Heroine..

I met her in rehab. We’ll call her Heroin - with an “E”. That makes her a heroine. She was fourteen years old when I met her and fifteen years old when I had to say goodbye. We held hands everywhere we went, only because she seemed so young but at the same time she was so old – so matured by the drugs. She needed me to lean on, not that I was sturdy myself. We grew so close to each other in the three weeks were together. Between group sessions and being trapped in a 10x10ft room, it’s almost impossible not to become attached.

One of our weekly rituals was to go to the Women’s Unit. There, we would share our stories in hopes that we would share our strength and experience with the women; even if we only touched one life it was worth it. I remember vividly one of the things that our techs would do was say that out of the eight of us girls, at least one would be dead within the next year, statistically. We all looked at each other and rolled our eyes unbelievingly. Never did we think it would actually happen. We got to where we were by doing drugs and drinking – being stubborn rebels. We weren’t going to let a number scare us.

Being a Christian, I took my Bible along with me to rehab. I read it every night and one of our techs would even stay up with me until 4:00am reading passages and deciphering the meaning. Most of the girls in our unit had rebelled against religion too. They didn’t understand how a loving God could let their lives play out the way they did. I have to admit, I struggled with that as well but I didn’t pretend that He wasn’t there. More and more girls began coming to me, asking me questions about God and the Bible, and praying with me. It became a nightly ritual that we would all meet, read some verses, and pray. Heroine was extremely stubborn. She was the only one that would not join our group. One day, she broke down hysterically; it was then she asked me how to accept Jesus Christ. I felt like I’d accomplished all He put me there for.

Heroine was short-fused. It didn’t take much of anything to get her going. A girl that we’ll call “Trouble,” decided that she wanted to find a fight. It was rumored that she was just trying to get out of rehab, that she was trying to impress one of the guys, and that she just decided she hated Heroine the minute she laid eyes on her. Whatever the reason, she hit Heroine, gave her a bloody nose, and left her face down on the concrete. She was not the kind of girl to go out like that. She stood up, swinging violently, ignoring the words of wisdom I was trying to provide her with from the sidelines. She ended up breaking Trouble’s nose and adding a black and blue eye to her physical features.

Heroine got kicked out of rehab the next day; I believe that’s what killed her. She was sent to a detention center because her parents had no tolerance for her. Not because she was “bad,” but because they were just like her. She was the only one trying to get help. Because of that, I have no tolerance for them.

Heroine and I kept in touch, made plans for the future, couldn’t wait to see each other again, texted every day. Then, all at once, her texts stopped coming in and our plans began to disintegrate. Heroine’s sister called to inform me that Heroine had overdosed. This time, the ambulance wasn’t quick enough. She was gone for good. It’s been less than a year since we’ve been in rehab and at least one of the eight girls that were sitting in that room at the rehab center is dead. She became a statistic.

We never thought it could happen to any of us, but Heroine’s untimely death proved to me that I am nothing special. I am no better than she, and neither is anyone else. She died from the same disease that I struggle to beat every single day of my life – the same disease that I want to give into so many times a day. If I’m not careful, addiction will claim my life too, once and for all. It can happen to anyone. It can happen to you. The first time could very well be your last.