Her Higher Vibes

By Iyesha Gee

I’ve been thinking a lot about white lines — not just the ones that trace the pages of Tracy Brown’s novel White Lines, but the ones that trace the paths of people’s lives. In her book, Brown paints a haunting picture of addiction, love, and survival. The story hits close to home because for many of us, those “white lines” aren’t fiction — they’re reflections of what we’ve lived, seen, or narrowly escaped.

I grew up around addiction — a mother struggling with drugs, a grandfather who drank until the bottle emptied more than his soul, and a childhood spent sitting in church basements during AA meetings that smelled like stale coffee and cigarette smoke. Even then, I learned how powerful — and how painful — those white lies were.

The “I’m fine.”

The “I can stop whenever I want.”

The “This time will be different.”

But white lies always lead to dark days.

As a child, I watched adults I loved lose their light to substances that promised relief but only deepened pain. Friends’ parents would do drugs right in front of us, sometimes even offer them to us — like candy at a gathering. It’s a strange kind of normal when dysfunction becomes your comfort zone. You start to think maybe this is just life. Maybe this is just how people cope.

But coping isn’t healing.

And what people don’t tell you is that addiction never just takes the user — it takes everyone around them, too.

Even as an adult, the cycle follows. Just yesterday, a woman at work casually asked if I wanted a Norco — one of the strongest prescription painkillers, an opioid with a chemical tie to heroin. She offered it like it was gum. And in that moment, I realized how normalized drug culture has become. People will hand you your destruction with a smile, not realizing that what they’re offering could pull you into the same pit you’ve fought so hard to climb out of.

“Drugs and alcohol aren’t just substances — they’re lifelines for the broken.”

Drugs and alcohol aren’t just substances — they’re lifelines for the broken, false lights for those in darkness. But they’re also thieves.

They steal memories.

They steal relationships.

They steal minds and morals and moments that can never be returned.

And once they steal enough, they leave behind something even harder to recover: trust.

Because once someone you love steals from you, lies to you, or even tries to harm you under the influence — something shifts. There’s no easy way back. How do you reconcile with a person who once tried to kill you? Whether it’s physical harm or emotional destruction, that kind of betrayal cuts too deep for simple forgiveness. Some things you survive — but never forget.

“Mental health and addiction walk hand in hand, whispering the same lie: this will make the pain go away.”

But it never does. It only masks it, buries it, and breeds more chaos.

Tracy Brown’s White Lines reminds us that even when you’ve lost everything, you can still choose to rise. But it’s not pretty. It’s not easy. And it’s not fast. Healing from addiction — whether it’s your own or someone else’s — is a lifelong commitment to truth. Because truth is the only thing that can wash away the residue of those white lines and white lies.

“You are stronger than your environment.”

So, to anyone reading this who’s been offered that escape — in a pill, a drink, or a line — know this:

You are stronger than your environment.

You are not destined to repeat the same cycles.

And your life is worth living clear-eyed, even when clarity hurts.

Because dark days only stay dark when we stop reaching for light.