Drugs of Choice

Jacob Sullum from the October 2000 issue

(Page 2 of 2)

During her years of heroin use, Marlowe made a nice living from a "consulting business" (presumably financial consulting, since she worked at an investment bank after college). Although her habit apparently did not affect the business, her writing career stalled. Her chief regret about heroin is the time it wasted and the experiences it blocked. "After I quit," she says, "it gradually came to me that the messy stuff I’d been screening out with dope–the nitty-gritty of having a relationship, constructing friendships, getting along with acquaintances, meeting new people–the stuff that hadn’t seemed worth the trouble, the stuff that had to be controlled so I could focus on the important matters, was in fact the only material life presents."

Schaler, too, sees missed opportunities as heroin’s main danger: "I oppose the use of heroin for the same reason I oppose the use of Prozac: I think relying on these is an existential cop-out–a way of avoiding coping with life." The deliberately provocative comparison with Prozac helps clarify the moral and practical issues raised by chemically assisted living. People who like Prozac would probably say that it helps them get on with their lives by relieving anxiety and chasing away the blues. But Schaler argues that using drugs this way is counterproductive because it eliminates the discomfort that spurs people to make the changes that would ultimately lead to better, more satisfying lives. Surely there is truth to both positions; the trick is recognizing which more accurately describes a particular person’s situation.

The answer to that question does not hinge on the drug’s legal status. Americans like to pretend that pharmaceuticals are morally unproblematic, because they are approved by the government and prescribed by doctors. Conversely, they like to pretend that illegal drugs, unsanctioned by authority, are inherently immoral. This pretense breaks down when similar substances–say, amphetamine and Ritalin–are used for different purposes, or when different substances–say, heroin and Prozac–are used for similar purposes. Then we are forced to think about what makes one kind of drug use life-enhancing and another kind self-destructive.

To talk about the reasons why people use drugs–and, especially, to distinguish between good and bad reasons–is risky, as Marlowe discovered in 1994, when she first wrote about her heroin habit. "Doing heroin isn’t as scandalous as writing about it," she notes. After her account appeared in The Village Voice, "I got lots of nasty letters that all agreed on one thing: because I emerged from years of heroin use without noticeable health, career or financial effects, I wasn’t qualified to write about dope. I didn’t really have the experience, because the sign of really having the experience is ruining your life. This is a circular argument of course–‘we will only trust accounts of dope use that end in ruin, because dope use always ends in ruin.’"

Marlowe rejects the charge that writing about heroin glamorizes it, making the writer responsible for anyone who might be inspired by the account to try the drug or return to it. "If I wrote an article about how wonderful a time I had surfing," she says, "I doubt readers would blame me for any injuries they received trying to duplicate my experience. But accounts of heroin use (and sex), like the real thing, are supposed to be irresistible, powerful drugs in their own right."

Although her criticism of the conventional take on heroin suggests that Marlowe is skeptical of the war on drugs, she is not nearly as explicit in condemning it as Schaler, who declares, "It is no more the business of the government what chemical substances you put into your body than it is the government’s business where or in what manner you practice your religion." And while her memoir is filled with intriguing ideas, she occasionally goes astray, especially when she deals with economics. She claims, for example, that "copping reveals the aggressivity behind buying that capitalism usually manages to cloak." Because "heroin is a commodity and inspires no affection except for its use value…and because the commerce of heroin is deeply illegal, the aggression beneath all purchasing seeps out."

But surely it’s the drug’s illegality, rather than its status as a commodity, that explains the market’s undercurrent of violence. When I buy salt or sugar, I never worry that the grocer will refuse to hand over the goods after I pay, or that he will try to substitute some other white substance, and he never worries that I might be an undercover cop. Later, Marlowe more accurately describes buying as "a way of negotiating the competition for scarce goods without physical violence." Buying can do that because the transaction is voluntary, meaning that both parties see themselves as benefitting from it.

Marlowe’s confusion seems to reflect her uneasiness with earning and spending. "Stereotypical wisdom has it that when people get addicted to dope, they become greedy and money-centered," she writes. "But it’s really the other way around: only those with an inclination to greed and a fascination with money become serious about dope. Heroin use is a disease of those who are naturally most suited to capitalist society–bossy wired hustling obsessive-compulsives–but, perhaps, are ashamed of that. We decide we would rather be cool, but we gravitate to those aspects of this aesthetic that can be purchased because this is an action we understand.…While dope is in some ways the ultimate hipster buy, when all is said and done it’s still a purchase and the user is a consumer. Centering your life around copping is not so different from centering your life around shopping, or making deals. Same activity, different aesthetic."

You can interpret this as a swipe at consumerism or as an attempt to normalize heroin use. Either way, the important point is that people can get into trouble by trying to substitute easy sources of pleasure for more worthwhile activities, whether they’re buying heroin or fancy clothes. Both of these books help us see that just about any harmless diversion can become a dangerous distraction–a realization that makes the risk of addiction seem more immediate but also puts it into perspective. The next step is to recognize the difference between good and bad habits, an ongoing task that engages anyone who tries to find meaning in a world of choices and temptations.

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