My triggers

Having been an intravenous drug user—or, in other words, someone who "slams Tina"—there are many day-to-day things that trigger me. For instance, I get triggered by objects like plastic straws (because I used a bias-cut piece to scoop meth out of its bag), small metal spoons (used to heat meth diluted in water), eyeglass cases (where I kept all my paraphernalia), and lighters (for obvious reasons).

Other triggers are more contextual, such as seeing needles at my doctor’s clinic during routine blood tests, public washrooms (because I used to wander downtown Toronto, high as a kite, searching for private enough spaces to use), or even glancing at my bulging veins at the gym while lifting weights.

Being triggered is an interesting feeling because it reminds me that sobriety has never been, and will never be, the ultimate goal. Maybe it was at first, but I’ve since learned that being sober isn’t the endgame. I’ll never be “cured” of my addiction. The prospect of using will always linger, never quite disappearing. It’s an ongoing process. Being triggered by something as simple as being given a plastic straw at a restaurant reminds me to stay vigilant and maintain awareness. These are concepts I learned from Manny—my husband, whose name I use here as a pseudonym—during a conversation about triggers over dinner at a nearby Thai restaurant. Between bites of pineapple fried rice for him and khao soi chicken for me, he explained these ideas as part of Buddhist philosophy. Vigilance and awareness work together to free oneself from suffering. They must operate in tandem to help us release attachment.

Then I wonder: What is the goal? What am I working toward, if not sobriety? What is the assignment?

About two months ago, Manny and I were driving back to the house from our apartment. At the time, we were trying to reconcile my sister and her former partner, at least to the point where they could be civil. While sitting in the passenger seat, I received a barrage of texts from my sister.

I love my sister. Manny and I will always be her biggest cheerleaders. However, she can sometimes be overwhelming, as she’s not always mindful of others’ time. That day, she sent me a long list of things she needed me to do that week, including communicating with her ex-partner about childcare. As I read her texts, I began to feel flustered. My heart raced.

I don’t have time for this! I thought. It was month-end at work, I needed to handle bookkeeping for two non-profits I volunteer for, assist the Healing Lodge with accounting, manage my parents’ finances while they were in the Philippines, and prepare for our upcoming move into the house.

I was about to fire off an angry response when I remembered my therapist’s advice from the previous week. They had helped me realize my tendency to avoid intense emotions—or, worse, to let them control me. Taking a deep breath, I held my phone at arm’s length and said to Manny, “I’m feeling angry right now.”

“I want to yell at Manang,” I continued.

Manny, eyes on the road, simply replied, “Deep breaths, love.”

I paused, repeating the words I am angry in my head, then put my phone down. Almost instinctively, I smiled, feeling a bit lighter.

“Anger is trying to teach me something,” I told Manny, and myself. “I wonder what it is.”

We went straight home that night without me replying to my sister’s texts.

The next day, reflecting on my emotions, I recalled something my therapist had mentioned weeks earlier: the distinction between being a supporter and being a savior. Supporting someone wholeheartedly facilitates healing and reconciliation. It requires presence and accountability, and it encourages loved ones to grow. This space of support is energizing.

Being a savior, on the other hand, is draining. It allows others to take endlessly from me while I feel I have nothing left to give. It breeds passive-aggressiveness—agreeing to help but feeling resentful. It’s a powerless space.

Eventually, I replied to my sister, setting clear boundaries. I love her deeply—she’s the one who chased off my bullies in elementary school. We share a close bond, and I hope all three of us siblings, along with our loved ones, grow into better human beings who respect each other’s time and capacity.

My therapist says anger can be destructive if we let it, but it can also be a teacher. That’s a lesson I wouldn’t have learned if I hadn’t paused during that car ride to ask myself what my anger was trying to tell me.

Today, I had a thought: maybe my goal is simply to ask questions. To pause and stay curious. I know I’m in my 40s—my body reminds me, haha!—but I feel like I’m just getting started. There’s so much to learn, so much to experience. Can I experience it all while getting high on meth? Maybe. But I’ve learned that doing anything while high is like walking around with dark shades on, day and night. Eventually, it just gets in the way.

So why not just stay curious? Sobriety may come in its own time, but curiosity will anchor me.