Visiting Portland Was Triggering as a Recovering Addict
Stepping around addiction and through the homeless dilemma
As our plane hits the tarmac at PDX, I see so many stunning shades of green. My mind begins to wander back to the stories I heard about Portland during the summer of 2020, which they coined “The Summer of Rage”, the protests in the wake of George Floyd’s murder, the decriminalization of minor drug offenses — and how the homeless population grew exponentially.
Quietly, I think to myself, I hope it’s not that bad.
As a recovering alcoholic/addict, I find it hard to see people still trapped by the tight grip of a substance. Knowing someone else is knee-deep in the raw pain I once felt cuts too close and breaks my heart.
My family and I get our rental car and head to downtown Portland. Everyone in Portland refers to the city by its airport code, which I find interesting. PDX is on blast at every turn, and then despite all of the luscious greenery, I see the devastation this city has endured.
Our car whizzes by graffiti-covered buildings, many with boarded-up windows and tents out front taking up rent-free space on the street. Too many people have lost their way in this beautiful city. I start second-guessing myself and wonder if I picked a decent place to stay for the long weekend.
Comments from family and friends infiltrate my mind as we get closer to the hotel. Everyone gave their two cents about how awful Portland would be and while I try to silence their voices in my head, I can’t help but think about some seedy situations I’ve been in that my family and friends know nothing about.
Some of them don’t realize I was a step away from homelessness. I know that I escaped that life by a thread and I am very grateful.
Thankfully, as we arrive at our hotel I can see the area is clean and nice, nothing like what we passed on the way in. A wave of relief washes over me and I feel my shoulders release from a stiff, tense hold.
The lobby is sparkling clean and we grab some delicious cucumber-lemon water to quench our traveling thirst while waiting for our room. I try to think of something other than the devastation on the streets while we unpack our bags. Looking out of the window onto an old, dilapidated building, I know I haven’t seen the worst of Portland just yet.
At home, I see a few homeless addicts on the streets but it’s nothing a downtown area. I don’t normally frequent downtown Los Angeles, about an hour from my home, if I don’t have to. It’s not that I lack empathy, it’s just emotionally taxing for me to see those stuck in a life of addiction. I see myself in every addict on the street.
We face the same issue and challenges. I just had the support of family and friends on my side, otherwise, I would have been out on the street, too. After a few relapses in my 30s, my husband gave me several ultimatums. I even signed a contract after one of the relapses stating I would move out if I drank again.
I wasn’t even coherent enough to read at that moment.
I drank again but he never forced me to move out. It wasn’t the last time I would drink either. At that point in my life, I was a stay-at-home enabled drunk mom. I think back on that time and remember it was my family keeping me safe.
These addicts have lost the support of their families.
Looking into the eyes of a homeless addict
Famished, we head out to a food truck park on foot. I’m feeling the travel excitement of being in a new place, taking pictures around each corner during our walk. When we arrive at a Mexican food truck for dinner, a man approaches us limping with a cane.
He opens his mouth and I see he’s lost some teeth. He extends his hand, asking for spare change, and I notice how much he’s shaking. I shudder with the muscle memory of those uneasy shakes, the ones that accompany too much alcohol or coming down from drugs. He tells us he needs food, but I know he’d probably spend it on drugs or alcohol. I explain that to my daughters as they want to buy him dinner, so we ask him what kind of burrito he’d like. His shoulders slump, knowing we aren’t giving him money.
“Chicken,” he mumbles.
As we hand him his burrito, I hope he knows his body needs food, even if it’s not his first choice.
While trying to find the famous Powell’s Bookstore, we round the wrong corner and I lock eyes with a familiar man. He reminds me of a homeless man I befriended while shacked up at a motel. I was on a major binge and decided I’d rather leave home to drink alone than face the wreckage I’d created in my home.
As I threw random items into a suitcase, I bypassed my sleeping daughters, escaping before they could see how awful I looked or smell how I reeked of alcohol. They’d seen enough chaos already. My poor dog looked at me with weepy eyes, as he hated seeing a packed suitcase.
In active addiction, substances carry more weight than family.
Sometimes it was easier to drown out the noise, the pain, and the hurt by drinking to excess and doing any drug I could get my hands on. The trauma I experienced in my childhood didn’t stop negatively affecting me for years, and for years, I used the same coping mechanism — alcohol and drugs.
This man is living that life, too.
It was eerie how much he resembled the homeless man I befriended for a hot minute after I checked into the ragged motel. That day, I was unkempt and trying to make it to the store to buy more alcohol, which I clearly did not need. I saw this sad, homeless man with many bags surrounding him. I smiled at him and he seemed shocked as he smiled back at me. Even in my drunken, disheveled state, he knew I hadn’t lost it all, like he had.
With nothing but alcohol in my system, I thought it was a good idea to ask him for drugs. Now, I think about how rude that was. I just assumed since this man was homeless, he was a drug addict. He fit the bill, in my drunken mind.
He laughed in response and told me he didn’t think I should do any drugs. So instead, I asked him questions, somewhat embarrassed. I learned his parents kicked him out at a young age — yes, for drug use — but he was trying to better himself, to get away from that lifestyle.
It’s hard to get straight when nothing around you is.
If I didn’t look like a homeless addict when I arrived at the motel, I surely did when I left. I brought the chaos that I was trying to shield my daughters from right back home with me.
Decriminalization of drugs and the devastation on the streets
Weaving through people sleeping in tents and out in the open with nothing more than a balled-up shirt to make a pillow, we finally see Powell’s Bookstore. My daughters are relieved to get inside. They know drug addicts aren’t inherently bad people, but they also know drugs can make you do crazy things. A hardcore drug user is not predictable.
So many memories flood my mind, taking me back to dark times in my life. Thankfully, these triggers only remind me of the negative aspects of my prior drug and alcohol abuse.
On our way back to the hotel, a woman with a sign catches my attention. I see her desperation behind bloodshot yellow eyes, pinpoint pupils showing off crystal-clear blue irises that were once bright, I am sure. Behind her is a cardboard house, her home. She intermittently screams in nonsense syllables that we can’t understand.
I looked like her by the end of my drinking and drug use. It was my sad, unhealthy eyes that no longer sparkled back in the mirror that ultimately woke me up. I saw my mother, an addict and someone I wanted to be nothing like staring back at me. It wasn’t my lowest rock bottom but the culmination of all that brought me to my knees, begging for help.
We see individuals smoking crack and cooking up shots. People with pockmarks and open wounds hang their heads low as they stagger forward like zombies. They all look trapped by their addictions. I know they are all trying to numb the pain of their lives away. I also know Portland makes it easy for them to stay stuck in the addiction trap.
Decriminalization of small drug offenses has given a green light to many homeless addicts. When you had to conceal your drug use, like when I was actively using, the problem was less visible. The city has been enabling the addicts for too long now and the problem isn’t getting better. It’s rapidly getting worse.
I may have been enabled by my family, but I tried to hide everything about my use. I didn’t want to let anyone in. As I watch the homeless addicts cooking up their shots, I can’t fathom having the guts to do something so bold. But here, it’s normalized.
While Oregon’s heart was in the right place, the plan is not working. Instead, things have gone downhill in the past four years and laws are going back into effect.
As of April 2024, decriminalization is back, but the city is still looking bleak.
Hiding but in plain sight?
Giving an addict free reign will not result in anything positive. Enabling does nothing but hinder someone from getting better. While I don’t agree with addicts being arrested for small amounts of drugs, there has to be a better way.
Jail is not the answer. Studies have shown that overdoses and deaths are higher if an addict is placed in jail for minor drug offenses. Also, Oregon can’t succeed if not enough programs are set in place to help the addict. Rehabilitation only works if there are measures put in place for success.
The funding for new treatment programs from the tax on marijuana looks promising and I can only hope things will get better. I’m all for “Keeping Portland Weird,” but not in this way. Let’s keep things quirky without enabling addictions.
When I got home from our Oregon trip, I decided to see what I could do from home to help out these lost people. Thankfully, organizations like Do Good Multnomah and Harbor of Hope are making a difference. I encourage you to help, to be part of the solution.
As I look back on my trip and the addicts I saw on the streets in Portland, I think to myself, It really was that bad.
And while it was triggering, it also helped me realize that I want to stay on the recovery path I have been on for over three years.
I hope that addicts are shown the kindness that I was when I was in my drug addiction days. People reached out to me, offering me the gift and help of treatment, and it started me on my path to healing.
Everyone needs a little grace. It was extended to me and I always feel the need to pay it forward.
A fascinating look at Portland - I've not been there in years, but loved it the times I went from 2007-2009. I can definitely imagine what you describe making the city less pleasant - and I'm hopeful that policymakers will take the right lessons from Oregon's experiment with decrim - jail is not the answer, but enabling doesn't help, either.
Very well said! I lived in PDX for a year in 2018 before things got even worst (and I thought they were really bad that yearr living in the NW part of downtown). I just wrote about my challenges living in LA with the topics you address (incl in West LA, not just the downtown situation). It’s so messed up :(