A Vision of Hope is the raw and compelling true story of a man who lost everything to addiction, incarceration, and self-destruction, only to rebuild his life piece by fragile piece. Andrew Drasen’s memoir blends past narrative with real-time journal entries, creating an intimate, unfiltered look at the chaotic spiral of addiction and the difficult climb toward recovery.
From the courtroom to the cellblock, from the overdoses to prison sentences, Andrew reveals the truth behind cycles of relapse, shame, and the systems that punish rather than heal. His reflections expose the lies the addicted mind tells, the wounds that drive destructive choices, and the quiet moments of clarity that ultimately open the door to change.
More than a story of survival, this memoir is a testament to resilience, second chances, and the belief that redemption is possible for anyone willing to fight for it. As the foundation of a three-book transformation journey, A Vision of Hope invites readers not only to witness one man’s path out of darkness, but to consider their own capacity for healing, purpose, and hope.
∞ Hell’s Kitchen is on the TV, as an eclectic group of inmates are entranced by the glow emanating from the television set. The dayroom is quiet, at least by county jail standards. This is probably one of the most relaxed dayrooms I have ever been in. Lord knows I’ve seen more than my fair share. I am two and a half weeks into an eight-month stay. Four months waiting on a bed date for what will be my eighth treatment program, four months in Milwaukee Secure Detention Facility, doing a residential drug and alcohol treatment program. I’m sitting on my top bunk, in a dormitory consisting of 16 bunk beds, ruminating, evaluating. I’m not upset that I am here. It could have gone a lot worse. I could not be here at all. Or I could be here on yet another felony charge of possession of narcotic drugs and possession of drug paraphernalia. Luckily, the officers who picked me up let me flush my heroin and dispose of the syringe I’d used. That still blows my mind. I have never had an experience like that in my 30 years.
How did we get to this point? If that isn’t the million-dollar question. I could talk about my childhood, or the addiction that runs in my genes, or the last year when I found recovery and my subsequent relapse, but we have plenty of time for that. For now, we’ll stick to the day I was arrested.
The date was Saturday, February 2, 2019. I woke up at 8:00 a.m., not fully dope sick, but not feeling great either. Today was the day we were to visit my grandmother’s house for Danish layer cake to celebrate my mother’s 61st birthday, which had taken place two days prior. I took a couple of hits from my weed pipe and aimlessly flicked through the channels on the TV. My mind wasn’t on the television, however. It was on the text I got the day prior.
“Fire is back. Free quarter grams all day tomorrow. Call me.”
I knew I had to stop using soon, regardless. I quit my job a couple of months prior (abandoned it, more accurately), sold most of my stocks, and was beginning to run low on my savings. The time was rapidly approaching. I’d made the decision I wouldn’t go back to selling drugs. It cost me too much and was no longer worth the risk. I continued to smoke my weed while contemplating what to do. Go to my grandmother’s house on the verge of being dope sick, being no more engaged than a stump on a log the entire time. Or go pick up the free sample and feel well, but run the risk of my family seeing me high and finding out I was using again. After three hours of deliberation, I made my decision.
It was free, after all.
I got in my 2004 Mitsubishi Galant and began the 40-minute drive from Racine to Milwaukee. I connected my phone to the car stereo and turned on my custom playlist on Tidal music. Codeine Dreaming by Kodak Black and Lil Wayne pumped through the speakers. Instantly, I was feeling a little better, knowing that in less than an hour, I’d have my antidote. I called my dealer, T-Bone, and told him I’m on my way. He had me meet him in the low end of National Avenue, further south and closer to me than usual, to my pleasant surprise.
I pulled off on National and called T-Bone. He told me where to meet and told me to park in the middle of the block, as usual. I pulled up, gave him a call, and told him I’m there. An SUV pulled up behind me, and the driver stayed in the car. This was of no concern to me. T-Bone often conducted several deals back-to-back, and I assumed (correctly) that this was another addict waiting on their fix. I saw a black sedan turning right, coming my way. It wasn’t T-Bone, but it was who I was waiting for. I rarely saw T-Bone anymore; usually, it was one of his “cousins” who showed up. I rolled down my window as the black sedan approached, and we made the hand-to-hand through car windows, money leaving my hand (I bought more than the sample), and was replaced with drugs. I got my heroin and pulled off, as the sedan pulled up to the window of the SUV behind me.
I drove a couple of blocks away, eager to get my fix. I pulled over and got my kit ready. I pulled out my spoon, needle, lighter, and Q-tip. I took the little bag filled with off-white powder and dumped a little into the spoon. I took my needle, sucked up some water from the Aldi brand bottled water at the ready in the cup holder, and squirted the water over the powder. I took my lighter and held the flame under the spoon until the chunks were fully dissolved. I ripped a small piece of cotton from the Q-tip and placed it in the liquid, the cotton serving as a filter. I drew up the liquid through the cotton into the syringe and injected it into the crook of my right elbow. I felt the warmth surge through my body, and instantly, I felt better.
Maybe one more small shot…
Next thing I knew, I opened my eyes and saw a paramedic leaning over my body. It took me a few seconds to regain my composure and recollection. The EMT asked how much heroin I’d done, to which I responded, “I’m waiting on a friend.” I knew better than to admit to anything. This wasn’t my first rodeo.
After more of the same line of questioning and more of the same answers, the paramedics left. It was time for me to follow suit, the only problem being that my car keys were nowhere to be seen. I got out of the car and began searching, as I knew it was time to skedaddle.
Not one minute after my encounter with the EMT, I saw a cop car heading down the nearby alley, heading my way.
Fuck.
“What’s going on?” the officer asks.
“I’m just looking for my keys,” I responded nonchalantly.
“Don’t worry about your keys. Come over here.” Here we go...
He patted me down, found nothing on me, then asked for my ID and instructed me to sit in my vehicle. Thank baby Jesus! I discreetly wrapped the remainder of my heroin baggie in a folded dollar bill, broke the tip off my syringe, and put them both between my ass cheeks. Then I took the spoon and put it in my mouth to remove any remaining residue.
He approached the car, instructed me to exit the vehicle, led me to the squad car, and put me in the back seat. He and his partner began to search my vehicle. I tried to reach for the heroin, but only felt the syringe, as the dollar bill must have slid partially down my pant leg. I felt my phone vibrate and saw a text from my sister, Stephanie, asking me to let our mother know that she and my nieces, Cheyenne and Allison, would be a little late to Grandma’s house. “I’m probably going to jail. I’m in the back of a squad car right now,” I responded. Even though I knew there was nothing for the officers to find in the vehicle, I’m still on probation and undoubtedly will be put on a probation hold while my agent investigates what happened.
I saw the responding officer on the phone, having finished searching my car. I knew from experience he was finding out what probation wants to do with me, whether I’m to be put on a probation hold or not.
He opened the car door and informed me I was being put on a P.O. hold and handcuffed me. I asked him if I could call my sister to let her know I wouldn’t be able to make it for my mother's birthday, and to tell her where my car was located so she could pick it up to avoid it being towed. The officer pulled my iPhone X out of my pocket and asked if it was unlocked with a fingerprint. I told him to hold it up to my face so the face recognition software could unlock my phone, as I wasn’t about to tell him my 6-digit passcode. Again, I knew better.
I called Stephanie and let her know what was going on. She told me she loved me and that she’d pick up my car. The officers “found” my keys. I knew then that the EMTs had taken the keys from my car and given them to the cops, who were waiting around the corner.
As we headed toward District 2, I informed the officer that I was wearing my contacts and asked if he could wait to bring me to the Milwaukee County Jail until someone could drop off my glasses. He told me in his 16 years on the force, no one had ever told him they were wearing contacts. I explained how much it sucks going to jail in contacts. Without a contact case and solution, I’d be left with two options: wearing my contacts night after night, which would undoubtedly strain my already strained eyes, or throwing them out and being unable to see until my glasses are approved, a process that takes time. I’d have to have a family member get my eyeglasses prescription, drop off the glasses and the prescription, then wait for them to be routed to me, all the while I’m as blind as a bat. It’s a whole thing. He told me that he was on duty until 4:00 p.m., so if they could get the glasses to me by then, we’d wait.
We pulled up to District and entered through the sally port. The officer opened the back door of the squad car and escorted me to a metal bench lining the far wall, where he cuffed my ankle to the bench before taking the shackles off my wrists. He allowed me to call Stephanie, and I asked her to pick up my glasses before coming to pick up my keys and Mitsubishi.
Sitting there cuffed to the metal bench, with a syringe and heroin between my cheeks, knowing it could send me back to prison, I was surprisingly calm. Maybe it was the fact that I could still feel the dope I’d done earlier. Perhaps it was the overall positive demeanor of the cops, which, in my experience, wasn’t the norm. Maybe it was the realization that, regardless of how it happened, I would have the opportunity to get clean again. Irrespective of the reason, I felt calm and at ease.
After seven felonies, two prison sentences, and countless negative encounters, I learned not to speak to the police. I don’t know if it was the overall vibe of the current circumstances, or perhaps it was the haze I was still in after receiving Narcan, or my want to further others’ understanding of the addict’s plight, but I decided to share my story with the officers. We had at least an hour to spare before my sister arrived. I was feeling good (ironically enough), and I sensed I could trust these two. Maybe it was a blue moon that night. Regardless, I decided to share with them what led me to this point.
I told them about how I was sentenced to drug court in 2016, and how I had recently graduated. How I struggled the first year, until I overdosed in January 2018, at which point I signed my last chance agreement, and I was ready to be done using. I explained how grateful I was for my ex-girlfriend. It was she and her children who gave me a taste of an alternate way of life, and that experience made me want more for myself. How she was the first woman I was truly in love with, and it instilled in me the desire to quit. I explained how I was trying to stop on my own, but how extremely difficult that is. Heroin grabs you, mentally and physically. The body becomes dependent; the mind becomes obsessive.
I explained how I started with OxyContin when I was 15 years old, how it progressed from 20mg a day to 400mg a day, to snorting heroin, to shooting it. I let them know that my first time going through withdrawals was in the county jail, and that I didn’t even know that’s what I was going through.
I told them how I have seven felonies, all of them due to drugs. I had been to prison twice; between prison, county jail, and house arrest, I’d done nearly eight out of my twelve years of adulthood in confinement in one way, shape, or form. Despite it all, I remain a positive person, and I want to help others. I told them about my plan to start a podcast to spread my message, and one of the cops suggested I do so, stating that it could help a lot of people.
I told them how I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, and how hard winter is for me. Many of my relapses have started in the winter months, and my goal was to complete my probation and move to California. I know I am an addict for life, and I know I can’t escape my brain chemistry, but I can do all I can to remove the barriers that have tripped me up so many times in the past.
While telling them my story, the arresting officer thanked me for telling him and providing insight, saying that, believe it or not, some cops still want to help people. I told him that I got that vibe from them, which was the only reason I was sharing anything about myself.
As we were talking, the lead officer got to his feet, walked over to a small gray plastic garbage can, and placed it at my feet. “Kick that in there. There are cameras all over the place.” Having no clue what he was talking about, I looked down and saw that the syringe slid down my pants leg and had fallen to the floor. I wasted no time. I bent over and threw the needle into the trash can.
He then asked if I had anything else I needed to get rid of, because once we made it inside, a third officer would be conducting a search. It was decision time. Tell them about the half gram of heroin on me, or hope they didn’t find it, not knowing at all what their search policy was, whether it would be a strip search or a pat search.
I decided to trust my instincts. I’d trusted them up until this point, and they’d given me no indication not to.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Flushable?” he responded.
“Yes, it is,” I stated.
“Can I get rid of it? Another felony, having my probation revoked and going back to prison, is not going to help me.”
I saw him struggling with what to do, which path to take.
He then went inside for a short time before re-emerging through the alcove leading into District 2.
“Since you need to use the restroom so bad, I’m going to take you to a cell so you can go,” he responded.
The rest was surreal. He came over and unshackled my leg from the bench, took my right arm in his grasp, and escorted me to a cell with a toilet. I wasted no time attempting to locate the heroin I’d placed between my cheeks. I couldn’t find it, as it must have slid down my leg along with the syringe. I took off my pants to find the missing dope, and the folded-up dollar bill fell out of one of the legs of my blue jeans. I picked up the bill, unfolded it, and emptied its contents into the metal toilet, flushing the felony down. I thanked him, and he escorted me to the cop stationed at District, beginning the intake process.
Intake:
∞ “Empty your pockets onto the countertop,” the intake officer said. I removed my wallet, cell phone, gold chain, belt, and shoelaces. Then, pictures and fingerprints, followed by a more thorough search than the preliminary search conducted roadside. I’m patted down. The officer unzips and removes the interior lining of my Columbia jacket in search of contraband.
Shortly after this process, my sister arrived at District 2 with my glasses and to pick up my car keys. I wasn’t allowed to talk to her, but after she left, the arresting officer came back in and told me that she was pissed, but she loves me very much.
At this point, my feet and hands were shackled to a chain that went around my waist. I was then transported to Milwaukee County Jail.
Over the next week, I did a tour of the Milwaukee facilities. I was at the Milwaukee County Jail for one night, then was transferred to the House of Corrections the next day.
The House of Corrections is a facility in Franklin, WI that houses inmates who are currently serving a jail sentence, awaiting transport into the Wisconsin prison system, or are fighting lesser crimes like drug offenses, theft, burglary, and the like.
The housing unit I was assigned to was F2, in the “old building”. It contained 36 bunk beds, housing 72 inmates, and had low ceilings that you could touch with a slight hop, resulting in reverberating noise that made the unit quite loud. I was one of a handful of white faces in the crowd, which didn’t bother me. I was just glad I made it to a unit as quickly as I did, as it was Super Bowl Sunday, and the Rams were playing the Patriots in a few short hours.
Walking into the restroom was somewhat of a shock. As I walked in, immediately to my right, a row of plate glass windows started just above waist level, providing the officers’ desk with a view into the restroom. To my left were three shower heads, each with no partitions or dividers, embedded into the wall. Opposite the showers were a row of sinks. Continue walking past the sinks, and you will reach the urinals, followed by four toilets, all of which lack dividers or stalls for privacy. Just four toilets sitting in the open. I was still constipated from the heroin withdrawals, so luckily, I didn’t have to develop the modesty required of relieving my bowels in front of others.
Shortly before the start of the Super Bowl, I walked into the TV room, a small room containing a handful of metal circular tables with attached metal stools. Stainless steel benches lined two of the four room walls, and a small flat-screen TV sat on the wall. An enclosure encompassed the TV to prevent inmates from changing the channel or adjusting the volume. Television channels are a major source of contention in jails and prisons.
I took a seat in the quickly filling room on the bench opposite the television set. I wasn’t feeling well, as the heroin withdrawals were taking effect, and the Valium the nurse had given me was making me groggy. I’d told the nursing staff that I was a daily Xanax user, as I knew they would give me Valium to avoid seizures (had that been the case). Benzodiazepines help ease the effects of opiate withdrawals as well as help with sleep, which is virtually impossible while going through DTs. Ya gotta do what ya gotta do.
As we were waiting for the game to start, I heard a few guys to my right urging a guy named Chicken to rap. I’d heard of Chicken before, as he’d developed a little buzz throughout the Milwaukee music scene, and I was eager to listen to him rap. I could see his trepidation and embarrassment, and I thought 'Chicken' was an appropriate nickname. I encouraged him to spit and told him he had an audience right in front of him. I told him if he rapped something, so would I, as I’ve been making music for a long time in my own right, to no avail. His fear got the best of him. Disappointing.
The game was about to start, and the room was filling up. I was one of two white faces in the room. An older black man walked in and got ignorant. He started spewing off at the mouth, talking about how it was black history month, and he needed his reparations. He said for everyone to pick out a white guy and beat their ass. This pissed me off, but I attempted to maintain my composure, not wanting to make my situation worse than it needed to be. Someone pointed at me, and the older guy said, “Hit him in the face.” Ok, enough is enough.
At this point, I responded, saying, “I’m a third-generation American. My grandparents immigrated to the United States from Denmark around the time of World War II. None of my ancestors enslaved people. Just because my skin is white doesn’t make me your oppressor. We’re all in orange. It’s shit like that that keeps us separated. And that goes both ways.”
Several people were looking at me at this point, and one guy told me to relax, saying the other guy was an old drunk and not to pay any attention to him.
A couple of times after this, the old drunk made a couple of jokes with me, lightening the mood. I thought I made my point. Hopefully, I got him to challenge his preconceptions. There’s no room in this world for views like this anymore. In prison, I would often get white guys spouting off to me with racist remarks, thinking that because our skin was the same color, I would cosign their bullshit. They thought wrong, and I would make a concerted effort not to associate with individuals who subscribed to this line of thinking. We are spiritual beings in human form, and I couldn't care less about what color a person’s skin is or what their sexual preference is or what they identify as. The only thing I care about in the people I associate with is the caliber of their moral fiber, the quality of their character, and the strength of their word. All else is irrelevant.
The rest of my time at the House of Corrections was uneventful. After three days, I was transferred to the Milwaukee Secure Detention Facility. MSDF is a medium-security prison that serves multiple purposes. If a prison inmate in a work-release camp in Southeastern Wisconsin is expelled for violating the rules, they are sent to MSDF until they are reclassified and shipped to their new facility. If you are locked up on a probation hold in Milwaukee without new charges, you are sent to MSDF. They also have various programs there, such as a residential AODA program like the one I am currently waiting on, domestic violence, cognitive thinking, and the like.
While the food is immeasurably better at MSDF than in county (prison food in Wisconsin meets higher standards than county facilities throughout the state) and the guards are more professional and respectful, that’s where the upside ends. You are locked in your cell for 20 hours a day, making it closer to a maximum-security facility than a medium.
The overcrowding is very real. The cells are designed for two people, but in many of the cells, a third person is placed in a “boat”, a large plastic bed placed on the floor, making it virtually impossible for anyone to move around. No more pushups or sit-ups, no pacing back and forth. Bunk rest is the only option when three people are in a cell.
The book selection is wanting for more, and if you end up with a cellmate (or two) that you don’t relate to or get along with, or, worse yet, doesn’t speak your language, it can make for some very long days. Luckily, the two cellies I had before I was transported to the Racine County Jail, I got along with quite well.
A probation liaison officer came up on Wednesday, February 6th, to take my statement. Whenever a person is placed on a probation hold in Wisconsin, a statement is taken from the offender, gathering their version of the events. I’d been stressing over what to say in my statement, as they use what is said against you, and I didn’t want to make my situation worse for myself by saying the wrong thing. I didn’t know what information was given to my PO from my conversation with the officers, which made it hard to decide which story to tell. My options were: tell the truth (starting with when my relapse initially started), give a partial truth, or flat out lie.
Flat-out lying felt risky. I considered mentioning that I was at Potawatomi Bingo and Casino, gambling all night, and felt unsafe while driving home with no sleep. I decided to pull over and nap before heading back to Racine. Even if they didn’t believe this version of events, so long as the cops didn’t inform my PO of our conversation, they would have to let me go. But that’s a big IF. Plus, if they decided to give me a drug test, then all bets were off.
Telling the whole truth felt equally risky. I would be admitting to violating more rules than necessary, and I could be in a worse position than needed. I’d grown weary of lying to POs, as I’d dealt with that stress for many years. The truth will set you free, or so they say.
Telling a partial truth would mean admitting to violating the rules of my supervision by using drugs. It would be putting trust into my probation officer, whom I had only met a handful of times and didn’t know well as a person.
I’d been going over what to say for several days, stressing about it, when I came upon a Bible quote in a book I was reading. The excerpt was from the book of Matthew, and to paraphrase, said something to the effect of: ‘Fret not about what words to speak, for when the time comes, you will find what needs to be said.’ This was precisely what I needed to read, when I needed to read it.
I decided to go with the partial truth. Whether this was the best course of action, I can’t say. I can't watch each scenario play out to see how they would have turned out. Life isn’t a choose-your-own-adventure book. All I could do was make the best out of the trajectory my path led me down.
I was transferred to the Racine County Jail on Friday. Upon getting into the holding cell, I saw someone I knew named Davis. I met Davis through my sister Stephanie’s half-brother, Bean. Steph and I share the same mother, her and Bean the same father (along with their brother Tim). I knew Davis casually, yet I didn’t realize he would become a good friend of mine during our stay at the Hotel RCJ.
We discussed our lives: current, past, and future. We’d talk about mutual friends, share stories, and life goals. We became workout partners and would gamble together playing cards. He told me he could get me a job as a carpenter’s apprentice upon release (a major stress reliever), as my financial situation is sure to be in shambles. He looked out for me, cooking meals and including me until I had money dropped off, which was much appreciated. It sure was a blessing. He is one of the most positive people I have ever met, always grateful, with strong Faith.
My probation officer came up with an Alternative to Revocation for the MSDF program the following Friday. They said it’s a 4-month wait on a 4-month program, and I didn’t take this well. Just the day prior, an AODA counselor came up to take an assessment to find out my needs and level of care and told me I would be getting out very soon, which I later found out she had no business saying, nor did she have any say in the matter. It was a kick in the nether regions finding out the very next day I would be locked up for the next eight months.
I am currently handling my present situation better than I was. At first, I was stressing about the fact that my credit score is going to be destroyed, my car is going to be repossessed due to non-payment, my license will be suspended since I need SR-22 insurance and I’ll be unable to pay my premium, I will be undoing all the progress made in the last year and then some, all because the Department of Corrections is unwilling to consider any other program. I attempted to propose alternative programs that would meet their requirements without being detrimental to my situation, but to no avail. The PO said it was MSDF or prison.
Regardless, I had no control over the situation and must deal with life as it presents itself. Stress is when the mind resists what is. Acceptance is therapeutic. The fact is, I can either allow myself to be upset about the situation, causing me to feel how I don’t want to feel, or I can make the best of it and have Faith that what is meant to happen will happen. Perhaps I was meant to be here so I could write this book, which I had been talking about but never acted upon. Maybe I was meant to say something to someone that will alter their life for the better, or vice versa. Perhaps my Higher Power is protecting me from some unseen circumstance that would have prevented this version of reality from ever coming to fruition. There is no way for me to know; all I know is that I will make the best of my situation and try to stay positive, always.