A Principal's Confession: I Hate Heroin.

I am the very proud principal of the Hartford Area Career and Technology Center (HACTC). And I have a confession to make.

I hate heroin.

And not because my Current students are using.

That has happened, for sure.

But that is certainly not the norm.

No, it is not the Currents but rather the Formers.

The ones who have graduated.

And are in ‘life’ (whatever that means) by a couple, few, or handful of years.

And sometimes who come to see me.

To ‘check in’ and say, ‘hello.’

Late in the afternoon on any given day after school, the sun peaking just below the Dogwood on the other side of the parking lot.

When the teammates are gone.

And it is just me in the office.

Tapping away on the computer.

Responding to emails.

The endless emails.

Or praying.

Or thinking.

They are all a good possibility after five o’clock.

Or really anytime after three o’clock.

Or anytime, I guess.

Nonetheless, the Formers swing around the parking lot in their car and see the light on.

And me standing at my desk.

So they come in.

All smiles and hugs.

Unicorns and rainbows.

With eye contact.

And I love it.

And smile and hug them back.

It is good to see them.

For sure.

But within seconds, the unicorns and rainbows disappear.

And their smile changes.

And the Dementors arrive.

And hover.

And the Formers stare down at their feet and shuffle their shoes side to side.

In an awkward pause.

And in the awkwardness and shuffling I notice their shallow cheeks.

Their pale cheeks.

And pale skin.

And the dark bags under their eyes.

Like my father’s tea bag on the saucer after finishing a cup.

An effort to calm a long day at work.

Or a longer evening in the barn.

When I was a kid.

What a strange memory and analogy.

Sorry for that.

But after the hug, the eye contact, and the shuffling, I catch a whiff of something on the Formers.

And realize it is their breath.

It smells chemically.

Bleach?

Antiseptic?

It is so hard to describe.

But not hard to notice.

Or identify.

And then I realize why the Dementors are there.

Heroin.

That is what I smell on their breath.

Heroin.

From being smoked rather than injected.

Heroin.

‘The evil.’

The 'deceptive friend.'

The Formers call it a lot of names.

And when the conversation starts, the long pauses between the Formers' words and sentences start, too.

So I ask them if they are okay.

And they say, ‘No.’

And tears drip down their cheeks and hit their shoes, staining them briefly.

So that is when I hug again.

The perfect time to hug again.

A weak effort to bring back the unicorns and rainbows.

And marginalize the Dementors.

At least for a minute.

A minute for me to ask questions to see if the Formers will possibly tell me the truth:

How are you?

How are you feeling?

Do you know who loves you?

Is there anything you want to tell me about your life?

Are you in control of you or is something else in control of you?

I don’t care either way.

And neither do your people.

We just love you.

We just love you.

We just love you.

Is there any way I can help you other than a hug?

And then they do it.

They tell me the truth.

And talk about their ‘deceptive friend.’

And tell me that it 'promised relief and relationship but has only brought sorrow.'

And 'emptiness.'

And they tell me about the 'warmth' that 'deceptive friend' brings.

Initially.

And then the 'calm.'

Initially.

Until the shallowness of both disappear.

Leaving as quick as they came.

Replaced by craving.

And itching.

And paranoia.

And the pursuit of more 'friendship.'

Yes, heroin is the worst kind of 'deceptive friend.'

According to my Formers.

They know.

They most certainly know.

And when they leave my office and get back in their car, the chemical smell and the Dementors still lingering, I am left wondering what to do.

What to do.

What to do.

I don't know what to do.

So I write.

This.

In the hopes that whoever reads it continues to latch onto grace.

And understanding.

And courage.

And strength.

If they have an addict in their family.

Or in their close circle of friends.

Or as a Former.

I hope this reminds them - and myself, too (it is quite possible I am writing this only for myself) - that the 'deceptive friend' does not like us.

And it does not like grace, understanding, courage, strength, and the true friend - love.

Love.

The Patronus.

The thing that defeats the Dementors (Thank you, Harry Potter for leading us correctly).

And the thing needed to view the addicts as separate from their addiction.

And yes, that is so very hard.

But when done, the addict's moral compass can be seen to still be intact.

Pointing North.

And reminds us that they are always worthy for us to use our Patronus to try and protect them.

And, ironically, often they are the Patronus.

And that is what makes it worth it when they sometimes get clean.

Like so many of the Formers have.

Because they got their foothold for recovery in love.

Appropriately from those that love them.

But that doesn't mean the non-recoverers are not loved.

Or not protected by our Patronuses.

Or do not have a moral compass pointing North.

Or have lost their humanness.

Or are not strong.

That couldn't be farther from the truth.

It just means that addiction has no explanation.

Or any rhyme or reason.

It just is.

It just is.

So, Formers....

Stop by.

And bring your 'deceptive friend.'

And the Dementors.

Neither really scare me any more.

And while I cannot promise anything in terms of your recovery, just know you will always be welcomed and hugged.

And will always have access to my Patronus (an owl).