The Incarcerated Intellectual: Vicarious Trauma: Everyone Has a Story

Prisons are breeding grounds for substance abuse. It never starts here, though; it's always something people carry in, like a life-preserve jacket full of everything that kills you. 

The first time I saw someone smoke crack, I was 6 years old. Watching from the living room floor as my brother's father and his friends loaded glass pipes with substances, they forced all of us boys to sit and watch pornographic films for several hours. Trauma has always been my closest companion.

In 2020, I watched in horror as my daughter's mother nodded off from opioids on her front porch, unable to answer if my daughter would be okay before I dropped her off. A year later, my daughter's mother was homeless and in need of shelter. 

Over one weekend, I cared for her for two days as she shook, shivered and sweat uncontrollably. I put frozen washcloths on her brow repeatedly, trying to lower her temperature as she detoxed. Finally, I had to go back to work and sent her away with tears in my eyes, afraid she would die if I didn't let her go “get well" due to my inadequate care.

Fast forward to today; it's 6:30 a.m. on a Friday, and last night's fog is rolling back from the forest floor, as smooth as a velvet sheet. My alarm goes off, and the song "21 Questions" by 50 Cent begins with a soft crescendo.

My first thought of the day is: "I suffer from vicarious trauma," which happens whenever a person is repeatedly exposed to violence, suffering or traumatic events. 

It is from this acknowledgement that I'm awake and writing this article about the synthetic marijuana epidemic in this prison, a substance sometimes called “K2” or “spice.”

Two months ago, a man we'll call "Lil bro," moved into the cell with me. That same day I watched, mystified, as he ignited a small piece of paper and inhaled the smoke rolling off it using the core of a toilet paper roll. 

As his high kicked in, he sat down and sighed heavily. His breathing became labored, his eyes started going in and out of focus and he mumbled incoherently. He resembled a zombie from the show "The Walking Dead,” weaving side to side as if he were in a trance.

I sat across from him in the cell, wondering if he was going into shock because he started to convulse uncontrollably. I began to wonder if I'd be charged with his death if he stopped breathing. All of a sudden, he jumped up and made an ear-curdling dry-heaving sound before vomiting explosively all over the floor for three and a half minutes.

Afterward, he walked very slowly to his bed and whispered, “Help me, brother.” He wasn't asking for medical assistance; he was asking me to cover his tracks—his vomit and his paraphernalia—because he was too discombobulated to do it himself.

I sat in shock and horror for the next ten minutes, reigning in my building anger and staying mindful of my very slim margin for error in getting home to my children. If I alerted the authorities of this guy's overdose, I could be charged with whatever this guy was on and I'd be labeled a snitch, which is a death sentence in this prison.

I thought about my innocent son and daughters. I realized I had to display the patience, kindness and mental acuity I so often preach to them about. I eventually cleaned up another man's vomit. I watched him sleep for the next five hours, checking his breathing and listening carefully until it returned to normal.

The next morning, I spoke very kindly, even gently, as I explained that he needed to get clean. I encouraged him and had a heart-to-heart conversation before advising him that he'd be moving out immediately. He solemnly agreed, but I could see the shame and rejection on his face. He refused to look me in the eye.

After he moved out, I did a thousand push-ups and sit-ups trying to clear my head. I sat down on the bed and cried unapologetically for all of the people, all of the families and all of the communities lost to substance abuse. I eventually became Lil Bro's peer mentor, helping him initiate his reentry plan and getting him signed up for chemical dependency counseling.

At Clallam Bay Corrections Center, there have been 47 consecutive overdoses from spice in the last 3 weeks. Some people have been airlifted to Port Angeles for life-saving measures, and many have needed Narcan to stabilize their heart rates and normalize their breathing. There is an ongoing synthetic marijuana epidemic at this prison. 

Spice is made from manufactured chemicals and produces hallucinations, catatonic states and explosive diarrhea and vomiting. People use it because it's nearly undetectable in urinalysis tests, and it can be sprayed onto paper, which allows it to be trafficked more easily.

Research shows that 1 in 5 Americans were sexually molested as a child, a parent physically abused 1 in 4 and one quarter of us grew up with alcoholic relatives. 

This epidemic was born from dysfunctional upbringings and intrafamily abuse. We're living in a traumatized society. 

I believe that the solution to every social issue has always and will forever begin with empathy, not punitive systems that demonize adults with dysfunctional coping mechanisms that helped them survive horrific childhoods.

I've never been an addict, but I stand in solidarity with everyone who is. I've been homeless and abused in more ways than I care to mention. I know the pain and isolation associated with being an outcast. I felt the shame of being a teenager sleeping on the street, eventually too numb inside to care about passersby stares.

There is healing in community. I don't have a professional to back up my claim, and I don't need one. How many of you have a son, a daughter, a niece or a nephew addicted to a controlled substance? And how many of you have loved them unconditionally, hoping one day they'll see the truth in your loving kindness? That's community.  

Everyone has a story, folks, but only you get to decide how it ends.