I have never talked about this publicly, in any fashion, except to my close friends and family, but I have a story to tell. The story I am writing right now, at 3:40am on Friday, October 1st, is a story that doesn’t belong to me. It is the story of Masey Sutphin. She passed away on April 20th, 2016, the day after her 22nd birthday. Reading the date makes it sound like such a short while ago, but it has been the longest 170 days I ever endured in my entire life. Masey ingested a fentanyl patch and passed away within the hour, leaving behind a broken family– a grandmother, a grandfather, a mother, and two sisters. When I think of how I would describe her, the word addict never comes to mind, not even once. Caring, compassionate, full of love and light that even the most blind man could see. I would describe her as the glow and warmth she gave to everyone around her. I would describe her as a silly, high pitched laugh. I would describe her as the perfect messy bun on a hot day. I would describe her as a high school graduate in pursuit of a college degree at UNCG. I would describe her as hope in the world even when she felt hopeless. I would describe her as the most powerful sunsets and the most vivid roses. I would describe her as friendly and passionate in the way she spoke, felt and loved, but I would never once describe her as an addict. Masey developed an addiction to opioids in 2013 after a very traumatic, abusive relationship. In the beginning of 2016, she tried heroin for the first time to soothe the pain that seemed never ending. Nobody saw her for two weeks after that. Her mother hunted her down and got her clean in the chaos of love. By March, her opioid addiction had slimmed drastically and she had been clean from heroin for a month and half. To avoid what she thought was severe relapse and enjoy her birthday coming to an end, she was given a fentanyl patch by her father. The patch that killed her. The patch that ruined my life. Masey didn’t want to die; she wanted life. She took all the hate, pain and anger everyone around her felt and she turned it into something beautiful. She turned it into strength. Masey had an addiction, but she was not her addiction. Addict didn’t define her. Love did.
It is important for me to share her story, because so many people demonize addicts. People turn them into monsters when they are already constantly fighting daily demons and pulling out rot from their inner core. Masey Sutphin is my sister. Masey taught me how to believe in myself, she taught me how to spread love into the world, she taught me to be kind and to always do the best I can, and that sometimes it’s okay that my best isn’t perfect. When she found out I self harmed in the 7th grade, she saved my life. She held me when I cried over my first break up. She guided me as I went to highschool and she cussed out every teacher that was mean to me, but in the most polite way. When I got my first C, she told that progress looked differently on everybody. For my 15th birthday, she took me to see my favorite band with her college refund check because she knew I would never get have another opportunity and it was important to her that I have it. It was important to her that I experience the world, that I know happiness. Masey built me into the women I am today. She taught me how to be strong, what it means to love unconditionally, and how important it is that I pursue my dreams. Masey’s aura was red. It was the intense sunsets, it was the vivid, lively roses. It was passion in anger and the taste of love. It was everything weak and everything powerful all in one. I quickly realized when the end of her life came, it was not about what she took from this cruel world, it was about all the wonderful things she gave to it.
Her death has left me lost, it has left me frozen in time. Her death has consumed me with me guilt, regret and grief. The weight of this loss had me caged in my bed for 2 months. I cried and rocked silently back and forth for hours on end. I missed all my final exams. I couldn’t remember what food tasted like. I didn’t know what sleep or what peace meant. The closest to death I have ever felt was the months that followed. Dead on the inside. Dead outside. Dead. When you lose a sibling, you lose a piece of everything you are. You lose your childhood, your memories, your safe haven. I am still in the process of reassembling my life. Finding my purpose in life seemed almost useless without the one women I wanted to share it with, but I live to tell her story. I live to tell friends and families of addicts and victims to do everything they can to get their loved one help. I live to tell people just how important it is to cherish life, to cherish your loved ones. I live to say that there is hope out there, and please don’t ever stop looking for it. Masey was a daughter, a sister, a friend, her life touched the paths of so many. She deserved a second chance at life, but I am here, now without her, to let her story shed light and pass on. If you struggle with addiction, you are not alone and you are not defined by the chaos that rules your life. Every day, I wear her story on my skin as my body armor. The balloon represents the phrase “Miss me, but let me go” as a daily reminder to do everything she always hoped I could achieve and let her rest in peace.
I am here to tell the story of Masey Sutphin (1994-2016).
“Color my life with the chaos of trouble”
