I remember driving with my family to an addiction treatment center in Kent on Father’s Day, 2018, to visit my brother Alec. I was nine and recall seeing Alec with hope in his eyes, smiling effusively as he taught me soccer ball rainbows. It was a visit filled with joy and anticipation that he was finally on the road to recovery, embracing a future free from the clutches of addiction.
He was looking forward to spending time with us, moving back home one day, and leaning on our love and support. I remember telling Alec I was leaving for a trip and couldn’t wait to see him again upon my return. That was the last exchange we had. Three weeks after leaving the treatment center on July 13, 2018, Alec left this world from an accidental overdose on his 26th birthday.
The shock of losing my brother was profound. He had been showing signs of improvement that filled our hearts with optimism. How could someone on the mend, who had so much to look forward to, be snatched away so suddenly? The answer lies not in Alec’s actions but in the gaps within our societal and public health systems.
If Alec had access to a safe place that night, a haven where he could find help in his moment of despair, he would be here today offering his love and guidance, sharing laughter and wisdom, and keeping his promise to teach me those rainbow soccer ball tricks. I remember Alec as a huggable, handsome, funny, and super athletic teddy bear. He was a competitive hockey player and inspired my younger brother and me to play hockey. I was a goalie, like Alec, and proudly wore his old jerseys, and often, while on the ice, called on him to guide me from above. Alec’s absence is a void that can never be filled, a testament to the failure of our systems to protect the vulnerable.
Addiction is a disease, not a choice, just like cancer or diabetes. It is a relentless struggle that requires comprehensive understanding. It is not my brother’s fault that he succumbed to this battle; it is the fault of a system that did not regulate big Pharma that ruthlessly distributed addictive oxycontin, which my brother fell victim to.
It is the fault of a public health protocol that does not prioritize the creation of safe spaces for individuals struggling with addiction. When people emerge from treatment, they are often left to navigate a world filled with triggers and pitfalls without the necessary support to maintain their sobriety. This lack of continued care and supervision leaves them vulnerable, making a single mistake potentially fatal, especially with the scourge of poisonous fentanyl.
My parents told me Alec would often take a while to ask for help when he relapsed. Societal stigma led to him feeling ashamed, as if relapse was a moral failure. But Alec wanted nothing more than to be on a permanent path to recovery, and he did not want to die. That last night on his birthday, Alec had carefully placed Narcan by his side but was abashed to tell his roommates that he was vulnerable and needed help.
Thankfully, public health leaders have made Narcan readily available, but what good is it if no one administers it? If there were a safe, non-judgmental place for Alec to go to that night without shame, where an overdose could be reversed, he would still be with us. We cannot help anyone be on a path to recovery if they are no longer here.
In other countries and states, these safe places, called Overdose Prevention Centers (OPCs), have saved countless lives. OPCs are supervised spaces where trained staff monitor substance use, intervene in case of overdose, and connect individuals with support services. They also benefit entire communities by reducing hospital burden, lowering crime rates, and improving public safety. For too long, the response to substance use has been driven by stigma and punishment rather than science and compassion. People who oppose OPCs argue that it encourages drug consumption, but evidence shows addiction is a chronic relapsing condition, and OPCs serve to reduce risk during active use.
Over 150 OPCs are operating worldwide. Insite, the first OPC in North America (Vancouver, BC), has overseen millions of visits with zero fatal overdoses. Studies show that those who access these services regularly are significantly more likely to enter detox and addiction treatment. Domestically, too, there is substantial precedent: Rhode Island opened its first OPC in Providence this January, and in just three weeks, 10% of visits resulted in an overdose reversal; New York City’s OnPoint centers have operated for several years with thousands of lives saved and zero overdose deaths, and Minnesota and Vermont are poised to follow suit this year.
Now is the time for Connecticut to join neighboring states in saving lives. I plead with legislators and Gov. Ned Lamont to consider the importance of SB 1285, An Act Concerning Overdose Prevention Centers Pilot Program for individuals battling addiction.
Passing this bill is not just a legislative action but a lifeline for countless vulnerable people. It is a chance to ensure that my brother’s passing was not in vain, that his death can be a catalyst for change, and that other families are prevented from experiencing the heartbreak and loss my family has lived through.
To show your support for SB 1285, please submit testimony. Information can be found at this site. You can call your legislators and Governor Lamont’s offices to support SB 1285. Addiction should not be a death sentence. We can make a difference with proper treatment, recovery supervision, and safe places to turn to in times of crisis. My brother’s story is a painful reminder of the urgency of this issue, a call to action that we cannot ignore.
Arya Pelletier of Greenwich is a sophomore at Greenwich Academy.