It’s a hard thing to admit, but in addition to being utterly obsessed with sports trivia and discovering new music of all genres, my husband was addicted to heroin. For seven of our 16 years together, Kevin would shoot up in the laundry room once I’d gone to bed or left for work before him. His monogrammed custom-made dress shirts hid not only his many beautiful tattoos but also the track marks on his arms.
That judgment is exactly what I want to fight now. The shame I feel is what I want to eliminate. That stigma prevents many people from reaching out for help, and it’s only deepening the opioid crisis. The truth is, Kevin did know better. He wanted to be better and was trying to be better, but he couldn’t. Addiction, like cancer, is a disease. I believe he didn’t choose addiction; addiction chose him.Kevin was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder in 2004.
When the paramedics revived him, I heard one of them ask him, “What did you take?” The room went black, and I experienced my first panic attack when I heard my husband answer, “Heroin.” My friends and my dad were right in a way: I should have left him, but I couldn’t. Kevin had an illness he was fighting so hard to beat. I couldn’t turn my back on that. If my husband was fighting cancer, I wouldn’t leave him. This was no different. The man I loved—that quirky guy who chatted with senior citizens all day and made me laugh all night—was lost and swallowed up by his addiction. I knew Kevin was still somewhere underneath it all.Kevin told even fewer people about his addiction.