A beautiful Day to save lives.

I bought myself a sweatshirt that says “It’s a beautiful day to save lives” when I got the job. I was a fan of Grey’s anatomy and this felt apropo. I had a job I was proud of. I got to tell people that every single day I got up and helped people fight for their lives. I was, in my own mind, a fucking rockstar, at the start of this. If you had asked me in 2018 I would have told you that I had the coolest job, and that I was fucking good at it.

I didn’t know at the start of this road, that 18 people would die in the year 2020. I didn’t know that despite my best efforts, conferences with parents, and staying up at night to field phone calls and find resources, that I would attend funerals over zoom monthly. ( Zoom funerals by the way, are the most hideous kind of depressing. ) I didn’t realize that death would become so commonplace that it would be suggested to me that I “harden” myself against it, that I would be told that the pain gets easier, ultimately dissipates, when you do this long enough. I told myself over and over again that if I had beat my disease, If I had conquered my stage 4 death wish, anyone could. Every single time someone doesn’t, I cry like it’s the first time. Every time I find myself saying “But this one is especially hard to handle.” The truth is, they all are. It just feels new and worse each time.

My name is Brittany, and I’m an alcoholic, with a real penchant for opiates. I was, in the year 2015, the poster child for the insidiousness of the opioid crisis. I was a good, nice girl. I was a mother and a fiance. I lived in the suburbs and I got pain medication from a doctor. I didn’t understand, until it was too late and I was too far in it, that addiction can come in a little orange bottle from the pharmacy as easily as it can from the stereotypical drug dealer on the corner. Don’t get me wrong, I ended up talking to that guy too, when I couldn’t get the pills, but my devastation started in line at the drug store.

My own drug abuse lead me down some dark roads, and it took me years to crawl my way back from the string of institutions and prisons I put myself in when I was collaborating with my addiction. To this day I still get side eyed at family gatherings. I’m totally fine now, but am I? That sort of thing. I don’t mind being an outsider, I’d feel worse if anyone I loved could personally understand the pain that took me to where I went. But my point is, I came back. I came back from devastation and I dedicated myself to helping others. It seemed at the time like the easiest job.It gave purpose to the years of suffering I’d experience. I could change this for other people. I’ll tell you with no shame that I really enjoyed saying that I helped people get and stay sober. Like I said, fucking rock star.

This year, this pandemic, has deeply and irrevocably rewritten my understanding of my calling, and of my job. While the entire world was fighting a disease on one front, we of the mental health and addiction field were fighting on two. This year locked people in their homes, built a culture of fear and uncertainty, and created the perfect climate for alcoholism and addiction to run rampant. What was once a job that I got that I knew I was good at, was now a 24/7 war zone.

I am, now more than ever, passionate about the work that I do. I get up in the morning knowing that I am doing something that aids people in fighting for their lives. I teach clients about everything from 12 step recovery to how administer narcan successfully in the event that they are present for an overdose. I don’t feel like a fucking rockstar anymore. My ego stepped out of the way when I had to buy an outfit appropriate for online on camera morning. Now I feel like I’m standing in the middle of the trenches. I am passionate about my job because someone took the time to put on the armor and save my god damn life, when I didn’t believe it was worth saving. I’m now passionate about doing the very same.

I do not live in an episode of a medical drama. I don’t even wear that sweatshirt anymore. It doesn’t matter whether it is sunny or raining, whether it is a beautiful or all together shitty day. I get up, and I help people save their own lives, and those of their loved ones. When someone starts to see the value, the inherent worth they were born with, and develops the will to try? That’s what makes a day beautiful.

Now, more than ever before the field of addiction medicine needs all hands on deck. I’m grateful every day that I get to be a part of the team fighting the silent and insidious war waging in homes all across our country.