Guinevere Gets Sober

Recovery news, reviews and stories, by Jennifer Matesa.

Tag: prescription drug abuse (page 2 of 6)

In The God-Box: Two Guys Taking Vicodin.

P & P's sweet yellow lab, who I love and who loves me.

Last night went to a 50th birthday party for my friend P. This morning her husband (also called P) phoned to thank me for helping him in the kitchen. I didn’t do much: gave him instructions for browning his baked brie (under the broiler), taught him how to use his own convection oven, and oversaw the complex, gourmet task of heating the Costco frozen mini hotdogs wrapped in puff pastry.

Over the phone this morning, P said her husband was suffering from an infection in one of his molars. His jaw was killing him.

“Hasn’t the doctor given him anything for the pain?” I asked. “Codeine?” They’ve known I’m an addict since the summer day in 2010 that I told them at the Tate Modern in London, looking at Niki de Saint Phalle’s “shooting” paintings.

“Yes: I picked up a Z-Pac for him this morning for the infection,” she said. I sat there waiting for her to announce Which Drug he’d been given.

“And he also has Vicodin.”


“But they didn’t want him to take it during the party last night.”

Of course. Because he’d have been drinking. Also, it might make him sleepy. Vicodin makes normal people sleepy, and sometimes nauseated. It makes addicts like me wake up and want to clean the entire fucking house from attic to basement, all the while sorting out three or four book chapters in our minds. “My house was never so clean as when I was using,” my friend L murmured to me the other day during a meeting when someone mentioned Vicodin.

Once upon a time, if a friend mentioned she had Vicodin in the house, I might have felt an immediate, overwhelming drive to invent a pretext for coming over right away, eagle eyes scouting around for the brown plastic bottle with the child-proof cap. They say you’re either moving toward a drink/drug or away from one, and today I didn’t have that compulsion—I had the memory of it, but not the actual feeling—so today I think I’m sober.

The reality is, drugs are everywhere, anyway. In order not to descend into insanity, I have to keep steering into some kind of solution.

“Has he taken any?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “but it’s not helping.”

“When did he take it?” I asked.

She handed the phone to her husband. He said he’d taken one 7.5mg pill two-and-a-half hours before.

“G, why isn’t it helping?” he asked.

Because the fucking drugs never take away all the pain, I thought. They just take away part of it and make you not-care about the rest.

“Because when you have severe acute pain, sometimes you need a bit extra to get on top of it,” I said. That’s what they taught me at the pain clinic: when a flare comes along, try to anticipate it and take a bit extra. I suggested he take one more, and then dose every 4-6 hours as it said on the bottle.

“Is that going to be OK?” he said.

“You don’t have a problem taking drugs,” I said, “so you’re not going to have any trouble. And that much Tylenol isn’t going to hurt you. Just don’t take more than that. And why don’t you try putting some ice on your face?”

I call him a couple hours later and the one extra has helped him get on top of the pain. “It’s just like you said,” he tells me. “It’s not all gone, but it’s not killing me anymore.”

Would P ever think of chewing the Vicodin? Hell no.


A couple days ago I get an email from a reader, a guy about my age. Dave from California. He’s sitting out in San Diego or somewhere waiting for spinal surgery, he’s got 16 years clean and sober, the pain is frigging driving him nuts. He NEEDS to make it go away. He thanks me for my post about Chewing Vicodin.

This post gets tons of hits. There are many, many of you out there, pills in your hot little hands, wanting to know “how to maximize the effects of Vicodin.”

“I have found myself wanting to chew the medicine,” Dave writes.

Would P ever think of chewing the Vicodin?—I ask myself again. Hell no: because P isn’t an addict. P can have one or two glasses of wine. He can choose which it’s going to be: one—or two.

“Sixteen years clean,” Dave writes, “and as soon as the pain gets too big I start to think I know a better way to take pills. Thank you. Keep doing what you do. It is a service for which I am grateful.”


If I had a dollar for every time someone has told me to keep doing what I do with this blog, I’d have a nice packet of dough. It’s very, very kind of people to say this. I’m grateful for you guys who read me. For the many people like Dave who check in and find help and who are generous enough to let me know about it.

Dave is having his surgery today. He’s going to be in a lot of pain. I’m holding him in the light. That’s how Quakers talk about praying for someone: “holding you in the light.” (I’ve been walking around these days, holding a bunch of people in the light. It’s quite a comforting thing to do, praying for someone else’s ass life besides my own.)

“Pain sucks, man, I know,” I write to Dave, “but one addict praying for another is a powerful thing.”

If you have a moment, maybe you’d be willing to drop a note in the God-box for Dave.

Why not also pray for P?—Actually, I pray for P, too, he and his wife are quite often on my gratitude lists, but I know P will be all right. It’s Dave I’m worried about. He’s dealing with two monsters.

Alive: Third Anniversary of Detox

Foxgloves in G’s garden.

Always feel particularly alive August 29-31. Those were the days I spent in precipitated withdrawal, as fentanyl and Suboxone duked it out in my body.

I’m sitting right now in the same spot where I spent most of those two days: my side of the bed. The weather is the same—80 degrees, cloudless sky arching over the trees—but it looks entirely different today from the way it did for me three years ago.

Back then I was a writhing mess. My son, almost 11 at the time, didn’t know what what happening to me. He kept coming upstairs, asking, “Are you all right, Mama?” I told him I was having a bad reaction to a new medicine. Which was entirely true. And which left out all the rest of the truth.

How to Find a Good Detox Doctor

I’d wanted to go to rehab, but I knew I’d already been too absent from my son to justify being gone an entire month. So I got a detox doctor in the best way I knew, and in my opinion it’s still the best way: by word-of-mouth. I called the offices of a reliable rehab in the region, and when they refused to manage my medical detox on an outpatient basis, I asked who they recommended. They gave me a name; then I called my PCP and asked her, and she named the same guy.

I scheduled an initial consultation with this guy in July 2008. I told him I was a pain patient who was getting tired of the red tape involved in managing Schedule II medications, that I wanted to “reduce my tolerance” (this is how I put it to myself: I’d just reduce my tolerance and get back onto something like Vicodin, pull a feat that would impress my physician and enable me to continue receiving meds—just ones that weren’t so strong or so tightly controlled). I was afraid of how much pain I’d have once I started detoxing.

He said I’d be a perfect candidate for detox, that we could try it and see how it went.

While I sat in the waiting room I watched his patients come and go. The guys were huge, linebacker-types, or scrawny; almost everyone had tattoos; and of course I saw myself as Better Than All Of Them. What was a nice girl like me doing in a place like this? But everyone was quiet and respectful and when the detox doctor came out of his office, a little room in the back of a house on a main street in one of the poshest neighborhoods of the city, he reminded me of no one so much as Mr. Rogers. Actually, I’d met Mr. Rogers years before, and Mr. Rogers was shorter and thinner than this guy, but they both had the same humble, interested attitude: when you sat before either of them, they paid full attention only to you. And these huge biker-guys practically knelt before him like he was one of the prophets.

“He’s really working in the trenches,” the medical director of a big rehab nearby told me recently. “He’s always been on the forefront of treatment in the city. We need more guys like him.”

This medical director told me he estimates about 30 percent of all physicians prescribing buprenorphine for detox or treatment are “entrepreneurs”—physicians who are in Suboxone/Subutex treatment just for the money. They require twice-monthly followups, and they charge upwards of $300-$400 or even more per office visit. They make you pay in cash. And they prescribe large doses that are impossible for patients to quit by themselves. It constitutes exploitation.

You have to be careful to get a good detox doc.

My detox doc didn’t take insurance, but he’d accept a check or a credit card, and his fees were by no means outrageous: $110 for the first visit, and $80 for followups. He usually conducted 3-week detoxes for which he saw patients once per week, but because my drug-use had reached such a high level, he agreed to allow me to go more slowly. My entire two-month detox came to less than $700. By contrast, rehab stays cost tens of thousands of dollars.

The day I was scheduled to start my detox was the Friday before Labor Day. He prescribed something like 10 or 15 Suboxone tabs, gave me detailed directions about how to take them, and gave me his cell phone number in case I had problems.

Precipitated Withdrawal

Because fentanyl hangs around so long in the body’s tissues, and because it’s the only drug that can fight with buprenorphine in the body, I should have waited longer to take the Suboxone. But I took it too soon and wound up in precipitated withdrawal, which means the fentanyl and Suboxone were competing for space on my opiate receptors. Eventually the Suboxone won and kicked the rest of the fentanyl off. But it put me more deeply into withdrawal than I’d ever experienced. I couldn’t sleep but I couldn’t raise my body; I couldn’t stand long enough to take a shower. Of course I could not eat. I couldn’t even tolerate the smell of food without retching. (Severe opioid withdrawal makes the world smell like rot—people often forget to mention this; they mention the goosebumps and the gut-cramps and the sweats, the yawning and sneezing, but this is moderate opiate withdrawal. Severe opiate withdrawal makes the world smell like it’s covered with invisible black mildew. And it absolutely prostrates the body. Nothing works anymore.)

I spent two days like that. And on the third day, a Sunday, yeah. I rose again.


Today I had a massage early and then spent the rest of the day with my son, cleaning his room (school starts tomorrow; his desk was piled with crap from a summer spent drinking San Pellegrino—those little foil tops from the cans—plus gum wrappers, various art supplies and drawings, tangles of earbuds, Nerf darts, tools, and scraps of paper and metal and wood and wire from his handmade projects. I put the drawings to one side and put everything from desk, dresser, and floor into three paper bags, then told him he’d have to sort it out by the time I take him to Milwaukee, otherwise it would go into the trash. “Are you serious?” he said. We ran errands, I took him to his guitar lesson, we picked out some yarn for me to make him some felted socks. We went to Trader Joe’s, where I saw a little boy about 4 come out holding his mom’s hand, five or six stickers plastered across his forehead. I laughed out loud, and he smiled proudly.

The air was hot and smelled of bus exhaust and late-summer grass.

I didn’t care about this stuff when I was using. None of it: not the crap on the desk or cleaning it off, not teaching my son how to take care of his space. Well—I cared about spending time with him, but even that was compromised by my addiction, and there was nothing I could do about it, short of the hard work of getting clean and sober.

My son is a funny guy, and we have a lot of inside jokes; we use silly voices to tell stories, and both of us are very observant. We’re always noticing something: a funny bumper sticker, somebody’s hippie outfit, the numbered purple protractors that people are pasting on bridges and light poles around our city. “I saw another one,” my son said as we pulled out of Trader Joe’s.

“Where?” I asked.

“Back there,” he said.

“Where?” I said again.

“Back there,” he said.

“Yeah, BUT WHERE?” I said, then I realized he was having me on. I ruffled his long hair.

Most of all I feel free today. I am more myself than I ever have been.

If there’s anyone reading this who is wondering if it’s possible to get off a shitload of drugs or quit a destructive habit, I’m here to tell you, it’s not only possible, it’s the best thing you can do for yourself and your world. Make the investment.

This is the song I played “over and over / and over again” while I was detoxing… it came up on random play today, so here it is for you.

There’s no telling where I’ve been,
How I returned here, how much I have seen


Sober Life: Avoiding Relapse

flushing pillsOne way to avoid relapse is to take what they call “contrary action.”

But I thought about it for a while before I finally did the right thing. Because last week I was in a bad neighborhood.

Here’s what happened: I got paid last week. It was the biggest paycheck I’ve gotten in a while. I was encouraged to spend a little bit of it on myself. Actually I was encouraged to spend more than a little bit of it on myself, but because I continue to feel bad about myself and my addiction, I made plans to spend only a little bit. What I decided to do was to reorganize my study—the place where I write this blog and other stuff.

It was also the place where, for a long time, I used.

I’ve heard of people making “shrines” and “temples” out of the places where they used, and I didn’t want to enshrine this room, but I wanted to change the way it looks, and to create more storage, because I simply can’t stop collecting books and media.

In the days of detox, in 2008, I’d gone through this place with a fine-tooth comb, looking for every last little bit of stuff I’d hoarded away. You know what I’m saying?

I was on Suboxone at the time and if I’d used what I found, it wouldn’t have done any good. Suboxone blocks the ability of other opioids to stimulate the receptors. I got rid of the stuff and it wasn’t very good stuff (at the time, I was used to Very Good Stuff)—it was crap stuff, and I didn’t feel bad about it. It wasn’t Real Drugs.

So there I was Sunday, with a big huge garbage bag in the middle of the room, cleaning out some drawers, trying to get the place tidied before my husband came back Monday, and I come across some drugs. Some good drugs. Very good drugs.

The feeling was instantaneous—one of elation and relief—FINALLY! Finally I had an insurance policy. The plan that formulated itself immediately in my mind was: I would just put these behind some books on my shelf, or even in the safe deposit box, for the rainy day when, eventually, inevitably, my life would come crashing in on me. I only have 19 months sober, and I still feel like the other shoe could drop at any moment. Many shoes dropping.

How can I describe the feeling in my body when I came across those drugs? My belly squeezed, and I took an involuntary deep inhale. Then held my breath, looking at them, admiring them. Then sighed—FINALLY! … They say your addiction is always somewhere outside, doing push-ups, waiting to ambush you. It’s true. I felt it: big strong bouncer-guy in a muscle-shirt, sweaty, out of breath, peeking around the doorway and grinning at me. My Old Manager.

Another part of me was desperately unhappy, like, Fuckin-A, I thought I’d gotten rid of every last bit of stuff in this room, good things are happening for me, why do I have to find this shit now?

“Because you were ready to learn from it,” my sponsor said today.

And all these memories of my insanity came back. I could taste it on my tongue: it would numb my taste buds, and in feeling the numbing of my tongue I could look forward to the quilted blanket of numbness that would follow. Being totally opioid-naïve, I could look forward to days and days in which I wouldn’t have to feel the fear anymore. My Manager’s vehicle (imagine it: a black-and-yellow Hummer, gaudy, loud, wasteful) would transport me out of that Bad Neighborhood. God knows where we’d finally end up, but I wouldn’t have to worry about that because he would be in control, and I’d be numb anyhow.

(I might even be dead, that’s how strong this stuff is.)

I sat there, looking at what I’d found.

I thought about what Robert Downey Jr. told Rolling Stone last year (I try to learn from anyone who’s trying to stay sober, even a “celebrity”):

The ramifications of a little slip are not what they used to be. It’s not kid-stuff anymore.

Meanwhile my son was sitting downstairs in front of the TV.

I put it all in an envelope, sealed it shut, and went about my business, took my son out to dinner, but I didn’t sleep well that night. I was thinking about Amy Winehouse. I couldn’t fall asleep till 2, and I woke at 5 when a fire truck blasted its horn nearby. And by Monday morning I was really crazy.

“Mom, why are you so angry?” my son asked me at least twice. Making me realize I’m usually pretty calm and even-tempered these days. But not when I have drugs on my mind, in my house. That was when I knew I was either going to choose to use, or I was going to choose to get rid of the drugs.

I’d never thrown away good drugs. When I detoxed, I used until I thought I didn’t have anything left. I’ve had to tell sponsees, “I’ve never thrown drugs away—I don’t know what that feels like.” I tried to imagine it and couldn’t. My brain was fast shrinking into rat-size, worrying only about where I might be able to hide the stuff until I “really needed it.” Which, because I am an addict, could be at any minute.

“Why didn’t I ‘recoil from it as from a hot flame’?” I asked my sponsor this morning. “I must be in pretty bad shape.” She said:

Why don’t you stop using the measuring tape against yourself.

I knew I was either going to keep this all a secret and wind up trapped in the Hummer again, or I was going to be honest about it with someone who would be kind enough to lay out other options.

“You know what you need to do, sweetie,” my friend Jacques said yesterday. I love Jacques; we’ve known each other since he was sober about a year, and he has 25 years.

You need to just get rid of that shit. You’ve busted your ass this past year and a half. You don’t need to go back to square one.

This nudged me away from the spot where the Hummer was idling its engine. Then I told my therapist, and she helped me imagine throwing it away. By last night when I picked up my husband at the airport, sober, I’d told two people, and it was starting to become inconceivable that I could actually use after having told two people I trust. If I imagined using, I’d also have to imagine either lying or telling the truth when they asked me what I’d done about the drugs.

I went to my sponsor’s home group this morning. The chair read from a book about what happens when we get healthy. We start gaining back people’s trust. We find release from care, boredom and worry. (Ha! I thought ruefully.) Our imaginations would be ignited. The most satisfactory years of life would be ahead of us. Back in 2008, when I was in detox and reading this at my first sponsor’s behest, I wrote in the margin, Yeah, this hardly seems real.

Today it’s real. I have good work, the respect of people who know me (and even some who don’t), the love and trust of my family, and freedom from financial insecurity Just For Today. And I still want to use? I thought, sitting in the meeting.

It came my turn to talk and I told the meeting I’d found drugs. A few little gasps escaped people’s lips. I said I had in fact not used (“Look at my pupils,” I told my sponsor), but the drugs were just sitting at home. I said my problem was I couldn’t accept Life’s Good Stuff.

Just plain old self-sabotage but of course I had to make it sound all Dramatic and shit.

My sponsor, whom I love and who is an awesome mentor, said matter-of-factly, “We’re going to my house and getting rid of the Darvocet I’ve had since my surgery last October, and also the Vicodin.” (You have Vicodin?? I said.) “And then we’re going to your house and getting rid of your stuff.”

And that’s what we did. She opened her bottles and dumped them into the toilet, cringing. “I hate doing this,” she said.

“Why?” I asked. She has more than 20 years clean and sober.

“Because I’m an addict!” she said. “You see how we help each other?” Step 12.

Little G.

I cried as I got rid of mine. “Am I going to be OK?” I asked, like a child.

“You’re already OK,” she said.

Now I know what it feels like to throw drugs away. I’ve earned it, and was given the opportunity… But I need to walk the walk pretty carefully. I need to wear it loosely, but wear it.


Read the follow-up to this story here.

In Wake of NY Pharmacy Killings, Demands to Train Doctors to Spot Addicts

Been following the story about Dave Laffer, the 33-year-old guy who last week shot four people and robbed 11,000 Vicodin tablets from a Long Island mom-and-pop pharmacy. First saw the story in the New York Daily News, at my own pharmacy, where I stopped in last week for some snacks.

Apparently Laffer’s girlfriend, who was also arrested, was an addict too. The Daily News story says she told police Laffer committed the crimes because she was “sick.” (Dope-sick? Mentally ill? The story doesn’t say)

The Daily News says police identified Laffer because he repeatedly bought painkillers and also owned a gun like the one used in the murders of the pharmacist, the pharmacy assistant (a high-school girl), and two customers.

The murders, in all their grisliness, were caught on surveillance tape and understandably have outraged the families of those killed and people in the community.

Mugshot of Dave Laffer, suspect in Long Island pharmacy robbery-murders.

Here is a photo of Laffer after his arrest. He was also charged with resisting arrest. They obviously beat the sh*t out of him.


The number of armed pharmacy robberies is apparently increasing across the country. According to the Associated Press, California had 61 in 2010, New York’s robberies increased from 2 in 2006 to 28 last year, and there were 65 in Florida, the pill-mill capital.

Robbers are stealing oxycodone and hydrocodone preparations—Percocet, Oxycontin, Roxicodone, Vicodin, Norco, and others.

Last week the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Administration (SAMHSA) released a report showing admissions to treatment programs for opioid abuse quadrupled from 1999 to 2009 (the most recent year for which figures are available).

The report said opioid-addiction admissions made up 33 percent of all treatment admissions in 2009, up from 8 percent in 1999.

A USAToday story quoted Lynn Webster, director-at-large for the American Academy of Pain Medicine, as saying the prescription drug abuse problem began 10 years ago when doctors began treating chronic nonmalignant pain with opioids, seeing them as safe and effective solutions to the problem of inadequately treated chronic pain. “We were naïve as clinicians,” she was reported as saying.

In the wake of the Long Island drugstore murders, Sen. Charles Schumer (D-NY) is comparing prescription opioid addiction to the 1980s and 1990s crack problem. According to the AP, he’s proposing legislation that would

  1. limit the number of prescriptions doctors can write for opioids
  2. increase prison sentences for prescription drug theft
  3. require better training for doctors before prescribing opioid drugs, to “help doctors better identify patients vulnerable to addiction”

The last one is pretty good. Doctors who prescribe opioid drugs ought to know about addiction. Because a certain percentage of the population, when exposed to drugs like this, will become addicted—in a lot of cases it’s just a matter of odds, of activating a biological predisposition.

But the bill needs to go further. If doctors are going to prescribe drugs that can cause addiction, they need to be able not only to identify patients who are vulnerable to addiction—people with addiction in their families, people who have used addictive substances (including nicotine). Doctors also need to be able to learn how to treat patients who have both pain and addiction.

Having addiction should not disqualify a person from getting pain treatment.

If Schumer’s goal is to “screen out addicts,” then this just adds to the stigma of addiction and prevents people from getting the help they need—for both their addiction and their pain.

Dr. Drew on Jeff Conaway: Opiate Addiction Is Deadlier than Most Cancers

My 13-year-old kid played one of the T-Birds in his middle-school production of “Grease” this week. My husband (a Brit) had never seen the movie, so I rented it and we sat down to watch it last night. I opened IMDB on my iPhone to look up a cast member’s name and saw that Jeff Conaway had died just hours before. Amazing.


They’re saying he dosed himself a bit too high one day and aspirated, and the particles of fluid in his lungs became infected, which he didn’t notice because he was too out of it on whatever drugs he was taking, and he slipped into a septic coma before anyone found him.

Which just makes me wonder: did he have anyone in his life? I’ve read studies that show that addicts who have family who care about them are more likely not to go down this path.

I mean, God. Didn’t you just know Conaway’s drug-use was going to kill him?

Dr. Drew Pinsky. (video capture: HLN)

“Jeff was a severe, severe opiate addict with chronic pain—one of the most serious and dangerous combination of problems you can possibly interact with, and one I see all the time,” Dr. Drew Pinsky said on his show last night. Pinsky said he had treated Conaway for years. Conaway also appeared on Pinsky’s show, Celebrity Rehab, in 2008—another unsuccessful stab at rehab for Conaway.


“And we live in a time when opioids and opiate pain medication is so available and so readily passed out, that for someone like Jeff, who is a SEVERE drug addict—he never seemed to be able to get away from it,” Pinsky said. “The pain seemed to keep motivating him back to the opiates. I told him for years it was going to kill him.”

Pinsky and his co-host Mike Catherwood chatted about the “plague that is opiate-based painkillers” in American society. They talked about how, 10 years ago, they’d be surprised to see people in a 12-step meeting who were dealing with painkiller addiction—it used to be cocaine, meth and booze, all of which they say are now old-school.

“Now I have to search out people who AREN’T dealing with pill-popping,” Catherwood said. “I can fully understand how someone can convince themselves—as an addict you’re already defensive and you justify your use to begin with. Now you put a doctor’s signature on that and a stamp of approval—it’s Game On.”

How Painkillers Amplify Misery

Then he asks Pinsky whether, after an addict in pain takes painkillers for a while, the addict begins to “invent pain” in order to justify drug-abuse and whether the pain becomes psychosomatic.

Pinsky answers:

It’s not psychosomatic; it’s that the misery of pain is actually amplified by opiates. There’s an affective component of pain that the misery of it that’s deeply amplified by the use of opiates, in the addict brain, and so the drive goes up and up with time.

How extraordinary. I have never heard any professional articulate this interpretation. That was my experience: the longer I took pain medication, the more AFRAID OF PAIN I became. The less tolerant I could be of any pain at all. The misery-factor was multiplied.

By the same token, when I got off drugs, I could tolerate MORE pain.

This is counter-intuitive. You’d think it would be the other way around—that painkillers would help you tolerate more pain. But they actually lowered my pain threshold to nil.

There needs to be more research into how to treat addicts who have pain.

Addiction v. Cancer

Pinsky said something else that, from his position as a highly visible addiction professional, it might be predictable for him to say, but I’ve hardly ever heard anyone say it: that addiction is deadlier than cancer.

I just want people to remember: opiate addiction is a deadly disease, it kills people all the time, we are dealing with a fatal illness more likely to kill you than the vast, vast, vast majority of cancers—that’s a fact.

More than that: addiction CAUSES cancer, man. And the drugs that are killing us are legal. Let’s get that straight. Let’s get past the idea that these illnesses are separate. I watched my mother die of lung cancer, caused by her addiction to the legal drug she bought at the grocery store every week. She lost her hair, she lost her balance, she lost her mind to 30 years of nicotine abuse. She lost her life. We lost our mother; my son lost his grandmother. …

Then seven years later I watched my dad die of massive GI cancer caused by a lifetime of drinking.

BAM: dead within a month of hospitalization.

I press replay on Drew Pinsky’s clip and sit through another ad: this one for Ketel One.

“This is real vodka,” they say.

All this stuff is out there, just waiting to be picked up. And the solution, imo, is not about making drugs illegal. It’s about teaching people about addiction.

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