For now, let’s nudge the unknown, potentially dangerous stuff into the background.
Let’s begin with the optimism and the change and the goals set by Katherine Drouin, who, because of mental illness, weighed 70 pounds when we first met three years ago. She’s earned the benefit of the doubt, because she’s trying to turn things around.
“I’m better,” Drouin, who’s 38, told me recently. “I guess I’m never going to be well, but I think I found my niche. I know where I’m supposed to be.”
We reunited last week, near her home in Plymouth. We drove to a large Victorian-style house, the headquarters for the Plymouth Area Recovery Connection, where Drouin counsels addicts while trying to save her own life. She’s taking courses, hoping to one day become a certified counselor. Her life experience will come in handy.
Drouin has had an eating disorder for more than 20 years. She began stealing from grocery stores to support her habit. She also counts herself as an alcoholic.
She’s 5-feet tall and still too thin, looking lighter than the 90 pounds she says she weighs now. But she looks better than the first few times we met, and there’s hope in those deep-set blue eyes on that tiny face. There’s humor in those eyes, a mischievous twinkle, a look that reaffirms what she says now, that you’d be wrong to count her out, despite the fact that once, not long ago, her life was a mess.
“I’ve been addicted to basically everything,” Drouin told me on our way to the Recovery Connection home. “I tried drinking, I tried stealing, I tried starving, and to me it’s all the same. Everyone picks up for the same reason. They’re hurting.”
She initially contacted me in 2014 to tell her story, a cry for help that she hoped would set her on a healthy path. She was essentially dying at the time, moving in and out of facilities, once getting booted because she was caught hiding her prescription medicine so she could sell it later. She lied to her father. She lied to herself.
Medical professionals told me at the time that Drouin suffered from a combination of bulimia and anorexia nervosa. Simply put, she got high on the sudden intake of an insane amount of food after starving herself all day long. She also had a negative image of her appearance, plus a need to stay trim so she could run fast, dating back to her days on the Winnisquam Regional High School cross country team.
She let me see who she’d become in the summer of 2014. I saw Drouin eat more than a family of four could handle. She ate refried beans, pasta, pickles, chili, salad, corn on the cob, chicken, rye bread, bulkie rolls, ice cream, candy bars.
Then, after three hours of binging, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail, went into the bathroom and vomited for two continuous minutes, sounding like a demon from a horror movie.
Drouin, who lives on disability, couldn’t afford her food addiction, so she stole from grocery stores. She’s been arrested for shoplifting 54 times, and has been banned from stores in and around Plymouth.
There is hope, however, as society continues to move addiction and mental health problems further from the criminal courts. Drouin participates in the state’s Mental Health Court system, which means she’s getting the counseling, therapy, medication and monitoring she needs. If she stays with the program through July and stops stealing, her record will be clean.
If not, numerous charges will return, meaning a possible 3 ½- to 7-year prison term. Michael Clark, a prosecutor with the Plymouth Police Department, said Drouin is “pretty close to the Guinness Book of World Records for shoplifting.”
“I’ve always been aware of her situation, and it’s problematic for law enforcement,” Clark continued. “While I understand there is an affliction, there is still a duty to protect the community, so we cannot say she won’t be held accountable for stealing. We still have to protect store owners from being victimized.”
Meanwhile, Drouin’s eating disorder continues. She still sits in her kitchen twice a week and eats a meal fit for King Kong, then vomits everything she’s eaten.
But at least it’s no longer every day, and for once she seems committed to a program she likes. The Plymouth Area Recovery Connection home is owned by restaurant giant Alex Ray of Meredith, founder of the Common Man empire.
He bought the house four years ago. It’s situated near Plymouth State University, a hard-partying college. He rents the rooms to six people fighting addiction. They can stay as long as they pay rent and remain clean. Each submits to a drug test.
Ray doesn’t know Drouin personally, but told me by phone, “There are a million stories like that out there. They need help from others, and the most important thing is they want to improve their lives. The government can’t do it, and they do a terrible job when they try to do it.”
Because of his business commitments, Ray relies on Marcia Morris to run the house. She lives there, too. She’s been clean for nearly 30 years.
Morris, colorful and emotional, combined an ear-splitting laugh with tears during our conversation in the living room. Her thick silver hair is styled enough to frame her face, but wild enough to give her a counterculture presence.
She’s been sinking her savings into day-to-day living while trying to create a foundation of sobriety. In Drouin, Morris sees a shining light, someone special, someone whose life experiences will prove invaluable to the program’s mission.
Drouin has already completed the 30-hour Recovery Coach Program at the local library. For certification, she needs 500 hours under the supervision of a licensed alcohol drug counselor, and then she needs to pass an exam. She’s already addressed 50 people at a National Alliance on Mental Illness conference, telling them about her journey.
“It’s a big deal that she is doing this,” Morris told me. “It’s very ambitious to become a certified recovery support worker.”
Morris sees a future for Drouin at the Recovery Connection. “She would be an incredible asset with everything she’s been through,” Morris said. “She has deep insight into addiction, and she’s very articulate about it, so she can verbalize what is very difficult for some people to put into words. I’m really looking forward to working with her and having her in this organization.”
It’s all good, all positive, all hopeful. Drouin has been sick for more than two decades, hiding in her apartment, binging and purging and drinking, never tapping into her vast potential.
I asked Drouin about her goals. She paused, 10, 20, 30 seconds, remembering all she’s been through, all the pain, all the disappointment, all the wasted effort.
Then, finally, she said, “It’s hard. I don’t look that far ahead now. Not anymore.”