A message for my meth addict friend…

I’ve been doing two things lately.

And it’s funny that I didn’t even realize their intersection until I sat down to write this morning.

I’ve been re-watching Breaking Bad.

If you’re unfamiliar, Breaking Bad is about a high school chemistry teacher that begins to cook meth and build a drug empire.

Doesn’t sound like something you’d like? Well, the devil is in the details. (literally)

I actually bought Netflix years ago just to watch it. Dumb decision I know. (Addiction comes in many forms)

The second thing I’ve been doing lately, is treating a lot of methamphetamine abuse.

It is very difficult to wade through the paranoia, mania, and self destruction and come to any type of cohesive plan forward. But that’s what we try to do.

And here’s another problem with treating addiction. People come to me for a pill that fixes their problems. But we all know, it doesn’t work that way. (Although pills can help at times, recovery is more than just abstaining from drugs)

I tell them to go to meetings and work the steps. They stare blankly like they’ve heard it before.

Or sometimes I use a passive aggressive approach and ask the question: What step are you on?

Or I make them buy a small tree. Plant it. And watch it grow.

Or I give them a template of diet and exercise. And as they begin to control their body, they begin to control their mind. (At least that’s the hope)

Any way you go about it, recovery is hard. Those that have never dealt with addiction will never understand. Sometimes our choices don’t feel like choices at all. They feel like gravity and inertia and circling orbits.

I recently bought this magazine: Death to the World.

Sounds catchy right?

It’s a series of essays on Truth. And a drag out fight against Nihilism. Just my cup of tea.

In it, a story is told about an addict that sought spiritual guidance at a monastery. It was beautifully written— full of pain, despair, and truth.

This immediately led me to thinking about Nicaragua.

For years, me and some friends would travel to Nicaragua and treat patients at a mountain side rehab.

The rehab was like a small village that people would come and live for months. Get clean. Learn some life skills. And hopefully return to their families. It’s run by Rick (a Veternarian by trade) and his wife Mary (a nurse). They would take care of the people, the animals, the agriculture, and everything in between.

It was always difficult to explain the place. But now I think I understand. It’s like a protestant monastery. A place where broken people work and pray together. That’s why the place felt, for lack of a better word, Sacred.

A place of Truth battling the dark army of Nihilism.

In Death to the World, they said that if the church was a hospital, then the monastery its emergency room.

My son asked me what a monk was. I told him someone that spent his life praying for us.

Not everyone has to go to the emergency room when sick. And likewise, not everyone has to go to the monastery for spiritual healing.

But it’s nice to know it’s there. Just in case.

We often think of drug addicts as failures if they don’t’ have a Damascus Road experience. No judgment until they don’t keep their end of the bargain. I’ve never quite seen it like that although it is tempting at times.

You want to be empowering without enabling. It’s a tight rope to walk.

I’ve had my issues with patients. I’ve done my share of counseling: good and bad. Sometimes I get tough and lay down rules and sometimes I just listen.

But knowing when to do which is the problem.

Again, the devil is in the details.

So now, I’m writing this with one person in mind.

You know who you are.

Godspeed.