What I’d Say to the Drug Dealer Who Gave My Sister a Fatal Dose of Heroin
In 2015, 33,091 people died from opioid overdoses in the U.S. My sister was one of them. She passed away on July 31, 2015 at the age of 44. I often think about her last day and what her final moments were like. I also think about the person who gave her the drugs that ended her life. Below is what I might say to that person if we ever met. DEAR DEALER, Hey, man, what’s up? I’m saying “man” because most of the people who blew up my sister’s phone offering and seeking drugs were men. Men who had negative impacts on my sister’s life. Since I don’t know your name, I’ll just call you Dealer. You had the greatest and most negative impact on my sister’s life: You killed her. In high school, at the height of the Just Say No movement in the late ‘80s, we were taught that kids who used drugs were pariahs, weak. They just couldn’t say no. But the people who sold the drugs, they had power. Drug dealers were dangerous, but also a little sexy. “I bet he’s like, a drug dealer.” But to call you a drug dealer here, with that same reverence, is naive, out of touch. I’m an adult now. I know better. I know addicts, and people in recovery; I’ve been around lots of drugs and have done my fair share. So, I’m familiar with your world, familiar enough to know that most people who call on you for their drugs probably refer to you as their dealer. Similar to how they refer to other helpful people in their lives: my mechanic, my hairdresser, my chiropractor, my dentist, my deli guy…my dealer.
What did you call my sister? My sister, Sasha, who I think you knew. I hope you didn’t call her Sash because that’s what a lot of people who loved her called her, and I find it hard to believe that you loved her. Did you call her by her name? Or, “lady?” How about, “hot mess,” when she was out of earshot? Or maybe you created a nickname for her like “purple,” the color of her car. The same car she was found in, slumped over, in the parking lot of a seafood restaurant off the side of the highway, according to the police report.
Is dealing just a way for you to survive too? If so, where does that leave us? What would happen if we ever met? Will I unleash all of my rage on you? Or, will I look into your eyes and weep because you’ll look just like my sister. You’ll be someone, like my sister was, who can’t be around their family anymore because pretending is so hard, because you’re sick, and getting high is the only way to maintain some equilibrium. I know anger isn’t sustainable, but I’m afraid to feel the sadness — it’s protecting. My anger is control, it gives me say. My sadness knows I have neither.
Yours Forever,
The Sister
