The experience of watching the horrors unfold in Ukraine is one of emotional turbulence as sadness, fear, and anger intertwine with awe and admiration for those who fight against the odds to save their beloved homeland.

I have thought about the Ukrainian woman, and others like her, whose description of the brutality was met with disbelief by relatives in Russia. With access to only Russian propaganda instead of news, these family members believe that Russian troops were deployed on a special assignment to liberate Ukraine and save its people from the terror of Nazi-influenced Ukrainian soldiers murdering their own people.

. . .

This grim picture reminds us to be thankful for the tenets of democracy and to be mindful of holding on to its principles.

The passage below is taken from the pages of Cover My Dreams in Ink, the story of my son Paul and his challenges, ranging from learning disabilities to a mental health diagnosis and ultimately drug addiction. This excerpt—almost at the book's halfway point—depicts an incident in the early 2000s. . . .

I did raise my voice: “Get off the phone,” I said, “or get out of the shower! NOW!” As I turned to leave the bathroom, the phone hit me in the back—Paul had thrown it at me. I wasn’t physically hurt, but I was angry. I had had it.

After a few minutes of collecting my thoughts, I decided to call the police. I calmly told Paul I had done so, explaining that he had crossed a line and people cannot live in a situation where they aren’t safe. He was sitting on a bench in the bathroom and started to cry, saying he was sorry. I knew he meant it. But I also knew I needed to let the police come, to send a strong and memorable message about behavior that plainly could not be tolerated.

But I regret the decision I made in the minutes that followed.

A friend called to alert me to the miniseries, Dopesick, airing on Hulu. Ugh, I thought to myself before telling her I wasn't going to watch it. I explained that it would upset me, not because it wasn't a good book or even that it would be a reminder of my son's fatal overdose, but because its message would reinforce the gross misconception that the national overdose crisis resulted from overprescribing opioids.

Constantly reinforced by the media, this simplified narrative has launched a misguided focus on curtailing prescribing practices at all costs, undermining doctors' expertise and abandoning chronic pain sufferers while annual fatalities continue to soar.

What's true is that this era's drug of choice among a growing segment of illicit drug users was prescription medication, diverted to the streets due to burgeoning availability. It's also accurate that this excess in prescription pills was fueled by the aggressive marketing of greed-driven pharmaceutical companies. But drug overdose deaths have steadily grown since the 1970s, with consistent incremental increases—year by year—regardless of the proliferation of OxyContin in the mid to late 1990s.

Reasonable people can disagree. Whether based on experience, temperament, or doctrine, our opinions can vary. But reasonable people also listen to one another. Those who have an interest in different perspectives actually welcome new information. They know that our interconnectedness defines us as human and that our dialog isn't just worthy, it's essential to our well-being.

Grappling with new ideas is a practice that schooling aims to establish. By nurturing curiosity and promoting a sense of wonder about the world, education doesn't just crank out an informed citizenry, shutting the door to future learning. At its best, it instills the habits of mind needed to work effectively in society: strategic reasoning, purposeful communication, flexible thinking, and the ability to integrate perspectives and problem-solve.

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The 2nd Edition of Cover My Dreams in Ink was released July 1, 2021. The seventeen chapters that recount the life of my son Paul—his struggles with learning differences, mental health, and addiction—are unchanged. But I was eager to further develop the Epilogue, to provide a more substantive account of our nation's drug crisis, the reforms needed to make a difference, and the barriers that stand in the way.

The path I have traveled is not one I would have chosen, but its steep learning curve has landed me with a passion to stand up for change and to seek opportunities to inspire others—a commitment that is very much of my own choosing.

"Just Say No" didn't exactly work. Nor have the scare tactics, born of the same era, proven effective in reducing drug use among teens and emerging adults.

All of us want young people to avoid drugs. However, programs that dictate what to think and exaggerate in order to frighten kids into abstaining, are missing a fundamental component of education: buy-in is crucial to making an impact.

Teenagers are too smart to jump on board with mandates; moreover, they are prone to dismiss single-minded messages that don't account for the contradictory information surrounding them. They are eager to engage with evidence-based content that honors their intelligence and helps them make sense of the world, but the moment they sniff hypocrisy—which they are well-wired to do—you lose them. The tragedy, then, isn't just the failure to instill important understanding, but it's the erosion of the trust needed to shore up what we most want for our teens: a place to turn if questions or personal dilemmas arise.

The Paraphernalia Decriminalization bill would repeal the prohibition of possession of items associated with the use of illicit drugs. I am encouraged by any measure that minimizes punitive consequences for those who do not violate the rights of others. Not only do we arrest far too many people, but doing so only undermines their capacity to take care of themselves.

As it is, the possession of paraphernalia (without the presence of any drug) is a criminal offense, with first-time violations subject to a misdemeanor charge and a $500 fine, and subsequent violations incurring up to two years of imprisonment and a $2,000 fine. In looking at the impact of the current law on the lives of real people, and considering the nuances that may not readily meet the eye—such as those relating to Syringe Service Programs (SSPs)—this legislation represents an important step in reducing unnecessary arrests and the associated harms.

In the 1980s, the outbreak of AIDS swept the country. Claiming thousands of lives, it quickly became a humanitarian crisis that cried out for help. But, tragically, help wasn’t easy to come by. Because it was seen as predominantly affecting homosexual men and injection drug users, sufferers faced wide-spread discrimination. Even as the virus became the leading cause of death, the US government’s decade-long response went from evasion to lip service.

For one thing, lawmakers didn’t want you to be gay. It was ungodlike, a “crime against nature” that was legally punishable in many states. Just think about it: Homosexuality between consenting adults was prohibited by the government. The dark-hearted and narrow minded believed it was a choice, a choice with consequences. Some advocated forced ‘‘conversion therapy” or other measures to rid you of the demons. But even legislators without bias, on the more humanistic end of the spectrum, turned a blind eye for fear their constituents wouldn’t understand.

Last Sunday evening, I watched the MSNBC special, The Forgotten Epidemic, a program billed as an exploration of the opioid crisis and the struggle to cope with it in the midst of the current pandemic. Because news coverage over recent months has understandably been dominated by the disasters of COVID-19—including its unimaginable death toll—I appreciated the effort to remind mainstream viewers that drug overdose deaths are spiraling out of control with so much unaddressed suffering.

Even though I cringe at the label “opioid epidemic”—simply because it mischaracterizes the current catastrophe and thus our grasp of the way out—I was hopeful that the two-hour documentary would provide some enlightenment, deepening the understanding of the current forces responsible for the still-rising number of fatal overdoses, and instilling the compassion needed to chip away at the stigma brought on by the relentless criminalization of those who suffer. But I was disheartened by the program’s focus on old news, and believe it fell short of clearing up any of the misunderstandings that get in the way of needed reform.

I don’t think anyone has cornered the market on managing grief. I do know there are experts on the subject, but I am not one of them. I speak only from lived experience. My bookends: I lost my father when I was young and my son before he grew old, and I can tell you that losing a person you love wreaks havoc with your life. From grappling with the initial shock and disbelief to carrying on with a life forever changed, the struggle to cope is formidable. It’s bigger than you are.

As the year 2020 comes to a close, the hundreds of thousands of lives claimed by COVID-19 have left our country with more grief-stricken families than ever before. The staggering number of deaths, not to mention the harrowing experience of all who fought to stay alive, is deeply troublesome. Even so, I find myself thinking about the survivors. I try to imagine the plight of those unable visit with their dying loved ones, those whose frantic days of hoping beyond hope came to a screeching halt—their prayers unanswered, their worst fears realized—only to be put “on hold” as plans for a memorial service were thwarted by the horror of overloaded morgues, while other familiar avenues for needed comfort and closure were precluded by social distancing. My heart breaks for these bereft families, emotionally depleted before beginning to grapple with the extent of their loss and likely gobsmacked by the overlay of anger, something that would be hard to ward off.

I’ve taken note of common themes in the feedback provided by readers of my memoir Cover My Dreams in Ink—one of which suggests that I was too hard on myself. Although I value the opinions of others and am continually eager for commentary and critique, I have to say that this particular sentiment is one with which I simply disagree.

Before getting into anything specific about the story of my son, Paul, I want to point out a fundamental truth: Parenting is humbling. It teaches countless lessons, but often after the fact. It’s not uncommon for any one of us to concede that we’d do some things differently if given the opportunity to backtrack. And I don’t think we are terribly troubled by this phenomenon. We take it in stride, accept that regrets are a part of life, and maybe even feel a degree of pride in newfound insights. Experience, after all, is the best teacher and, certainly, we know that wisdom doesn’t come easy.

Overdose deaths are on the rise, with 2019 fatalities in the U.S. reaching a record high. Sadly, 2020 will be worse. Getting hit with COVID-19 before we had a grasp of the way out, challenged every aspect of medical care, diminishing, if not decimating, already scant services for those suffering from addiction.

Even though overdose fatalities have quadrupled in the last decade, we continue to fumble with comprehensive drug policy reform, a failure that leaves so many harms in its wake: mass incarceration, loss of productivity, homelessness, and the spread of infectious diseases such as HIV and hepatitis.

When we get it through our heads that addiction is a medical condition, rather than a crime, we can focus on real solutions, those that are health-related and proven effective: 1) regulation of standards for evidence-based treatment, and 2) harm reduction services that keep people safe when treatment isn’t an option.

My newly released book, Cover My Dreams in Ink, tells the story of the life and the fatal overdose of my son, Paul. Even though it recounts our journey, I wanted to impart more than a knowledge of the struggles and hardships that we faced. In truth, I hoped the book would provide a deepened understanding of the intersection of drug use and human rights and the implications for injustices suffered by so many.

As I now read early reviews, my hopes are exceeded by statements that include:

• “There are few books I have read that have totally changed the way I think about an issue. This is one of those books.”

• “Multiple systems failed Paul... Jessie Dunleavy brings this to light and hopefully saves lives by doing so.”

• “‘Cover My Dreams in Ink’ inspires us to become better informed about these issues so that we can help bring about needed reforms.”

We live in a country where the debate over health care rages on. Some see it as a fundamental right for all, others rail against the notion, calling it radical. But regardless of whether your core values are driven by self-interest or humanism; or your opinion shaped by fear of change, faith in the status quo, or ignorance of that which hasn’t touched you, infectious disease reminds us that we are all in this together and that a greater investment in health care, and in one another, is of dire importance for us all.

The coronavirus that has befallen us is as humbling as it is frightening.

Those who work to address the overdose crisis know that stigma impedes reform. The barriers to implementing needed initiatives—those backed by ample scientific research and proven to save lives—don’t otherwise make any sense. To overcome this public health epidemic is to somehow undo the deep-seated stigma that has tainted public support and, in turn, constrained policymakers from the collective response that is called for. 

Sadly, the coordinated effort to shift societal attitudes seems out of reach in a nation where drug use is a crime. After all, it is nearly impossible to shed the stigma associated with any behavior that incurs incarceration or other legal consequences. Years in the making, this dyed-in-the-wool mindset continues to be nurtured by existing laws that further challenge the way out of this vicious cycle. 

Let’s look at prohibition and the war on drugs. 

When I was young, I believed that all it took to become addicted to heroin was to use it one time. It was a path of no return. All people were equally vulnerable. And it was all about the drug. 

Most people would agree that this sort of thinking is overly simplistic, but few realize it bears no resemblance to the truth. Yet in many ways, it underpins our drug policies, our attitudes, and our failure to move beyond the epidemic that is upon us. 

Loving a person who suffers with addiction is its own kind of teacher, one that rarely affords clarity of thought much less the luxury of research. While there were certainly times of smooth sailing, I initially used these to catch my breath, focus elsewhere, and maybe even deny the problem. But I remember the day when I realized I wasn’t always getting good advice and that I needed to seek a deeper understanding on my own.