dead. Yes very much alive. More alive than many a living thing. Grief struck deep into his soul, the truest grief, yet not a tear he shed. Sorrow stung his heart, yet still, he rose upward. His precious item buried, he bent and dug it up. There it lay, like a small, premature casket, a narrow wooden box painted black, as long as his arm. His soul was in there, or, at least, a prime defining feature of his soul. Though it lay in a dark box, it was not dead. In fact it was one of the greatest defiers of death. Opening the box, Paddy pulled out his fiddle.
Juuling, has taken over schools and workplaces across the United States. Students and adults have fallen in love with this appealing new addiction. Some argue juuling is not malicious because it is less dangerous than smoking, but after its release in 2015, the Juul has become the most dangerous trend. Restaurants, airports, middle schools: Juul is everywhere because of its sleek design. Juul's resemblance of a flash drive makes it easy to conceal. During class kids pull it out, take a hit, and slip it back into their pocket without a look from the teacher. Juuling has become so popular in schools that kids satirically make fun of their fellow addicts by calling the bathroom a juul room after its newfound purpose. Its cool technological design makes it an item to be seen with. Kids are intrigued by the slim metal object with a blinking light. The more people who try it, the cooler it gets; the cooler it gets, the more people want to try it. Juul's increasing popularity is its strongest asset and our strongest weakness. The popularity forces people try, but addiction keeps them juuling. High schooler Matt Murphy first tried juul at a party and later found himself hopelessly addicted. In college, he found his “vaping was about maintenance, keeping the craving irritability at bay” (Hoffman). It took Matt three years to realize he had an addiction and all the while he was buying hundreds of pods. Juul is making money off of the entrapment of youths, a characteristic of the immoral society that exists in America. The most concerning element of this addiction is the teenager's inability to rationalize their addiction. Most juul dependent teenagers completely deny the possibility of addiction (Stanford Medical Center). Kids try it once and end up like Matt wondering how they have become so dependent on Juul and why they got addicted to something that seemed so harmless. An entire generation of people has been enslaved to a flash drive. Juul, however, is not totally to blame. Today's society conditions teenagers to chase highs and live for the moment. Juul just took advantage of this because it is depicted as a low-risk way of getting a buzz instead of a lifelong contract signed with one puff. Many of the long term effects of juuling are not known but the few that have been found are concerning enough. According to Dr. Rachel Boykan, a professor at Stony Brook University School of Medicine, “Nicotine may disrupt the formation of circuits in the brain that control attention and learning”(Hoffman). My generation has the smallest attention span and highest rates of attention disorders. Add a device specialized in creating nicotine addictions to the mix, and kids will soon be unable to function or complete tasks that take longer than five minutes. This translates to the loss of an entire generation of effective employees and leaders which will have catastrophic effects on the world because juuling is not just a U.S. problem, it's everywhere. This is surprising considering juul was only released in 2015, meaning it spread across the world in less than 4 years. Because the juul is so new, there could be mountains of unknown consequences. Matt starting realizing that he would be short of breath when exercising shortly after starting his addiction.Matt said, “‘We called it ‘Juul lung,'”(Hoffman). Teenagers have started unearthing unknown effects of juuling themselves and there are other unproven concerns about juuls effects on the heart and possibly the arteries too as well (Hoffman). The unknown component of juul makes it appear a lot safer than alternatives and is part of the reason it is so popular. Little do the kids trying it know that it has the potential to become the next cigarette. For all scientists know, juul could even be worse. The false safety given by ignorance is another trademark of today's society unearthed by juul. People would rather be in the dark of the consequences of their actions than accept them. Juuling is the most dangerous trend because users are susceptible to its addiction forming abilities and long term health effects because of its widespread popularity. America today is filled with addictions of every kind because of the mindset of its people. Juul is the perfect product for young Americans because it highlights their mindset of living in the moment and denying future consequences. If juuling continues to gain popularity without repercussions, America as a society will decline as people continue to have shortened attention spans and weaker abilities to learn. Citations Hoffman, Jan. “The Price of Cool: A Teenager, a Juul and Nicotine Addiction.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 16 Nov. 2018, Web. 9 Jan. 2019. staff, Science X. “Juul e-Cigarettes Pose Addiction Risk for Young Users, Study Finds.” Medical Xpress - Medical Research Advances and Health News, Medical Xpress, 19 Oct. 2018, Web. 4 Jan. 2019.
Today, we care about likes and comments more than we care about our health and safety. Now, don't get me wrong. Social media is the very reason that I am able to talk to you right now. I always thought it was a blessing until I discovered the dark side of it. I used to be an extremely good student in class but it didn't last long. My parents were always happy with the grades I got. One day they decided to gift me a tablet and that's when things changed. It was the day that I lost my true identity. I was simply not myself anymore. In the beginning, I used to play a game or two which slowly turned into an hour or two. My creativity and passion was replaced with chatting and surfing. It went on until the point that I used to spend almost 14 to 18 hours in a day and sometimes it used to go upto 20 hours as well. Yes, I was an addict. My parents tried everything to help me break free from the chains of digital addiction including counselling but nothing worked. The only result was that I turned more aggressive and anxious. It wasn't until last year that I confronted reality. I was chatting on my phone while crossing the street when I met an accident and from then on everything changed in my life. I couldn't walk or eat on my own anymore. I needed help for almost everything. That single moment turned my life around. This is not just my story but every one of us who is on their phone while driving, eating or crossing the street. Our phones have become an extended part of our lives and we all are tied in the chains of social media. We all can stop this before it gets worse. These are my tips from my experience: 1. Track your usage. 2. Use your phone with a purpose. 3. Set aside time for journaling, mediation and exercise. 4. Make time for yourself and your passion. 5. Make time for face-to-face interactions. 6. Be present and live in the moment. SOCIAL MEDIA CAN BE A BLESSING OR A CURSE, THE CHOICE IS YOURS!
Life has a way of knocking us off our feet, for me it happened in increments throughout my life. It started with my parents' divorce when I was two, I felt a slight shove, but it didn't knock me down. Growing up only living with one parent (my mom) it made me closer to her than I am to anyone, but it also put distance between me and my dad, one that little girls should never know. Since it happened when I was so young I still don't know what a normal family feels like it's not like in the movies where they divorce when the child remembers, I don't. Because of that I never rebelled for attention or pushed them to get together but there is a part of me that always wonders what it would be like to be one family and that's something I'll never know. The next thing that really shook me was finding out I had ADD and Dyslexia. This one hit me harder and faster than the first, but it still didn't make me fall. Having these disorders made school difficult for me because it made me hate school and everything about it, I didn't want to go because everyone thought I was stupid or dumb even me. However, after finding out I did get help and I started to love school and learning: this was me fighting back against the world. That feeling never really go away though, I may know that I am not dumb, but it doesn't stop me from believing it every so often. Then was I about six or so I started to get headaches bad ones and my feet and hands would go numb, it may also help to know that I was not the most graceful kid. After that started my mom took me to the doctor and then one visit turned into two and then three and so on, for a while they believed I had MS (Multiple sclerosis) because on top of those symptoms I also had scaring in my brain. This was a hard hit for me because it worried my parents and it took many years to find out what was actually wrong with me, this one on top of the other hits makes me fall sometimes but I just have to get back up and tie my shoes. I went to doctor after doctor and almost every time I went in I had to do something involved with needles, which is probably why I hate them so much. After so many doctors I finally found one that might know what was going on but before she could help me she passed away (her name was DR. Bunch and she was amazing) and we lost a very good person in the world. After that it took us a couple of years to find a doctor that could help find out what was wrong with me, and with a lot of test and many smart people we found out that I have Hashimoto's an autoimmune disease that has to do with the thyroid. At this point I got knocked over, but I got back up because know we knew what was wrong and could fix it. It's a disease in with your immune system attacks your thyroid gland, it has many symptoms and some double as symptoms for MS which is where the confusion came up and it cause me to not know from the time I was six to seventeen what was wrong with me. At some points in my life the unknown kept me from doing some of the things that I wanted to do and that changed me and my personality in ways that I might not be the same person if I had known. Now I am in college and dealing with all these hits at once and yes it may be difficult sometime, and life might knock me over, but I am just going to keep getting back up. For me motivation is sometimes not there because of my disease but I just must push through it and the same goes for writing I may struggle a lot, but I am going to keep pushing. This is how life tries to kick me off my feet now, but I'll just tie my shoes and try not to fall over.
Imagine a world of absolute pain. No, I mean imagine real agony; more, more. You're getting closer. Add a little more pain. Now, consider this imaginary world of yours is as a stumped toe in the night compared to the actual emotional world that you loved one is living in every minute of every day. I don't care how bad you can imagine it to be. If you have never been on the inside of addiction, you could never truly understand. Try telling a hospitalized burn victim that you “can imagine” how they feel. That healed grease-pop scar on your arm, the one that “really hurt” isn't even remotely close to what that person is going through. No, I don't have a PhD behind my name, my experience comes from the inside. I was an addict. Scratch that. I am an addict in recovery and will be for the rest of my life. When you look at your loved one, what you are seeing is not you little girl, or your little boy. That's not your sister, brother, mother or father. That's not your friend. All you can see is the outside shell. I've heard several say that is the abandoned building that used to hold that person. I'm here to tell you, that is not an abandoned building, they are still very much inside that hull. What you see is more likened to a garbage can that is holding what's left of them. I'm here to take the lid off and let you see the putrefied remains inside. When you look inside of that person, you are looking at the emotional sludge that has devastated your loved one. But unlike man-made garbage, God made your loved one the first time, and HE can re-make them again! There is no “bionic” theme music. I'm not talking about repurpose or recycle. HE can literally re-make them. The key is that they need for HIM to remake you too. You may even know their story, but you do not know their heart. If you find yourself asking, “Why?” then you could not possibly imagine the pain that it took to get them where they are. I heard a story a few years back. It spoke of two men, brothers, who grew up and chose very different paths for themselves. One became a preacher, a the other an alcoholic. When each was asked why they turned out the way that they did, they both responded, “because my dad was an alcoholic.” People react differently to trauma. Can you remember when the World Trade Towers were hit in 2001? Some people came out running, some walked, some required assistance. Some people were crying, others were in dry faced shock. They had all gone through the same experience but were reacting differently. Two parents can stand outside of a burning building. One might scream for their baby, the other might bolt inside despite the danger. There is a perfect example in the bible. Luke 15:11-32 tells us the parable of the prodigal son. A man had two sons. The younger wanted his inheritance so that he could go and experience the world. The older wanted to stay and be considered responsible. Neither choice was wrong. Many seem to forget that the inheritance was his to do with as he chose. Two men with the same background and the same inheritance chose two different paths. If you remember from the account, the prodigal son made choices that left him in despair. I heard someone say once that, “He got what he deserved.” That statement bothered me. What if he had made the same choices, but the situation worked out favorably for him? Would he have still “gotten what he deserved?” Many a liar, cheater and swindler have prospered and faltered and many a “good man” have done the same. The world that you loved one is living in is wretched and wicked, and emotionally painful. They already know it. They are living in hell on earth. Fear and pain form calluses on our soul that never heal quite right on their own. Please, stop talking about them, stop praying about them, and start praying FOR them. They want you. They need you. They are desperate despite what they tell you. If you are still asking why, stop. The clinical answer will never suffice. Don't ask, “Why aren't you eating?”. Feed them. Don't ask, “When's the last time you bathed?” Run the water and lay out a towel. Offer to carry them to a doctor, not the police. Stop screaming and start loving. If you really want to know why? Look in the mirror. You are strong and they are weak. You stopped loving them when you started judging them. When they needed you most you faced society and turned your back on them… you're so called loved one. Turn back. Please.