Friends,
I recently returned from a solo road trip out to Western Canada.
Things have been quite heavy at The Village lately, particularly with another fatal overdose of a community member who was a leader, educator, and fundamental to advocacy within Listowel, and my soul knew our team just needed a “pause.” We closed The Village down for two weeks and everyone took a break.
Personally, I needed time to think. Not just think about the “everyday” moments of life, family and community work, but rather a “deep dive” into what I suspected was my own grief about this most recent fatal overdose here in Listowel.
Anecdotally, I hear often of non-fatal overdoses. Community members will share that so and so “went down.” Folks will also express that 911 wasn’t called in some of these non-fatal overdoses because those present with the person who was in this drug-induced medical crisis were able to administer Narcan, the antidote for an opioid overdose, successfully. What that can mean though, is that many overdoses within our communities go unreported.
For the first several hours of my trip, I drove in silence. It wasn’t until somewhere after Sudbury and before Sault Saint Marie that I finally turned on the radio, now almost excited to tune in CBC for the brief time I had a signal through those twists and turns. In the quiet of my own company, I found myself running through my emotions surrounding that community member’s death and the reality of fentanyl, opioids and overdoses.
I struggled with how I was finally allowing myself to feel, because when we work with people, boundaries can trump emotional responses. And here I was, grappling with all these feelings! In the privacy of my own thoughts, I cried for the loss of this person, pondering why I felt so impacted, and for the pain of those who loved him.
In the dialogue within my mind, as the road changed from the 400 to Highway 69, I hurled anger at him, angry for when he expressed, in that painfully-honest conversation we had recently, that he knew his limit with fentanyl, as though someone could possibly harness control over a substance widely known to have such miniscule margins of what levels can cause one to overdose and have a medical crisis. I felt such frustration at the seeming unwillingness of many to accept that this opioid crisis is present here, as it is in almost every rural and urban area of Canada, and that it is a “people” issue, and not a “city” issue, as some clearly believe. And I felt sadness, because in not acknowledging that issues and struggles exist, we deny someone the validity of their story and lived experiences.
Substance dependency, or substance use disorder (SUD), active addiction, relapses and supports needs to be openly spoken about and conversations normalized, if we ever hope to be proactive in combating a crisis that is present in North Perth. One only has to listen to the language and attitudes widely used to describe a person whom others identify as one navigating substance dependency or perhaps mental illness, to appreciate how a community member may decide it is better to struggle alone and in private, rather than be courageous and honest and risk standing alone in the arena of public opinion and misaligned morality.
Sadly, we hear it when someone’s life has ended by suicide; “Why didn’t they talk about it?” Maybe the space to discuss mental illness, sexuality, substance use, gender expectations or trauma didn’t feel safe and supportive. We can change that.
As the sun set and I realized I was now very much alone on the Trans-Canada Highway, I hoped desperately, as I drove through the thick darkness of trees, walls of rock and warnings of deer and moose coming out at night, to see a beacon up ahead, perhaps a set of tail lights from a transport truck also driving this route. A reassurance that those twists and bends in the road weren’t so scary, because someone else was there too. And I wondered if this was, yet again, the universe showing me a sign; a metaphor of feeling so alone and in a darkness and just hoping someone will be present with you. No judgment. Just there to take the journey together.
In short time, beautiful red tail lights from a semi appeared on the highway and a sense of relief blanketed me. “Thank you,” I whispered to myself, as I set my cruise control to stay as safely close to the truck as I could. Unbeknownst to that truck driver, my solo journey soon became an “us” thing. And a few hours later, when they turned into a roadside truck stop to sleep, I did too, grateful that they helped me get through that darkness and I was safe to embark upon another day of my trip.
Life is like that, huh? How easily we can give one another the reassurance to keep going and the beacon that they are not alone. That we can do it together. Because we are all just walking each other home.
Take good care of each other, friends.
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Andrea Charest serves as director of the Listowel It Takes A Village location.
