The other day I get an email from an English guy who says he has a story about Subutex, if I’m still collecting stories about buprenorphine (I am still collecting them and will be talking to folks starting in May—if Suboxone saved your life and/or kicked your ass, please email me).
This guy spent 10 years on buprenorphine after a devastating heroin habit. He took methadone to get off heroin, and he thought that in Subutex he’d found a painless stepping-stone off methadone. But bupe has given him all kinds of problems with his intellect, emotions, creativity, ambition, passion. He writes,
I cannot feel joy.
He jumped off Subutex two weeks ago and writes that he has already had a couple slips because he’s so impaired that he can’t stand it.
I have a loving wife, two beautiful sons, supportive friends, an ok job and yet I have been wanting to die for a few years now—not actively suicidal (you can’t be actively anything on long-term sub maintenance) but quietly hoping that fate would off me.
I know what he’s talking about. So does my jump-buddy, Bonita, who kicked Suboxone days ahead of me in 2008. So do thousands of other people who have had trouble either being on or kicking buprenorphine, or both.
Nigel replies: he was raised near Kensington High Street (London), and he was educated at the Catholic boarding school, Ampleforth (York).
I know where Ampleforth is, I say, because I’ve been practically everywhere in the North from the Lakes to Robin Hood’s Bay, and all the dales and moors in between.
And I’ve lived in London. I tell him about a very unhappy, lonely winter I spent in London 15 years ago. “To combat a serious case of depression,” I tell him, “I used to push my son up Marloes Road toward Ken High Street and into Holland Park every day I could. I retain a great affection for Holland Park, and for a little tiny key-garden called Edwardes Square.”
Most Americans visit St. James’s Park, Regent’s Park, Hyde Park. Holland Park is an underrated treasure, appreciated mostly by Londoners, who, on warm summer nights, enjoy outdoor concerts and pick-up footie matches on the lawn. And friggin nobody knows Edwardes Square. I get blank stares when I mention it to anyone. It’s just a little tiny square in West London. When people get that far they make the cab fare worth their while by visiting Kensington Palace, the V&A Museum, the boutiques on the Kings Road. You can’t even get into Edwardes Square unless you live in one of the houses facing it. I myself couldn’t get in. But it was my little psychic refuge that long-ago early spring.
Nigel, however, says: his parents live off Pembroke Gardens Close, adjacent to Edwardes Square:
I know the area intimately.
He says he himself used to live on Marloes Road across from the Devonshire Arms.
(Nigel has lived in some fancy places. Not Belgravia, but still.)
I picture the Devonshire Arms: big corner pub; patio paved for pleasant outdoor boozing. (I never drank at the Devonshire Arms; I had my baby with me, always, and my codeine back at the flat.)
Nigel tells me,
My bedroom window overlooked Marloes Road, and I spent some of the darkest days of my heroin addiction in that ivory tower. I would have been there in 1998.
So. While I was struggling with killer postpartum depression the winter of 1998, walking several miles per day with my boy in a stroller, up Marloes Road and then Campden Hill Road to Notting Hill Gate, then west to the northern entrance to Holland Park—I was passing Nigel in his house every day.
G was rationing out her American codeine.
Nigel was banging his British smack.
And now here we are, on opposite sides of the sea, talking about how to live sober.
Definitely a very small and funny old world.
Thank you, Nigel.