Commentary

Why Philip Seymour Hoffman’s death is so scary

 
 
A magazine cover and flowers are seen at a makeshift memorial for actor Philip Seymour Hoffman at the entrance to the Greenwich Village apartment building where he died on Sunday.
A magazine cover and flowers are seen at a makeshift memorial for actor Philip Seymour Hoffman at the entrance to the Greenwich Village apartment building where he died on Sunday.
STAN HONDA / AFP/Getty Images

Slate

I cried when I heard about Philip Seymour Hoffman. The news scared me: He got sober when he was 22 and didn’t drink or use drugs for the next 23 years. During that time, he won an Academy Award, was nominated for three more, and was widely cited as the most talented actor of his generation. He also became a father to three children. Then, one day in 2012, he began popping prescription pain pills. And now he’s dead.

The root causes of addiction, like those of many multifactorial diseases, are frustratingly elusive, a nebulous mixture of genetics, exposure and environment. The science about recovery is also hazy: Alcoholics Anonymous, the nation’s most widely used form of treatment, has no set structure or methodology, which makes it tough to evaluate its effectiveness. If anything, the science on relapses is even more slippery.

My first attempt at recovery came in 1991, when I was 19 years old. Almost exactly two years later, I decided to have a drink. Two years after that, I was addicted to heroin. There’s a lot we don’t know about alcoholism and drug addiction, but one thing is clear: Regardless of how much time clean you have, relapsing is always as easy as moving your hand to your mouth.

In 2011, after a dozen years in New York, I moved back to Boston, where I had grown up and attended college. I was 39 years old and married; my wife and I had a 1 1/2-year-old son and another child on the way. I’d written three books, won some awards, and was about to start teaching at MIT. If I’d been asked to provide a CliffsNotes version of my life, those are the details I would have included.

Being back in Boston was a visceral reminder that there’s an important part of my past that’s not on my CV: From 1995 to 1997, I’d been an IV drug addict. Living in Boston again made me acknowledge that past every day: The drive to my son’s preschool took me within blocks of the apartment that I’d lived in during those years. One afternoon, I looked up and realized I was in front of the emergency room I’d been taken to after overdosing on a batch of dope laced with PCP.

One truism of addiction science is that long-term abuse rewires your brain and changes its chemistry, which is why triggers are major risk factors for relapse. But these changes can be reversed over time. Walking past the apartment where my dealer used to live didn’t make me want to score; it made me feel as if I was in a phantasmagoria of two crosshatched worlds – but I was the only person who could see both realities.

I worry about the day that I stop acknowledging both of those realities. Most adults with jobs, mortgages, spouses and kids can have a glass of wine after work. For me, a glass of wine is a gateway to my past — and that past provides pretty robust evidence that there’s not much separation between my having a drink and my ending up alone in an apartment with a needle in my arm.

A lot has happened in my family over the past 2 1/2 years. Our daughter was born. We bought a house. My yearlong job morphed into something more permanent. My route to work no longer winds through the spectral landmarks of my addiction. Days can go by without my thinking about how close I came to being a statistic — but then my eye will catch on the two inch-long scars marking the veins in the crook of my elbow or I'll notice someone nodding out on the bus. I was lucky the last time I ran that experiment. I don’t want to do it again.

It’s impossible to know what led Hoffman to start using after so many years of sobriety. After he opened a portal to that vortex of chemical relief, however, it doesn’t surprise me at all that he couldn’t heave himself out in time to save his life.

Seth Mnookin is the associate director of MIT’s graduate program in science writing.

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