The milky-white juice of the poppy soothes away pain and brings dreamy pleasure … until it doesn’t. Until use descends into abuse. Until a longing for relief from misery becomes misery itself.
I smoked opium in Asia a few times and found it a lovely experience. I spent a day in India floating (on a boat and in my mind) down a canal on a mail barge while the world passed before me, its sounds and colors gentled by utterly calm intoxication. For whatever reasons, I was able to be careful or physiologically lucky enough to leave it at that.
It was Bayer, of aspirin fame, that turned opium into heroin, a far more addictive drug, and made a fortune. The Sacklers’ Perdue Pharma followed in that tradition of venomous greed to push Oxycontin (more portent yet), which resulted in a plague of dependancy and death. Unsurprisingly, this family of major drug pushers got fabulously rich and never spent a day in jail. (If you get a chance, see Laura Poitras’ astoundingly good documentary, All the Beauty and the Bloodshed, about photographer Nan Goldin’s fight against that company.)
And today, the streets are flooded with fentanyl, a synthetic opioid so potent that the tiniest miscalculation in dosage can be fatal.
It started with a beautiful and useful flower.
Good for you for kicking it.
I learned surprising stuff in this piece. Masterfully written. And the photos, wow! I feel a delicious intoxication in the poppy picture. The addict photo is gorgeous and at the same time communicates personal disaster.