Story Photos
 Dallas De La Grange is being transferred Sunday from the Cowlitz County Jail to the state prison at Shelton, where he will serve a one-year sentence that he requested instead of residential supervision. In his prize-winning essay, he explains his addiction and why he needs to get away from drug-using friends. Greg Ebersole / The Daily News
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Through My Eyes essay contest winners
Monday, November 10, 2008 6:44 PM PST
By The Daily News
Printable version
E-mail this articleThree young adults have won prizes in The Daily News essay contest, Through My Eyes. Each shares a personal, distinctive view of how the misuse of drugs or alcohol can changes people’s lives.
The idea for this contest came from Brian McCrady of the Cowlitz Substance Abuse Coalition, which provided the prizes, gift certificates to Fred Meyer for $100, $75 or $50. Additional support came from Washington State Community Mobilization and the Office of National Drug Control Policy.
McCrady and two other members of the Coalition, Shellee Brassard, Intervention Specialist at Kelso High School, and Joe Crepell of KLTV, helped to read and evaluate 38 essays.
We thank the young people who took the time to share honest, sometimes painful, always gripping accounts of experiences with alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, heroin and meth, as well as unlawful use of prescription drugs. Several of the essays discuss the impact of living with a family member who is an addict.
On Monday, we'll publish three essays that earned an honorable mention. Additional essays will be posted later at tdn.com.
“Through My Eyes” is the trademark of a similar project done in Brookings, Ore., sponsored by TheCitizensWhoCare.org
Helpful resources
If you want to talk to someone about addiction, here are some ways to get started:
• Washington State alcohol and drug helpline 1(800) 562-1240; teen line is 1(877) 345-8336.
• Call Cowlitz County Human Services at 501-1215 for local counseling and treatment referral, call the Drug Abuse Prevention Center at 274-3262, or visit http://dasis3.samhsa.gov for treatment options.
• Contact the Cowlitz Substance Abuse Coalition at (360) 577-3041 for general information.
• For legal aid, contact Lower Columbia Community Action Program at (360) 425-3430, ext 206.
CLICK HERE to view honorable mention entries
FIRST PRIZE
‘The Mirror,’ by Dallas De La Grange, 22, Longview
My life has been a mirror always showing me what was right in front of me, never misleading my image, until I broke my mirror. It not only caused seven years of bad luck but extended an extra three years.
October of 1998, I was playing football, quarterback for Cascade Middle School, and my parents were divorcing!
I noticed bruises, but kept telling my mom, “must be from QB.” A few days later, I was so sick, so my mom took me to the doctor. Dr. Linnell came back after running a test — the most devastating news. “Leukemia.”
Those words left his mouth like a bullet from a gun looking to kill!
But his next words saved my life: “Get to OHSU now!”
After getting to Doernbechers, I got into my room and the poking and injecting and the tests started. ... Good news, to an extent. Not leukemia, but aplastic anemia, a rare blood disease where the bone marrow shuts down.
I started getting transfusions, taking 10 to 15 pills a day, having to inject the needles myself. I never even liked taking aspirin. I was an athlete — what was happening?
I was in so much pain they started me on a morphine pump. Anytime I was in pain, the doctors told me, don’t be afraid to push the button. At first, I hated it. I was scared, and it made me feel sick. Sometimes, I would pass out all day and wake up the next day.
After awhile, the morphine was the best thing in the world. That button would never leave my hand! Now, at the ripe age of 13, I had my first addiction — synthetic heroin!
Doctors gave me the OK to go back to school. As I mentioned, I was always in sports. All my friends through sports looked at me different. Name calling — “Look, there’s Cancer Boy.” And “De La Wolf!” Because of the steroids I was getting, my hair grew a lot more than normal and I gained a lot of water weight. I was close to 200 pounds, after never weighing more than 140 when I was healthy.
So yeah, I got called “fat” and was humiliated. So I did what I thought was best — found new friends. Guess who put me under their wing? Druggies! They loved me! Having me around to buy their drugs and rip me off because I didn’t know any better.
Started off smoking pot along with my pills from the doctor. But the pills ran out. I didn’t like the way I was feeling, so as time went on, it was pot to meth to coke to mushrooms to acid to Ecstasy. Just about anything that would make me feel like I did in the hospital.
I didn’t think I was hooked, just trying to feel OK. Then it was, “Hey, I’m buying this stuff from you, your neighbor. So why can’t I sell the stuff and get mine free?”
So I did. From the time I got up I was devoted to buying and selling drugs. I had a job, but I worked longer hours. The first thing I ever sold was meth with one of my friends, but dealing with tweakers 24/7 sucks because you really had to watch them. They’d call you over to hang out, while other tweakers jacked your stereo or TVs.
I turned 16 and got my license. Now, I’m thinking this meant more money and drugs. To be a good dealer, you have to have what the purchaser wants. Most kids in school were too scared to do meth but they wanted downers, Vicodin, or Percocet. I found elderly people, asked them to sell me their pills, then back to school I went. I found my calling. Pills hit the schools like a tidal wave. With pills so easy to acquire, it was a lot of easy, tax-free money.
But now, my addiction was out of control. If I didn’t have pills when I woke up, I’d go crazy until I found some.
Aug. 28, 2007, “Black Sunday” as the police called it, was the worst and best day of my life. I woke up to the Longview Drug Task Force kicking in my front door and arresting me for delivery of Oxycontin. I was brought in with 27 others in a Cowlitz County drug raid.
I got put in a residential DOSA (Drug Offender Sentencing Alternative) program and was sent to Spokane for in-patient treatment instead of a year in prison. I learned a lot about my disease and more about my self. Once I got home, I thought I was cured and invincible.
Boy, was I wrong.
The hardest part of recovery was just beginning. I started hanging out with my old friends, and things took a dramatic turn for the worse. I lied to my parents, I stole, and I started using drugs all over again.
Instead of telling my probation officer and my family, I went on the run. Drugs had total control of me again. My road to recovery and growing up was all washed away.
I soon was arrested for not complying with D.O.C. (Department of Corrections) and D.O.C. wanted to revoke the DOSA and send me to prison. I sat in jail for two months. The judge told me to make it happen this time; no more chances.
Right now, I’m doing things that are helping me instead of doing everything my way which was leading me the wrong way.
I don’t know why addiction is such a ruthless, destructive disease. It not only kills you, but it destroys everything good in your life. When I used, my friends were my family. They accepted me and my addiction. But now, the worst part — the pain I was causing my mother and my family. I stole, cheated, lied and just used and manipulated them until they told me stay away.
So I chose drugs over family.
I met a man that came to see me as soon as I got out of jail. We prayed, he invited me to a recovery program and I really enjoyed hanging out with these people. We were sober, having fun. But the hardest part is that FELON is on my record, jobs are hard to find, and I need trust to get back with my mother. Because she prayed for me since I was sick.
Having faith, and the recovery program, I believe my higher power will help me through. I do know that who you hang out with makes a big difference in our lives. God Bless.
Editor’s note: Dallas decided last week to revoke his residential Drug Offender Sentencing Alternative and choose instead to serve one year and one day at the Washington Corrections center in Shelton. “I want to get the time,” he said Thursday before leaving. “I need more time away from here. That’s what I need. There’s too many people doing the wrong thing here.”
SECOND PRIZE
‘A Childhood Lost,’ by Michael Searcy, 18, Kelso
How has alcohol affected my life? My mother was an alcoholic most of my life. I grew up hating alcohol because of what it made my mother become. I found alcohol to be disgusting. I can’t see why anyone would want to drink. Sure it gives you a buzz and a rush of feelings, but they’re quickly followed by slurred speech, incoherence, nausea, and a really bad headache the next morning.
When I was 5, I was first introduced to the effects of alcohol. I would lie awake every night, listening to my mother yelling at my dad. I couldn’t figure out why they were always fighting. One night, I crawled out of bed and started down the hallway to figure out why they were fighting.
When I reached the front room, I saw a bottle of Black Velvet, but I didn’t know what it was. I walked up to my mother and asked, “Why are you fighting?” She turned and started to yell at me, quickly followed by my dad, yelling “Go back to bed ——”
Shocked and scared, I started to cry and ran back to my room. That night, I stayed up all night listening to my mom and dad fight. Finally I heard her slam her bedroom door and go to bed. She had worn herself out.
My dad came to check on me, my brother and sister. When he came to my room I held my breath, trying to hold back the tears I had been crying all night. As he shut my door I started to cry again, and slowly I fell asleep.
The next day, my dad asked me about last night, but I was scared. I told him I didn’t remember getting out of bed.
For several years, this went on. But I never got out of bed again. That first night changed what I thought of my parents and what I thought of myself. Slipping into a depression, I blamed myself for my their fighting. And I tried to stay away from the house as much as possible.
When my mom stopped drinking, I was 14. Still afraid of having a relationship with her, I blamed myself for everything that went wrong in the house. I could not deal with my depression and grew to be angry at everyone and everything.
My anger was getting out of control, lashing out at friends and starting fights at school. I was in need of help. I was trying to figure out where my anger was coming from. I had suppressed and forced myself to forget about my mother drinking. I finally went to my pastor for help but that was after getting into eight fights in five weeks. We sat down and talked for what seemed to be an eternity.
After several meetings I broke down and told him everything. After talking to him about my mom drinking, I felt so much better about myself. Talking with him opened a door I didn’t want to open up again, but I needed to. If I didn’t, I would never have gotten rid of my anger problem. And I probably would be in jail or worse.
My pastor said I should talk with my mom about her drinking and how it affected me. I’ve tried on several occasions, but I am always hushed or sent away.
To this day, I still feel like I don’t belong. And I feel if I talked with my mom about it, it would help. I don’t think that day will ever come. I’ve moved on. I’ve stopped trying to talk with to her about it.
I see now it wasn’t my fault that my mother and father always fought. As a young kid, it’s easy to blame yourself.
How alcohol has affected my life: It took a childhood from me that I will never get back. Always worried about being yelled at for doing something wrong, always hearing your mom and dad fight every night. No child should have to go through that!
THIRD PRIZE
‘A Trapped Marine,’ by Candi Zion, 17, Winlock
It was a very gray day. The sky seemed sad, with no sun in sight. The rich green lawns speckled with leaves showcased the amount of water from the previous night’s storm. The soggy ground and bent blades of grass added to the reminders of the storm.
Our family’s red van hit puddles that splashed the windows. I didn’t care. Nothing could wipe the grin from my 12-year-old face, not even the 85-minute drive through Portland traffic. The journey to my aunt and uncle’s was going to be worth it. Joel was home.
Joel was my 19-year-old cousin. Since my dad was born late in his parents’ lives, he was more than 10 years younger than his siblings. This meant that I was much younger than my cousins. I had to sit at the kids’ table, just me and my brother. Joel was the youngest of our cousins, though, and he always took the time to join us at the kids’ table. He never treated me like I was too young go interact or like I was a burden.
He would listen to me talk, play games with me, and treat me as the guest of honor at every family function.
When Joel’s older sister, Becky, got married, he danced all night with me, unlike the other adults who just wanted to be around people their own age. Joel had worn his dress blues and caught the eye of every female, eligible and taken. He still danced the night away with me.
Seeing Joel this time was going to be extra special. He was home from the Marines. It was Thanksgiving, the first time the whole family was going to be able to see Joel since he want away to training.
We finally arrived at my aunt and uncle’s beautiful Portland home in their quiet neighborhood. The elegantly landscaped yard glowed of fall and rich, welcoming exterior colors drenched the house. My parents, brother and I made our way to the front door. It was no surprise that I got there first.
Just as I was about to ring the bell, we heard a familiar squeal rise form the basement. We all chuckled at Uncle Steve’s high-pitched bellow. We joked that Julie, his daughter, must be picking on him again. I gave a courtesy laugh and ran the doorbell. We waited a few minutes, then let ourselves in.
It took only moment to realize that something was terribly wrong. The somber air in the house and eerie silence exuded uncertainty. My dad hollered down the stairs to my Aunt Barb. Seconds later, she came into view and slowly came up the stairs. her movements were robotic and stiff. Her face was pale and her eyes were blank. My parents asked what was wrong, just as Uncle Steve let loose another scream. All I wanted to know was, “Where’s Joel?”
We learned then that he was in Intensive Care at Emanuel Hospital. He had been in a car accident. Joel had been driving, And he had been drunk. My aunt and uncle told us his friends had Joel over to celebrate the night before. The party was only a few miles from Joel’s house. But the rain had drowned the city the night before, and Joel drove his equally intoxicated friend home first. His maroon compact had hydroplaned and smashed into a tree, and the passenger was killed on impact.
The mangled mess of metal, cloth and glass that remained of the car sat in the pouring rain, imprisoning my unconscious hero until the ambulance came.
I was to young to understand how serious Joel’s injuries were. I didn’t know what a damaged brain stem was, nor that it meant he would be incapable of living on his own for the rest of his life. I had no idea that his body would shake from tremors so hard that he couldn’t read, write, or brush his own teeth.
There was no way of knowing that my Marine and dance partner would from then on walk with a stagger and a cane.
My aunt worked at the hospital where Joel was admitted. So our family got a private waiting room and an immense amount of support from the staff.
No one under 15 was permitted in ICU. But I wanted to see Joel. It was the entire reason I had endured the long car ride listening to my parents’ old music.
My mom took me back to see him.
I imagined the ICU to be like the ones I saw on TV — crisp white sheets on every bed, quiet hallways, a young energetic staff and sick people getting better. I was wrong. There were blood-stained sheets and messy bandages being changed. The carts that lined the walls overflowed with supplies.
Everyone moved briskly and instinctively to get the job done. It seemed chaotic, but everyone knew what to do. The nurses and doctors were weathered, but the horrible things they had experienced showed in their eyes. Ill and injured people were being tended to, but not all were getting better. Some were just being soothed so they couldn’t feel the pain.
As we approached Joel’s door, my mother held my hand. She paused to tell me it would be frightening and I could leave any time I needed.
Didn’t she know I wouldn’t leave Joel’s side? I would keep him company, talk to him and organize his flowers like the visitor on TV do. I opened Joel’s door.
I saw a man lying on a bed wearing a thin blue gown. This couldn’t be my Joel. His face barely peeked out from behind blood-streaked bandages that covered him from forehead to nose. His arms lay limp by his side and his leg was suspended in the air in a sling. A cold steel bar stuck through the center of his elevated knee like it was a piece of machinery. Scrapes, bruises and cuts covered his body.
This was not Joel. This man was weak and unconscious, broken and feeble.
Joel was invincible. He would have been tough for me. Then I saw the barbed-wire tattoo that wrapped around his bicep like it was trying to constrain his well-toned muscles.
That was my Joel lying incapacitated and helpless.
To this day, the image of him stays in my head. It has been seven years since his accident. Joel still can’t walk without a cane and he can hardly tell his nieces and nephews apart.
The saddest part is remembering the Marine he used to be. He was a very intelligent, handsome young man who had made something of himself. He had been rising up the military ranks.
He is still my Marine, and he knows it. But it breaks my heart to see Joel trapped inside a disabled body. He remembers who he was. He wants to do the things he used to do. He is truly a Marine trapped, not by war or combat, but by his own tragic mistake.
vetmom wrote on Nov 9, 2008 10:28 AM:
MMfan wrote on Nov 9, 2008 10:45 AM:
Blogger Jogger wrote on Nov 9, 2008 12:10 PM:
LongviewFam wrote on Nov 9, 2008 4:04 PM:
funnyone wrote on Nov 9, 2008 6:50 PM:
You know its really easy to look at a drug addict and think oh there is another tweaker. What we all forget is the fact that before they were tweakers, there was a real person beind that drug controlling facade. These "tweakers" have familys that have nothing but heartache with dealing with them. Its not an easy road for anyone. "
mrsphoenix wrote on Nov 9, 2008 11:29 PM:
docfamily wrote on Nov 10, 2008 12:20 AM:
sgourley2b wrote on Nov 12, 2008 7:26 PM:
The journey ahead of you is not going to be easy. Take it one day at a time, continue to work at getting better and stronger. Pray for yourself for strength and guidance, but pray for your family as well, you know who I mean. They are going to need that strength as well.
I love you and pray for you. Be careful.
Aunt Sandy "
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