Trauma, transformation and transcendence define father’s path to Red Road of recovery

An addict shares an intimate Indigenous interpretation of life before his first year of sobriety

She was lying on the floor, unresponsive, and her lips were purple. My 17-month-old daughter was not breathing. I picked her body up only to realize she had gone completely limp, and life was beginning to leave her tiny body. Panic mode overtook me as my heart dropped completely out of my chest at the thought of losing my baby.

My precious Mini-Me, whose personality was blooming and loved more in her year and a half than most people do in a lifetime. I screamed for the mother of my kids to call 911 as my mind raced back to the CPR classes I took 4 years prior. I snapped out of shock and immediately began to focus on saving my little girl’s life.

Laying her back down, in between the two hotel beds, I was frantic and panicking, my hands were shaking, and my heart was pumping my blood as if it were to save a sinking ship.

Yet amid this adrenaline-fueled mania, I conjured this kind of primal instinct, an intense focus, and was able to effectively breathe air back into the lungs of a child I helped bring into this world. I did not even realize I was crying.

Struggling to hold myself together while praying to the Creator, I begged for her lungs to receive this air and to not take my little one from me. Pumping her chest yet ever so delicately so as to not damage her fragile rib cage but with enough force to circulate that oxygen through her body and keep her heart beating, I remembered “thirty pumps, two breaths, thirty pumps, two breaths.”

Her little chest rose and fell slowly as the oxygen filled her body and the color in her lips returned.

She was breathing. Shallow, but breathing. I could hear the sirens in the distance and thought, if I can just keep her breathing for a little longer, she can make it.

Hold on, my girl, just hold on.

The paramedics arrived and continued the life-saving measures as they rushed her away into the ambulance. Immediately, the police officers unleashed on us.

“How’d this happen?”

“Did you leave her in the tub?”

“Forget about her?”

“You left her in there to die!”

“You did, didn’t you?”

The paramedics barely cleared the doorway before the officers already had our flank and were circling us almost like buzzards around a carcass, but with the aggression of a pack of wolves salivating, already tasting the meal that stood before them. The officers demanded answers, but all I could think about was my baby lying on the floor, turning purple and limp.

“The officers demanded answers, but all I could think about was my baby lying on the floor, turning purple and limp.”

Jake Chappell

But how had that happened? I had nothing. I drew a blank.

I had put her in the bath after a swim in the pool at the hotel where we were staying. Yet nothing out of the ordinary came to mind. Except in the bath, she ate some bubbles and coughed some up, which was when I took her out.

Dry drowning. That’s an actual thing? I had never heard of it before, but the doctor said it can be very harmful and even fatal. Only, that was not the worst part.

The worst part was that she tested positive for methamphetamine. That felt like a shot to the chest. To learn such a hard lesson with dire consequences at the expense of your children is almost unforgivable.

I was already neck deep in my addiction, headed in a downward spiral, consumed by opiates, specifically fentanyl. I am an addict; however, meth is not my drug of choice. Therefore, I knew it could not have come from me.

It was not long before we learned that a relative who consistently watched my children had failed a drug test and was secretly using around them. Regardless, it is still a parental responsibility as their protector, their provider, and their father to keep their environment healthy and safe.

Only I was not any of that. I could not provide anything for myself except my next high, maybe. I believed there was no hope for me and that I was too far gone. Only it was my children who kept the light inside of me from vanquishing.

I was prescribed oxycodone for my arthritis, and like millions of other Americans, I became dependent. The high? Intoxicating, blissful, euphoric, and, most importantly, it numbed me. It numbed me physically, emotionally, psychologically, and spiritually. My escape from reality. At this point, I preferred a synthetic reality over the real one.

Hook in soul

In the early stages of opioid abuse and addiction, the stimulation of the reward system in the brain due to dopamine is a primary reason why people use it so frequently. Repeated opioid abuse and increasing dosages alter the brain so that it functions normally when the drugs are present but abnormally when they are not.

Once someone builds up a tolerance to opioids, the brain signals that it needs more and more to feel the same euphoric feeling. Hours, minutes, mere seconds without opiates was complete agony. Any initial excitement of my addiction soon faded away as the purpose of my substance abuse transitioned from purely recreational to daily maintenance.

It had me hooked all the way down to my soul. That is what addiction does. The entity, the evil spirit that it is, digs its roots down deep into your mind, body, and soul, where it plants seeds to guarantee its future. It constantly applies pressure in all aspects of your being, probing for vulnerability and potential weak spots to attach itself to.

Like hydraulic fracking, an invasive and toxic method of oil production, addiction drills down into your subconscious and removes anything of value.

Jake Chappell

On a subconscious level, it latches on and establishes triggers to ignite a fire. I say fire because you end up destroying everything within arms-length. Everything and everyone.

For my addiction to maintain its innocence, it taught me how to use justification and rationalization. Like a pocket for a quarterback, this combination creates a barrier blocking any potential threat to the addiction. A defended offensive, allowing addiction full reign over my life.

Like hydraulic fracking, an invasive and toxic method of oil production, addiction drills down into your subconscious and removes anything of value. It replaces all rationale with these poisonous, distorted thinking patterns.

As this darkness spreads throughout your mind, body, and soul, you become almost romanticized by this hostile takeover. This blissful coup of an ignorant fool. Think of it like an intense but subtle case of Stockholm’s syndrome with not only psychological effects but physical ones as well.

The withdrawals had me rolled up into a ball on the floor, rocking back and forth.

I felt like every muscle in my body ached, and my skin was on fire. My stomach was unable to digest anything at all, eliminating it every which way. My legs were restless as if I had not walked in weeks, they were jumpy and energetic.

The only temporary relief I could get was from a steaming hot shower, and even that relief faded before I could turn the water off.

The only cure I thought was to use.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly, expecting a different result. Yet here I was every time, racing to get some of that amazingly devastating bliss. That instant gratification had me floating to the ceiling. Temporary transcendence. Nirvana.

Then the moment is over. That one moment that causes so much shame, grief, pain, and agony disguised as everlasting bliss. The psychological effects were detrimental. I felt as if I were useless, that I was a waste of life.

I was consumed in a darkness often diagnosed as depression. But this was more than depression. It felt like an entity that constantly fed me dark thoughts in the most vulnerable of times. Reflecting on this now, it seems almost strategic. As if my addiction were on the hill above the battle, adjusting its movements accordingly. An attack on all fronts, emotional, physical, and spiritual.

“That one moment that causes so much shame, grief, pain, and agony disguised as everlasting bliss.”

Jake Chappell

Crutch drugs are what the government uses to “fight opiate addiction.” Unfortunately, all these magical antidotes do is prolong the inevitable. And inevitably, I would go to any length or do anything to avoid these miserable symptoms, and I mean anything.

I was not limited to robbing family, and friends, lying, manipulating, and even committing crimes. I did things I never thought I would do. All this deflection just to avoid facing the ugly truth. That I am an addict and I have a problem.

Generally, people diagnose themselves with a substance abuse problem. Not me, I was not as bad as those other guys, I could stop whenever I wanted to, but of course, I just didn’t want to. Me? Addicted? Pssshh. Nice try, buddy. I am not one of those crazy-looking people that everyone knows are on drugs but somehow believe they can hide it. Nope. Not me.

But it was me, 100%. Well, not 100, I knew there was still a little bit of the real me deep down. Nonetheless, I did not have a substance abuse problem. I had a “me” problem. My problem was the first thing I saw when I looked in the mirror.

And I say “thing” because I was not human. I do not know what I was, but the humanity in me had all but disappeared.

“Me? Addicted? Pssshh. Nice try, buddy. I am not one of those crazy-looking people that everyone knows are on drugs but somehow believe they can hide it. Nope. Not me. “

Jake Chappell

The morals and virtues my family instilled in me since I was a child, our culture, our Native ways, and our very nature that makes us the beautiful Indigenous people that we are, were nowhere to be found. I have been singing at the drum since I was a 6-year-old. My 25 years of singing were but distant memories. My passion for singing fizzled like a match.

When I was charged with child neglect, I found myself behind bars experiencing full withdrawals from methadone. That’s when the reality of my addiction hit me like a brick in the face. Out of 110 days in jail, three weeks of withdrawals felt like three years.

My cellmate knew I was sick when I gave up my biscuits and gravy tray, the only meal a county inmate normally looked forward to. The jail was a horrible place to go through withdrawals, but it was also the best place. It prevented me from going out and getting high.

I remember hearing people fighting and the negativity flowing through the air like a virus, anticipating its next host to infect. I could feel the evil reverberating through the walls as it spread from the ceiling and raced toward the foundation like a black mold.

This is not where I belong. My life was meant for more than this. It was here my true road to recovery began.

I deeply appreciate everything I have learned from the facilities I have attended, Northeastern Oklahoma Council on Alcoholism, NOCA, and Freedom from Addiction Through Christ, FFATC, aka The Ark, as well as the tremendous support I receive from the Peoria Tribe.

I wouldn’t be where I am without you all. But I have a long way to go.

Jake Chappell is a citizen of the Georgia Tribe of Eastern Cherokee. He is an assistant sales manager and lives in Quapaw, Oklahoma.

Sourcing & Methodology Statement:

A note from Jake Chappell: Join me as I write about how the seed of addiction is planted, as well as what feeds it and how it’s cultivated. Join me as I write about codependency, distorted criminal and addictive-thinking patterns, triggers, reservations, and other character defects that not only impale our recovery efforts but send us right back into a full-blown relapse. Join me, and let’s talk about addiction. The only thing I ask is that you keep an open mind. I believe that there are enough divisions in our people already and that if we can learn together and work together, we can overcome addiction. Honesty, open-mindedness, and willingness are H.O.W. we do it. One day at a time. We do recover.