This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
“The moment I admitted you could kill me was the moment I finally chose to live.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Let the first curl of smoke rise like a confession I’ve been swallowing for years. The kind that sits heavy in the chest because it’s finally time to stop pretending. This is me standing in the doorway of my own truth. Trembling but present. And ready to speak to the thing that once felt like comfort. You didn’t come into my life with claws out. You came soft. Familiar. You came disguised as relief, comfort, and as the one thing that could quiet the noise in my chest. Then you became a companion. I didn’t know you were studying me. Learning my wounds. Memorizing my weak spots. And waiting for the moment I’d confuse your hunger for affection.
And now you reveal yourself as the slow, patient danger I keep calling love. I can feel the ache of it. The grief of it. And the terrifying clarity that comes when you finally admit the thing you’ve been running from is the same predator that’s been hollowing me out from the inside. And today, with this smoke rising around me, I’m done whispering. I’m done softening the truth. I’m done pretending I don’t know what you are.
I’ve finally stopped running from the truth. And it hits me with a force that steals the air from my lungs. I keep letting you lead. And you won’t just ruin my life. You will end it. Not in some dramatic, cinematic way. But in the quiet, methodical way predators always finish their work. You’ll take my breath one day. And the world will keep spinning. The people who love me will stand in the wreckage wondering how something I once trusted became the thing that swallowed me whole.
That realization sits in my bones like a cold prophecy. I can feel how close the edge is. I can feel how thin the line has become. I can feel the way my body is starting to whisper warnings I used to ignore. And for the first time, I’m not pretending I’m stronger than you. I’m not pretending I can dance with you forever. I’m not pretending this ends any other way. The truth is simple and terrifying. I will die.
I let you close. Closer than anyone else. I let you wrap around me like safety. Like something I could trust. And for a long time, I believed you were saving me from the world, myself, and the ache I didn’t know how to carry. But predators don’t save. They circle. They stalk. They wait. And I see you for what you are.
You’ve been feeding on me piece by piece. Slow enough that I could pretend it wasn’t happening. And gentle enough that I could call it love. You made me believe I needed you to breathe, function, and to exist. You made me forget what life felt like before you sank your teeth in. But I’m not blind anymore. I can feel the way you’re hollowing me out. I can feel the way you’re tightening your grip. I can feel the truth I’ve been terrified to say, “My days are numbered.”
Not dramatically. Not suddenly. You’ll do it the way you’ve always done everything with patience and precision. With that quiet, familiar whisper that tells me I can’t live without you. Because loving you has become a slow death. And I’m finally admitting that the thing I thought was protecting me is the same thing dragging me under. You are the predator. I am the prey. And you will finish what you started. I’m done mistaking your teeth for tenderness. I’m done calling this love. Because when you take my life, it will be the last thing you’ll ever take from me. Please just make it quick.
Saying that out loud breaks something open in me. It’s not just fear. It’s grief for the version of me who thought I could love a predator into gentleness. Grief for the girl who thought she was in control. Grief for the woman who kept choosing you even as you carved pieces out of her.
But there’s something else under the grief. And this is where I stop lying to myself about what you are. This is where I look you in the eye and speak the truth you never wanted me to understand. I see the death you’re leading me toward. And, yet, I still can’t break free. Thanks for reading! And turn back before it’s too late.
“Some houses echo with laughter. The House of Addiction echoes with lessons. Loud, painful, and unforgettable lessons. And still, somehow, we walk out wiser than we ever meant to be.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like it’s clocking in for a double shift. What we’re about to talk about requires spiritual PPE. It’s Addiction Awareness Month. And the House of Addiction doesn’t just haunt. It redecorates. It rearranges your memories. Steals your peace. And has the nerve to act offended when you notice.
From the outside, it looks like any other home on the block. But step inside, and you’ll find a floor plan designed by chaos itself. Complete with emotional booby traps and a staircase that creaks like it’s snitching on everybody.
The House of Addiction doesn’t creak when you walk in. It narrates. It knows your footsteps, fears, and soft spots. It knows you’re here for the truth. And it is already rearranging the furniture to make you doubt your own memory.
This house has the audacity of a Southern aunt who swears she “don’t gossip.” But somehow knows everybody’s business. Including the things you haven’t even done yet. Step inside. Keep your shoes on. This floor has seen some things. It will walk room to room with you, pretending it’s just “checking on things.” While it’s really dragging its mess across every surface like a toddler with a Sharpie.
The House of Addiction always looks normal from the outside. Fresh paint. Curtains that match. A porch light that pretends it’s welcoming you in. But the moment you cross that threshold, you realize this house has plans for you. None of them good. All of them messy. And every one of them delivered with the confidence of a demon wearing your grandmother’s pearls.
The Foyer: Where Denial Greets You Like a Nosy Aunt
You step inside and denial is already there. It’s leaning against the doorframe like it pays the mortgage. It’s smiling too big. Talking too fast. And insisting everything is fine. While the smoke alarm screams in the background. “No problem here,” Denial says. All while waving a broom at a fire like it’s a mosquito. The floorboards creak under the weight of secrets nobody wants to say out loud. The air smells like Febreze sprayed over a dumpster fire. This is the room where kids learn to tiptoe. Where silence becomes a second language. Where you learn to read moods like weather reports.
The Kitchen: Where Chaos Cooks Its Famous Disaster Casserole
Addiction loves the kitchen. It treats it like a stage. Pots banging. Cabinets slamming. Someone crying into a sink full of dishes that have been “soaking” since the Bush administration. This is where promises get burned to a crisp. Apologies get reheated for the 47th time. And kids learn to eat fast. Stay quiet. And watch the adults like they’re studying wildlife. The fridge is full of expired groceries and emotional leftovers nobody wants to deal with. And the table is where love tries to sit down. But keeps getting shoved aside by chaos wearing muddy boots.
The Living Room: Where Hope Sleeps on the Couch
The living room used to be cozy. Now it’s a battlefield with throw pillows. Addiction drags its drama in here and spreads out like it pays rent. The TV is always too loud. The arguments are always too sharp. And the kids are always pretending they don’t hear what they hear. Hope still lives here. But it’s exhausted. It curls up on the couch under a blanket that smells like worry. It keeps whispering, “Maybe tomorrow.” Even though tomorrow keeps showing up drunk and late.
The Bedroom: Where Secrets Tuck Themselves In
This room is quiet. But not peaceful. It’s the kind of quiet that hums with tension. Addiction sits on the edge of the bed like a shadow with opinions. It whispers lies into the dark. It says, “You’re the problem,” “You can’t leave,” and “Nobody will believe you.” Kids learn to sleep lightly. To listen for footsteps. To brace for the door opening at 2 a.m. with the kind of energy that never means anything good.
The Laundry Room: Where Shame Hangs Itself Up to Dry
This room is where the truth piles up. Dirty clothes. Dirty secrets. Dirty looks from neighbors who pretend they don’t see what they see. Addiction loves this room because it knows shame thrives in small, cramped spaces. The washing machine is always running. But nothing ever feels clean. The dryer door squeaks like it’s tattling. And the air is thick with “Don’t tell anyone.”
The Bathroom: Where Tears Pretend They’re Just Steam
This is the only room with a lock. Which means it becomes a sanctuary for everyone including kids, partners, even the person struggling. People hide here to cry. Breathe. Or just exist without being needed. Addiction hates this room because it can’t control what happens behind a locked door. But it still bangs on it sometimes while demanding attention.
The Kids’ Room: Where Innocence Packs a Go-Bag
This room is the saddest part of the house. Toys on the floor. School papers on the wall. A bed that’s too small for the weight the child carries. Kids learn how to be invisible. How to be responsible for things they never caused. And how to grow up faster than their bones know how to handle. Addiction tiptoes in here sometimes. While pretending it’s not doing damage. But the cracks in the walls tell the truth.
The Basement: Where the Truth Lives
Nobody wants to go down here. Not even Addiction. But this is where the real story sits quiet, heavy, and waiting. This is where trauma stacks itself like old boxes. Memories hide under tarps. And kids grow up and realize the house wasn’t normal. The basement is the part of the house that never lies. It knows exactly what happened. And it remembers everything.
The Attic: Where the “Old Stories” Live
The attic is dusty, cramped, and full of boxes labeled “We Don’t Talk About That.” This is where Addiction stores the memories you tried to outgrow. The versions of yourself you’re ashamed of. And the lies you were told about who you are.
Every box rattles when you walk by, like it wants to be opened. But also wants to stay sealed forever. Addiction loves this room because it knows you’ll avoid it. It knows the dust will settle on your truth until you forget what it looked like. But the attic is also where the light sneaks in through the cracks. It’s where you eventually realize that some stories aren’t yours to carry anymore.
The Garage: Where “I’ll Fix It Later” Goes to Die
The garage is full of unfinished projects, abandoned hobbies, and promises you meant to keep. Addiction parks itself here like a broken-down car that still thinks it can make the trip. This is the room where dreams get postponed. Goals get dusty. And potential sits on cinder blocks. You keep telling yourself you’ll clean it out “when things calm down.” But Addiction keeps tossing more junk in, insisting you don’t have time, energy, or worthiness to finish anything. But one day, you find the light switch. And you realize the garage isn’t full of failures. It’s full of things waiting for you to come back to yourself.
The Office: Where Control Pretends to Live
This room is where Addiction tries to look responsible. Bills stacked. Calendars marked. To‑do lists half done. Everything looks organized until you touch it. And the whole pile collapses like a Jenga tower built by denial. This is the room where you try to manage the unmanageable. You convince yourself you’re “still functioning.” And you hide behind productivity to avoid the truth.
Addiction sits in the office chair spinning slowly, whispering, “You’re fine. Look how much you’re getting done.” Meanwhile, nothing is actually getting done. But this is also the room where you learn the difference between control and survival. And where you finally fire Addiction from its fake job.
The Guest Room: Where You Pretend Everything Is Fine
This room is spotless. Too spotless. It’s the room you keep ready for visitors. So that they never see the chaos in the rest of the house. Addiction loves this room because it’s the perfect illusion of clean sheets. Fluffed pillows. And fake peace. This is where you host people who say, “You’re so strong.” Without knowing you cried in the hallway before they arrived. But the guest room is also where you learn that pretending is exhausting. And that real connection only happens when you stop hiding the mess.
The Crawl Space: Where the Fear Lives
Low ceilings. No light. Hard to breathe. This is the room Addiction never talks about but always uses. It’s where the fear crawls. It’s the fear of leaving, staying, being alone, and of being seen. Addiction keeps this space damp and cold, so you’ll avoid it. But this is the room where the truth hums the loudest. And when you finally crawl in with a flashlight, you realize the monsters were smaller than the shadows made them look.
The Backyard: Where Healing Starts Growing
The backyard is wild. Overgrown. And neglected but alive. Addiction never cared about this space. It didn’t think you’d ever step outside long enough to notice it. But this is where you breathe again. You plant new habits. You feel sunlight without flinching. And you imagine a life beyond the front door. The backyard is the first place that belongs to you again. It’s where you realize the house doesn’t own you. And where healing doesn’t have to be pretty to be real.
The Front Door: Where Freedom Waits
Every child of addiction eventually finds themselves standing at this door. Their hand on the knob. Heart pounding. And wondering if they’re allowed to leave. The truth is you can. You’re allowed to walk out. You’re allowed to build a new house. One with open windows, soft floors, and rooms that don’t whisper threats in the dark. You’re allowed to create a home where laughter doesn’t flinch. Where love doesn’t hide. And where the only thing haunting the halls is the sound of peace finally settling in.
And that’s the truth about the House of Addiction. It thought it owned you. It thought you’d stay lost in its attic of old stories. Stuck in its garage of unfinished dreams. And trapped in its crawl space of fear. It thought you’d keep tiptoeing past the guest room. While pretending everything was fine. And where it rearranged your soul like mismatched furniture.
But you just didn’t survive that house. You walked through every room with the lights on. The sage burning. And the ancestors humming behind you like a choir that refuses to let you forget who you are. You learned the floorplan. You named the ghosts. You opened the windows. And then you did the one thing that house never expected. You walked out the front door. And didn’t look back.
Let the walls rot. Let the roof cave in. Let the lies echo in empty rooms. You’re busy building a new home now. One with sunlight, softness, boundaries, and peace that doesn’t apologize for taking up space. Door slammed. Keys dropped. Cycle broken. Story reclaimed. Thanks for reading! Now walk away like a boss.
Affirmation: I honor the child who survived that house. And I empower the adult who refuses to live in it ever again. My peace is mine. My story is mine. And my future is built with steady hands.”
“Addiction is a quiet predator. It’s patient. Calculated. Always hungry. And waiting for the moment you’re weakest to take the biggest bite out of your life.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Because when we talk about addiction awareness, the air needs to be thick with truth, protection, and the kind of courage that makes your voice shake but keeps going anyway. This isn’t a pretty conversation. It’s not a gentle unveiling. It’s not polite. It’s not something you whisper behind closed doors like a family secret wrapped in shame. It’s the kind of truth that shakes the floorboards and rattles the bones of anyone who’s ever lived it. Loved someone through it. Or buried someone because of it. This is a front porch, bare soul, trembling‑hands kind of truth. And today, we’re telling it out loud.
Addiction doesn’t walk into a home quietly. It barges in like a storm. It tracks mud across every memory. It rearranges the furniture of your life. And convinces you that chaos is normal. It teaches you to apologize for things you didn’t break. To shrink yourself so its shadow can stretch across the room. And to pretend you’re fine when your insides feel like shattered glass. And the cruelest part? Addiction doesn’t just take from the person struggling. It takes from everyone who loves them.
Families learn to tiptoe. Children learn to decode moods like weather patterns. Partners learn to carry burdens that were never meant for one set of shoulders. And the person battling addiction, learns to hide their pain behind a smile that fools everyone except the people who know them best. Addiction awareness isn’t about statistics or slogans. It’s about the people who wake up every day fighting a war no one else can see.
There are the battles fought in bathrooms, parked cars, and bedrooms with the door locked. The battles fought in silence because shame is louder than the truth. The battles fought by people who are terrified to ask for help because they don’t want to be judged. Dismissed. Or treated like a problem instead of a person.
Addiction awareness means saying, “You are not alone. You are not broken beyond repair. You are not the worst thing you’ve ever done.” It means recognizing that recovery isn’t linear. It’s messy. It’s painful. It’s full of relapses, restarts, and revelations. But it is possible. I tasted that freedom many years ago, during a moment in life that now seems like it never existed.
Let’s talk about the people that love them too. The ones who hold the line when the person they love can’t. The ones who pray. Cry. Scream. Hope. And repeat. Addiction awareness means honoring their resilience. Their heartbreak. Their bravery. Loving someone through addiction is its own kind of battle that deserves to be seen.
Addiction is not a moral failure. It is not a character flaw. It is not a sign of weakness. It’s a neurological hijacking. And once it gets inside, it takes the controls and refuses to give them back. It’s a thief. A liar. And a weight that no one should carry alone.
Awareness is the first step toward compassion. Compassion is the first step toward healing. Healing is the first step toward freedom. And freedom? Freedom is the birthright of every single person touched by addiction. It doesn’t matter whether they’re fighting it. Surviving it. Or loving someone through it.
I have been an addict in one form or another since I was a very young teen. That’s the part people don’t see. The way it starts before you even understand what “coping” means. Before your brain is fully formed. Before you know that one decision can echo for decades. Some things I let go of and never touched again. But others? Others I’m still married to. Still controlled by. And still waking up beside like a partner I never meant to vow my life to. I’ve stood on every side of this issue. I’ve been a patient, professional, survivor, and witness. I’ve buried friends and family. And I’ve found the bodies of patients. I’ve even sat in classrooms learning the science. And I’ve sat on bathroom floors learning the consequences.
One of the biggest debates is whether addiction is a disease. And honestly? I see both sides. But I can attest to this. What I know in my bones is that addiction will pick up exactly where it left off. It doesn’t forget you. It doesn’t forgive you. And it doesn’t loosen its grip just because you got tired.
It progresses like a slow-moving fire. Consuming everything until it shuts down every functioning cell in your body. It’s the lover that kisses your forehead while holding a knife behind your back. And it’s like trying to pet a rattlesnake and hoping it suddenly cares about your well-being.
There are no social crack users. No social heroin users. No social meth, fentanyl, or “just once in a while” users of the things that hollow you out from the inside. I’ve known too many who didn’t make it. Too many funerals. Too many empty chairs. Too many stories cut short. And the truth is brutal. Addicts are not the type who typically live to be 80. The statistics confirm what our hearts already know. That many have died. And many more will die.
And process addictions? Eating disorders, self-harm, gambling, sex addiction, etc. are not softer versions. They are simply different roads to the same grave. Addiction doesn’t care about the method. It cares about the destruction. And it will be done in totality emotionally, socially, spiritually, and physically.
It strips you down until you’re a shell of what once resembled a human being. It destroys your life and the lives orbiting yours. That’s the goal. It wants no interference. And no one slowing its roll. It wants you wrapped around its finger in a relationship so co-dependent it feels cellular. It doesn’t care how many relationships are ruined as a result. Addiction is about the next fix. Whatever that fix is. And you will chase it until the line between living and dying blurs.
The saddest part is that you don’t know you’re susceptible until you’re already in it. Addiction does not discriminate. It shows no mercy to clergy, billionaires, politicians, Hollywood actors, musicians, doctors, lawyers, nurses, or the people just trying to keep the lights on and food on the table.
And the idea that you can outthink addiction? Outsmart the chemical, emotional, and neurological machinery it hijacks? That’s the thinking of fools. And I say that with compassion. Not judgment. There is nothing more heartbreaking than watching someone, yourself included, need their “drug” so badly that they would burn down every good thing in their life for another taste of something that is killing them.
Let the truth rise with the smoke. Addiction is not romance. It is not rebellion. It is not escape. It is suicide on an installment plan. And for every person who struggles, it has a bullet with their name on it. Even mine. Speaking the truth out loud is how we start breaking the cycle that wants us silent. Awareness is the first crack of light. Awareness is the first act of rebellion. Awareness is the first step toward choosing life. Even when the addiction whispers otherwise. It’s a story of survival in a world that doesn’t teach us how to hold our pain.
Your days of hiding in silence are over. We’re speaking your name. Shine light in your corners. And refusing to let shame be your shield. This is awareness. This is courage. This is the moment we stop whispering and start healing. And it’s for every soul who deserves a life bigger than their battle. Thanks for reading! And ask for what you need.
Affirmation: I honor the battles I’ve survived, and I refuse to let the shadows that once claimed me write the rest of my story. I rise with clarity, courage, and a spine made of truth.
“People will continue to die. People will continue to have adverse reactions. People will continue to live with the consequences of their choices down the road.”
-Jan Rozga, a mother whose son committed suicide after smoking synthetic marijuana
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to dive into a subject that most have heard of but don’ t know a lot about. The topic is designer drugs.
You don’t need to be a scientist to understand designer drugs. You just need to know this. Designer drugs are chemicals made to look harmless, but they can be far more dangerous than the drugs they imitate. They show up in places parents don’t expect. They’re marketed in ways that feel safe. And they’re evolving faster than most families can keep up with. Designer drugs are created by changing the chemical structure of existing drugs just enough to make them.
Harder to detect
Harder to regulate
Easier to sell
They’re often sold as:
Vape cartridges
Edibles
Pills that look like Xanax, Adderall, or Percocet
“Herbal incense” (K2/Spice)
“Bath salts”
Powders labeled “not for human consumption”
The packaging looks harmless. The chemicals inside are anything but harmless. Most young people who encounter designer drugs don’t realize they’re using something synthetic. But designer drugs are often mixed into these products without the user’s knowledge. That’s why overdoses happen even when someone thinks they’re being careful.
Designer drugs can be more dangerous than the ones they’re attempting to mimic. According to the National Institute on Drug Abuse, these substances can be:
More potent
More unpredictable
More toxic
Some new synthetic opioids (like nitazenes) are so strong that a few grains can be fatal. Some synthetic cannabinoids (fake weed) can cause:
To the average person like myself, these letters are meant to confuse, not to inform. Parents don’t need to memorize the names. They just need to know new chemicals appear constantly, and they’re often more dangerous than the ones before. The signs of designer drug use aren’t always obvious.Because these drugs vary so much, symptoms can look like:
If something feels “off,” trust your instincts. Designer drugs don’t follow predictable patterns. And as parents, we must listen to our gut about our children and their behavior.
What Can Parents Do Right Now?
Stay curious, not judgmental. Kids talk more when they feel safe.
Learn the basics. You don’t need to be an expert only informed.
Watch for sudden changes. Mood, sleep, appetite, or behavior shifts matter.
Talk early and often. Not just during crises.
Normalize asking questions. “If you ever see something weird, you can always ask me.”
You don’t need perfect answers. You just need presence. The goal isn’t fear. It’s awareness. You don’t have to lecture. You don’t have to scare. You don’t have to know every chemical name. What matters most is creating a space where your child feels safe saying:
“I saw this at school.”
“Someone offered me this.”
“I don’t know what this is.”
Open conversations save lives. Shame and silence do the opposite.
At the end of the day, every conversation about designer drugs comes back to one simple truth: we’re all just trying to keep the people we love safe in a world that changes faster than any of us can track. These substances aren’t just chemical formulas or scary headlines. They’re real risks that touch real families, often without warning.
But knowledge is a kind of light. And when we shine that light into the shadows, fear loses its power.
If you’re a parent, a guardian, a mentor, or simply someone who loves a young person, your presence matters more than you know. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to have all the answers. You just have to stay open, stay curious, and stay willing to talk about the hard things before they become emergencies. Because the truth is this: Connection protects. Conversation protects. Awareness protects.
And remember, you’re not alone. Every step you take toward understanding is a step toward safety, compassion, and a future where the people you love feel seen, supported, and empowered to make choices that honor their lives. Thanks for reading! Keep moving forward.
“It is dangerous, misleading, and illegal” and a “massive fraud on consumers that puts their safety directly at risk.”
–American Kratom Association
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to talk to you about the deadly synthetic opioid products known as 7-OH (gas station heroin). You might think that these products are safe. But there is only one descriptive term for them…..DANGEROUS.
Let me break down the problems associated with these products. The product is so dangerous that the FDA is specifically targeting the 7-OH products a concentrated byproduct of the kratom plant. They are not focused on the natural kratom leaf products. These products have a high potential for abuse because they bind to opioid receptors. They are not FDA-approved 7-OH opioid products. FDA Commissioner Marty Makary, M.D., M.P.H. is quoted saying, “7-OH is an opioid that can be more potent than morphine” (https://www.fda.gov, 2025).
What is 7-OH? –hydroymitragynine is a powerful opioid-like compound found in the leaves of the kratom plant. While this compound is naturally in trace amounts because manufacturers have begun to concentrate or synthesize it into highly potent and addictive products. They are sold at gas stations, vape shops and smoke shops. At this time, anyone of any age can purchase these products. And they are appealing to kids and teens because they are also made into edibles.
“It’s a recipe for a public health disaster.”
-Jim O’Neill, U.S. Department of
Health and Human Services
· Significantly stronger than morphine:Some synthetic products are reportedly 13 to 40 times more potent than morphine.
· Intense opioid effects: these include pain relief, euphoria, and sedation.
· High risk of dependence and addiction:Regular use can quickly lead to physical and psychological dependence with severe withdrawal symptoms when use is stopped.
· Serious adverse effects: There have been a notable rise in emergency room visits with symptoms that include nausea, agitation, rapid heart rate, high blood pressure, seizures and respiratory depression that can be fatal.
Difference between natural and concentrated 7-OH
· Natural kratom: in the natural form as a plant leaf, kratom contains only a small amount of 7-OH (less than 2%). It is often used for its mild stimulant or opioid-like effects, but the risk profile is significantly different from highly concentrated products.
· Concentrated/Synthetic 7-OH: lab created product where the 7-OH has been concentrated to a higher potency reaching 98%. These unregulated products are sold in forms like gummies, drinks, and tablets ((https://www.dshs.texas.gov, 2025).
I cannot express enough the dangerousness of these products. I, for one, fell in love with heroin and pills many years ago. And what a difficult process it has been to break free from those substances. Because “One is too many. And a thousand is never enough.” That’s how addiction works. Parents if you think that this is all a bunch of hoopla for nothing, you are dead wrong. This product scares me like most can’t. We have enough of an “opiate crisis” without introducing more into the family line. Educate yourself and your children. It just might save lives. Thanks for reading!
Affirmation: I have the ability to make a different choice.
“The DEA is part of the army of good working people working against the evil of drugs. The cartels deal in death, but we fight for life. This is not about politics; it’s about survival. Together, as one nation, we will end this fentanyl crisis and protect our people.”
-Acting Administrator, Derek Maltz
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I’m going to discuss one of the leading killers in our nation, FENTANYL. The correct pronunciation is (Fen-ta-nil). Fentanyl is a very powerful synthetic opioid that is used in surgery as an anesthetic to control severe pain. However, over the past decade, the drug has made its way into the illicit drug supply by way of cartels who are supplied most of the time from China where fentanyl is manufactured. And the street value of a counterfeit pill of fentanyl ranges from $1 to $3 a pill. And this is why fentanyl is so affordable and appealing to anyone.
With the opioid crisis that began in the 1990s and the lack of alternative pain control, chronic pain sufferers were forced to go to the streets to handle it themselves. I also suffer from chronic pain. A few years ago when I was living in Texas, no matter how much I told my doctors about my increasing nerve pain that has spread all over my body, no one would help me. I began to think that maybe my medical issues weren’t legit. What I soon found out was that the fear of healthcare professionals of persecution because of doctors who went too far and had opened clinics called “pill mills.” These were clinics that resembled pain clinics that were prescribed without sufficient medical history. Patients in these types of facilities received only prescriptions as a cash only transaction.
“Overdose deaths involving primarilyfentanyl totaled 73,838 reported in 2022”
The result was an astronomical amount going to people for forming both a physical and mental addiction on these drugs. What it also caused was the people with legitimate pain issues who had no access to medications that made their pain tolerable. Chronic pain will lead you to a couple of different places for relief. The streets where pills are sold illicitly or suicide. It’s not always about wanting to be a criminal. And unfortunately, our nation didn’t have answers to help with those needs. I had used medical cannabis previously when I lived in Albuquerque, NM. Texas, however, was a big southern slow towards that goal.
I tried everything I could get my hands on to help manage my pain without success. So, I headed to the streets for relief. I went down into the area of south Dallas which was nothing but hoodrats and drug dealers. And I was only able to go into those areas because I was with someone else who was already well known in that area. I was a gay white female who people there thought was a cop. I might be a lot of things but a narc I am not. I’ll be honest, that area was scary as hell. But I felt that I had no other options. And so I started buying pills from a dealer.
“The latest DEA laboratory testing announced earlier this fall, indicates that 5 out of every 10 pills tested contain a potentially deadly dose of fentanyl. Two milligrams of fentanyl is considered a lethal dose. For perspective, one gram of fentanyl, equivalent in size to a sugar packet, has the potential to kill up to 500 people.” (DEA.gov, 2024).
At the time, pills were going for $1/mg. This means that a pharmaceutical pain pill that was 30mg went for $30. And because these pills were harder to come by means that the prices were constantly increasing. So, I might get pain relief for one night. The next day I was in horrible pain yet again. When you buy drugs off the street, you are forced to unfortunately buy what is available. And some of it is pretty difficult to come by. And each time you take the medication you are playing Russian roulette. And I didn’t care. I needed relief like I needed air.
I was only able to buy morphine 60mg tablets which equaled $60/day which was impossible to come by for me. Buying on the streets is always a crapshoot about being able to stay in contact with more than one dealer. It’s a game of who if anyone will come through for you. Desperation will lead you to doing irrational things. And it was worth it at the time. I consider myself incredible that I didn’t become a statistic to fentanyl. And I never became addicted to anything that I used there.
“Fentanyl is 100 times more potent than morphine.”
(DEA.gov, 2024)
Fentanyl is in everything now. If kids get some pills from a friend that bought them from a dealer and it has been cut with fentanyl, they’re dead. Narcan, which is a medication that helps to reverse the effects of an opiate, definitely helps to reverse overdose. But what if you took the pill right before you got into bed hoping for a nice, peaceful sleep pain free? No one is there and narcan then means nothing.
While growing up in the 80’s the drugs were still safe to experiment with. But now they’re not. Fentanyl is one of those drugs that has seemed to grab my attention about its hidden dangers. Some people are being intentionally poisoned due to fentanyl. And it scares the hell out of me for my kids.
I invite you to watch videos on YouTube about fentanyl awareness. One of my personal favorites is Texas Documentaries that has a new video every couple of days about how fentanyl has destroyed so many lives and their families. Have fun. Stay safe. And educate yourselves and those you love about the dangers of fentanyl.
“We’ve been at the forefront of this fight against synthetic opioids since the very beginning. We are committed to combating fentanyl, and the men and women of CBP are up to the task.”
-CBP Senior Official Performing the Duties of the Commissioner Troy Miller
“The percentage of deaths with evidence of counterfeit pill use involving only illicitly manufactured fentanyl was more than double the percentage among deaths without evidence of counterfeit pill use.”
(CDC.gov, 2023)
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Okie dokie! Back to the streets. Today, I want to talk about one of the main reasons people are dying in record numbers due to the “fentanyl crisis.” The topic is “pressed pills.”
First, we must understand what is a “pressed pill?” The DEA states, “Drug traffickers use pill presses to press fentanyl into pills, punches and dies to imprint markings and logos onto those pills, producing pills that look like legitimate prescription medication-like Oxycodone, Xanax and Adderall-when those pills actually contain Fentanyl, methamphetamine, and other deadly drugs (DEA.gov, 2024). Likewise the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) indicate that approximately over 100,000 drug overdose deaths in the US during the 12 months ending in April 2021. That was a 30% increase compared to the year before (Harm Reduction Journal, 2002).
“In 2023, the Drug Enforcement Administration seized over 79 million fake pills containing fentanyl-a more than 33% increase from the year before. DEA laboratory testing currently indicates that 7 out of 10 pills contain a potentially deadly dose of fentanyl.”
(Dea.gov, 2025)
The majority of the production of fentanyl comes from China. It is then, in turn, sent to Mexico or Afghanistan where cartels mix fentanyl into the drugs that they are manufacturing. Pills and other drugs are now often purchased through SnapChat, Gaming Platform “chat” functions and other dark web sites. And today, there are about 9,300 websites selling drugs illegally on the darkweb. They advise to check your kid’s phones for unusual words like Blues, Blueberries, Apache, China Girl, China Town, Dance Fever, Friend, Goodfellas, Great Bear, He-Man, Jackpot, King Ivory, Murder 8, Tango & Cash, f3nt, TNT, fluff, tabs, vikes, hydros, vitamins, ercs, or 30s. These code names change very frequently (adamsbroomfieldda.org, 2024.
Drug dealers also contact a China manufacturer directly and can purchase fentanyl and have it shipped straight to their door. Another synthetic opiate that can escalate overdose deaths is Carfentanil which is another fentanyl derivative that is 100 times more potent than fentanyl. Carfentanil is used as an elephant tranquilizer (Dea.gov, 2024).
“Carfentanyl is 10,000 times more stronger than morphine”
(DEA.gov, 2005).
Illicit fentanyl comes in powdered, pll and liquid forms. The new trend is “Rainbow Fentanyl.” It gets its name from brightly-colored fentanyl found in pills, powder and blocks that can resemble candy or sidewalk chalk. This presents a significant danger primarily to children who may mistake this as candy. The color variations indicate the potency. Fentanyl’s potency and cheap costs are reasons why drug dealers are mixing it into other drugs. And this is also the reason that most fentanyl deaths occur at home (maricopacountyattorney.org, 2025).
As is the culture of illicit drugs, when addicts find out that there has been a deadly batch of fentanyl, they scurry to find the dealer because they know that their product is strong. Call it crazy, but when you are in the grasps of addiction nothing is off limits. Since opiate withdrawal is so painful and unpleasant, a lot of addicts get caught in the cycle of wanting to stop but not wanting to be sick. So most continue using just to stay well.
Fentanyl is no doubt an extremely dangerous drug. And it’s only a matter of time before users will die from an overdose or poisoning. Stay abreast on the latest news and trends regarding fentanyl and other illicit drugs to help protect yourself, friends and family. If at all possible do everything you can to prevent another statistic.
Enjoying school and playing sports
Dripping with sweat on shirts and shorts.
A dollar bill would be burning a hole in my pocket
She was only a number, but she was also the girl in the closet.
Most knew her name but not her number
She made them laugh even before Tumblr
The teacher never smiled, and we never knew why
Was someone mean to her? Did they make her cry?
The evilness she shot through her eyes made them want to vomit
She was only a number the girl in the closet.
The clown she was in those days
That happiness quickly became dark, ugly hate.
That closet was to teach me lessons.
And lessons it did…I learned how to drink, take pills, cut on my arms and put on gauze dressings
Because I was only a number and the girl in the closet.
Please!!!!I cried for someone to get me out of there
But they were being told different stories and I started pulling out my hair.
How could you not see that which was in front of you?
You questioned my parents and they questioned you.
What’s happened to my child and why is her heart so hurt
But I was just a number and the little girl in the closet.
They all knew and could see my spirit breaking day after day.
The hate would develop with words she would hear between September and May.
She was being changed from the inside out
She always had a practice where her aggression could be let out.
Her pills were quite the comfort and the razors were too
Because she had certainly learned some less and she hates herself and wants to turn blue.
She can’t breathe without thinking that finally someone must listen to what I say
The mental torture that continues day after day.
Now it’s my turn to tell you how we will play.
You didn’t even remember my number only that “I was the girl in the closet.”
“…Being separated from their birth mothers and handed over to strangers in the adoption process is the only trauma where the victims are expected by the whole of society to be grateful…”
Nancy Verrier, The Primal Wound
Even as a young child my parents can tell you that I was a very inquisitive. I was also the child that questioned EVERYTHING. There was no accepting because someone said to. I had to know the “whys.” This has often led to difficult roads and battle wounds as a result. As an adult with a very difficult diagnosis to comprehend much less to ask someone else to understand, I still question everything. Maybe it’s normal to question these things. Keep in mind that I function most of the time as a “teenager with an attitude” and you know how much ego, time and energy that requires. Sometimes it’s just like having annoying bags of hell that can suck the life out of everything it touches including my body attached to me like appendages. But sometimes the internal conversations are better than any comedy routine I’ve ever witnessed including the questions.
I question every person’s motives, practitioners, governments, my adoption, abusive behaviors and, yes, I still question my diagnosis A LOT! Being on disability, currently, allows me time to search for answers about my puzzled life. As you’ve read throughout my blog, my connection to adoption and why it’s so painful for me has led me to some obsessive days and nights searching online for something to explain the pain in my soul that I’ve never been able to accurately paint a picture of with words.
On an Attachment and Parenting blog, one adoptive parent is quoted as saying….
“Scientific research now reveals that as early as the second trimester, the human fetus is capable of auditory processing and in fact, is capable of processing rejection in utero. In addition to the rejection and abandonment felt by the newborn adoptee or any age adoptee for that matter, it must be recognized that the far greater trauma often times occurs in the way in which the mind and body system of the newborn is incapable of processing the loss of the biological figure. Far beyond any cognitive awareness, this experience is stored deep within the cells of the body, routinely leading to states of anxiety and depression for the adopted child later in life.”
I now have a simple explanation for the type of feelings that can destroy me to deal with. The rejection and separation process can still be felt deeper than any other sensation I’ve personally felt. These words gave me an instant reaction and all internal members on guard and children/teens to safety. I realize that the intensity felt by other adoptees is on a continuum of variance. The intensity I feel today is the same intensity I felt as a infant, child and teen. And as an adult, it can still be very crippling as the loss is for both me and my birth mom is extremely powerful.
In Nancy Verrier’s book The Primal Wound: Understanding the Adopted Child, 1993, she describes the Primal Wound Theory by saying, ” that develops when a mother and child are separated by adoption shortly after childbirth. It describes the mother and child as having a vital connected relationship which is physical, psychological and physiological, and examines the effects of disrupting such bonds.” I still haven’t been able to read that book because of how much the topic really disturbs me. The Nature vs. Nurture debate is another avenue in continuous research. I see myself both sides of the debate which as people we are a constantly evolving through that very mixture.
As an adopted child, I needed and wanted to find parts of my identity. I was always the kid that looked nothing like my parents but I did have some behavioral traits. I was raised around some comedy goodness with both my daddy and Nannie. Their individual humor is enough to sit and tell stories for several hours. My environmental and social interactions helped to shape beliefs both about myself and other people. There’s a much longer discussion for that debate. Genetically, my skin color, facial characteristics, bone structure, eye color, etc. is the Nature side of the debate. The debate often centers around the effect genetics have on human personalities as opposed to the influences that environment and development might have. So you can see that this will probably on for infiniti + infiniti.
As a developing child, not being able to look in the stands at my ballgames or in a crowd at the mall and not see anyone that I looked like was torture. I love my adoptive parents no less. Unless you’re an adopted child with this strong need to just know “why” you can’t understand the obsession. At major life events birthdays, weddings, graduations, birth of a child, etc. while I tried to enjoy everything in the moment, I couldn’t help but to feel the loss for people who I originally belonged to. This has also been a big source of guilt and shame from just wanting to know.
My parents were always very supportive in my efforts to find my answers and truth about this situation. My birth mom, father, full brother, aunts, uncles, paternal grandmother, half brothers, half sisters, step-mom and some cousins eventually met but not on the same turf. As an adopted child, I had to accept prior to going to meet them all that I would be rejected again. This time the rejection would be felt as an adult. I needed that one-on-one time with my mom to ask her the “whys” that continue to haunt me after my answers were received. But, first, the willingness to feel that incredible lifelong wound gaped open even further if the universe saw fit and it did. Not the Lifetime ending I was looking for.
What I have done to deal with this wound in the past was to shove anything I could into that big, dark hole in my soul. I poured alcohol, pills, razors, purging, restricting, perfectionism in certain areas, people pleasing, etc. into this insatiable appetite for something only she could fill. I guess we can just call this particular therapy topic a work in progress. And maybe, in time, with COACH by my side, I’ll attain some resolve and peace. The whole purpose for moving to Texas was to get some healing. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.
“We turn skeletons into goddesses and look to them as if they might teach us how not to need.” ― Marya Hornbacher, Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia
The topic of eating disorders is one that can cripple me to my knees. The thought of having to discuss the topic with someone is like knocking the wind out of me. If just the thought of this bothers me this bad then I would caution anyone with an active eating disorder or early recovery from one about very triggering information about my disordered past and present. This post will probably be done over a couple of days due to how much it will stir internally.
If you’ve been reading my blog from the beginning, you know that the age of 13 was a very difficult year and was emotionally abusive by a teacher. This was the year that several behaviors started for me such as: cutting, eating disorder, drug addiction and very early alcohol abuse. At the time, I didn’t understand that the behavior was called an eating disorder. I just knew that I was about to start playing high school sports the following fall and I had to be faster and stronger.
The time I remember the first “dieting” type behavior was soon after the eighth grade ended. I went on a crash diet and within about two weeks lost 20 lbs. I had, in that short time, taught myself to dislike certain foods. I had been using the drug Mini-Thins which was marketed as a bronchodilator at many truck stops that had both ephedrine and caffeine in its makeup. This was well before ephedrine was taken off the market because of so many sports related deaths. I clearly remember there being 100 tabs for $7.99. Any allowance money went straight to those little pills. Now you’re wondering exactly what purpose they served for me, eh? This drug while containing a precursor for methamphetamine, completely knocked out my appetite while decreasing all water weight and supplying me the energy to play two sports without eating.
I was completely wrapped up in a big ole ball of addiction already and had no idea. I’ve always said that addiction was the best friend that cut my throat. It served its alleged purpose while wrapping me up in a killing machine of codependency of both behaviors and substances. All it took for my eating disorder to continue was one compliment or another pound lost. I soon found myself becoming a quicker ballplayer with greater stamina and explosive power. Unfortunately, this never worked well with the aggressiveness that also developed this year.
When I went to high school, and thank goodness they weren’t drug testing athletes at that time, I was a full blown addict already out of control within only about 3 months. My eating disorder had now progressed to weighing 12-15 times a day. I slept in teachers rooms during lunch so I wouldn’t have to be around food. I was now both anorexic and bulimic. My bulimia purging was through laxative use. I was getting drunk to the point of passing out and/or vomiting anytime I went to a “party.” The mind bending part was that I was really climbing in my athletic play. I was a starting freshman on both the softball and basketball teams. I thought and felt like I was on top of the world. I seemingly ‘had my cake and got to eat it too.’
The next couple of years I continued to lose weight but my playing slowly started on a downward spiral. By my senior year, I was a sickly 83 lbs on a 5’7″ frame. I had resorted to stealing diet pills and would frequently have mini seizures or some type of severe jerking movements and saw spots in the mornings. I was constantly weighing myself. I was constantly tired and cold. I would eat one small salad a week and would cry if I had to eat in public. The questions had started long before about “why aren’t you eating?” “Are you losing weight?” Most of the time I would just tell people that I wasn’t hungry. I had already eaten or my stomach hurt. I would explain the weight loss off as just training harder and having a higher metabolism as a teenager. My dreams of playing college basketball and/or softball were disappearing and I didn’t even care. I was also now taking 25 pills a day just to maintain my habit.
People began to tell me how sickly I looked. My eyes were dark and sunken. My face was sunken and my ribs and backbone were unhealthily showing. My digestive system was completely messed up. Mentally I didn’t know whether to ‘scratch my watch or wind my butt.’ And my body had begun to feed on itself. As a result, I was unable to be in top notch shape as an athlete because I always had pulled muscles in my back. I had just watched myself as a beloved player of the game of basketball go from being able to play hard and fast the entire game to having to come out of the game shortly after tip off because of lack of energy or injuries.
When I moved from my teen years into my years of domestic abuse, I was required to weigh for my husband and to stay in a certain weight range. I had finally started to recover minimally, I thought, pull out of my life of an eating disorder. However, it seemed that I was being forced back into those behaviors again. I was soon being told what I could and could not eat. How and what I ate were criticized constantly. I was made to take pictures of myself in bathing suits or naked and put them on the refrigerator as a reminder what I looked like when I got hungry. And when I went to work and food establishments were nearby, I was dared to eat when it wasn’t the food I was allotted. Sometimes I would look up from where I worked and my husband would be out in the parking lot watching me from his vehicle. I became terrified to eat again and I was starving. Most of the time, I would wait for him to go to bed and I would sneak food hoping to God he didn’t hear me. Still, he would inevitably start pinching at my body and making comments about how I looked and dressed. He would tell me, “You want to see something disgusting? Just look in the mirror.”
Skip ahead to today and I still have a lot of hang ups around food, eating and body image. This is probably one of the topics that haunt me the most. I still cannot eat in public without wearing sunshades, headphones and trying to hide behind menus. We have fears of being recognized and being talk about concerning whatever we might order or how we eat. I’m scared to death about trying new foods. I’m scared to make food selections. I’m very uncomfortable with eating around people especially those that I know. I prefer to eat privately. These days it’s not about getting the high from the endorphins. Now it’s strictly about fear of judgment. Yes, I still have an eating disorder. No, I’m not an anorexic weight. Let me get stressed out and the first thing I do is start restricting. There I said it. I have a really long way to go on this recovery. And with DID, as you may or may not can imagine, things can be extremely stressful for extended periods of time.
As my dear Sarah would tell me if I asked her advice on this one, she would say, “Dana, start at step #1. This is a marathon not a sprint.” Again, I can smile.
This Puzzled Life 