I see them often, young and crazy as ever. Defiant as ever too, and outraged, as if their youth is insulted by the rules and laws. To them, the powers that be and the authorities who rule over their life, from teachers to counselors, and from the law to parents, or anyone who opposes, I have seen the young ones and the crazy ones. I have seen them flare off like a rocket to explode or burn up and simply fizzle away.
I have sat with them and listened to them. I have listed their complaints and spoken with them about this, at great length.
I have often wondered if this was no different from me and my rebellion which, in fairness, nothing is ever the same thing.
Generations are different. Life is different. And all are in the state of constant changes.
Cultures are different and fashion, music, intentions, motivation and inspirations, and languages are different.
I sat with kids who would need a glossary to understand the meanings and usages of the words from my times. And no differently do I need one for their words to understand the languages of their times. However, despite our differences, and regardless of the contrast between us, older and younger, or as it would have seemed to me—as someone who would appear too old to understand and as they may appear to me, which are too young to get it, in the end, there is a core.
This is what we need to focus on, not the differences.
Not the fights or the actions and certainly, not the symptoms.
We all have certain similarities.
There is a want and a need, a desire and, of course, there is the wordless communication of actions, which are what speaks louder than words.
Right?
Isn’t this what people say?
Actions speak louder than words.
No?
In the form of whatever methods, which I can convey, and as a means to bridge the gap between us, instead of allowing the rift between older and younger, teacher and student, or parent and child to grow wider, as if to be this longstanding and irreversible misunderstanding that never dies; I would rather listen and hear.
I would rather ask questions. I would rather hear and learn.
I would rather look to connect and understand than scold, or reprimand, direct or preach. I would rather listen and hear than debate with someone who already sees me as too old to understand. Better yet, I would rather communicate than instruct.
I would rather this so that I am not seen as just another authority or old person who doesn’t know anything about being a kid these days.
I go back to the times when I was chosen to speak in middle schools and high schools. I go back to the topics and stories that I was asked to tell, to which I refused
I think about the words and the haunting nature of my story or other stories from other speakers, who are intended to “scare these kids straight,” to which I will answer no . . . this is not what happens.
This does not scare anyone away. This is more of an attractant than a repellent.
I have seen people from jails come in and tell their story. I have listened to the gasp-worthy intrusions of hard and cold truths, or how someone was beaten or hurt and abused.
Then there was the other side of this to me. There’s the tough guy side. There’s also the bad ass side, and the mirroring actions which match the rebellion and the hate, or the internal disgust, which is bigger than we think.
I was invited to a televised event in a Northern New Jersey High School. I listened to teams of parents and their complaints. I listened to the know-it-alls who came to argue and fight and point fingers and assign blame at the school’s board and administration. I listened to the NIMBY (Not in My Backyard) parents who exclaimed, “I don’t want this in my community” and of course, “We raise our kids properly. My kid would never do anything like that!”
I can say I would be exceptionally wealthy if I had a dollar for every time a parent told me this . . . after they found out what their kid was doing.
I was invited to the locally televised event to offer my rebuttal by the county’s prosecutor. He motioned for me to stand in front of the crowd. He wanted me to drop the mask and show them the truth. I knew what he wanted. I knew what needed to be said. However, I was unsure if he knew what would happen next.
I looked at the county’s prosecutor who was eyeing me and head-motioning for me to stand up and “get up there,” so-to-speak.
I mouthed the words, “Are you sure?”
He nodded with a smile, and mouthed the words, “oh yeah!” which told me that yes, he knew what the crowd was in for.
And so . . .
I stood up.
I hear parents talking about the need for awareness.
I hear them say, we need to do something before retreating to their own homes and then shutting their blinds and pretending that the causes of mental illness do not apply to them, which of course, it does.
I hear parents shouting at teachers and their schools and their politicians and they shout for action, and they charge, “What are you going to do about this?” with rage and contempt. I have seen this shouted and screamed with strands of angry spit as it spewed from their mouths.
I am sorry.
I see this very differently.
I see the realities and the pictures and hear the jailhouse stories, and I see the sad or the outrageous effects of anxiety or depression. I see the actions or even the usages of drugs or alcohol and smoking or vaping, or the behavioral rebellions too; and I see all of them as symptoms. However, we have become a series of communities in a countrywide epidemic that has become focused on symptoms instead of working at the root or the core of the problem.
It is not a deterrent to talk about the crazy war stories or even the more haunting tales, like the desperate ones that often come with the life where gunplay is involved, or when the police catch you and the sound of handcuffs synching around your wrist like the notes from a musical to some personal tragedy.
The stories are mirrors of images, like the mirrors in a dressing room, where the actions and outcries come together as an outfit, or a disguise, and seemingly—the acts of drugs, or the attraction to criminal life, or the saddest surrenders to attempts at suicide are a statement, or an otherwise exclamation point which stands out and screams in voiceless manner.
I was that kid, which is not to say that all cases relate to me or that I relate to everyone else. However, I can say that there is plenty of awareness. None of the warnings were a deterrent to me.
There is plenty of focus on crime or youth and drugs and overdoses. Yet, the numbers of deaths or tragedies are going up, not down.
Why is that?
Awareness events are climbing, yet the numbers of preventable deaths are climbing too.
Why is that?
Suicide is real. Mental illness is real, and to the NIMBY (Not In My Backyard) people, I say this:
Look around.
It’s not just in your backyard.
It’s in your house.
I have sat in emergency rooms and detox centers with weeping parents who swore they never raised their child to be “a junkie.”
They swore their child was a good kid, yet I had to stand next to them as a specialist and explain what happens when they give Narcan to their child, only, the Narcan was administered too late, and their child is braindead now.
My rebuttal at the televised event began with this: It’s not a question of, “What are you going to do about this problem.” The question we have to ask is, “What are WE going to do about this problem.”
I have met with, sat with, and spoken with ages, from 8 to 80 and listened to different stories and spoken with people from all cultures and backgrounds.
By the way . . .
Mental illness does not discriminate. Even if we do!
I have seen people die by their own hand in quick methods and slowly, I watched people suffer their own life, while dying alive until finally—they ended up somewhere, an unknown body, like John Doe, dead with a needle in their arm, or found with a bullet through their head, or worse, found in the woods after they hung themselves from a noose that was tied around the lower branch of a tree.
I see them. Kids. Just kids.
I have spoken with them.
I have heard them ask me, “Okay . . so then, what now?”
The truth is, I don’t know the answer.
No one does.
But we can start and we can try and we can pull through this together—if you’d like.
I’m not promising a remedy or some kind of mental health vaccine.
However, I am promising that if we can deal with the problems, we can learn to avoid the symptoms, and if we can avoid the symptoms, maybe you and I can find some value that shows us our worth can lead us to better actions.
Actions are mirrors.
Mirrors are a good way to see what’s happening. But more, actions are a better way to hear the voiceless screams—and maybe, if we found a way to comfort the scream, perhaps we could save a life of someone who doesn’t really want to die so much—they just want to feel better. But since they don’t know how, they grab on to an act or an image or anything that can help them forget the pain for a minute, or otherwise, feel safe.
What now?
Here it is, kid.
Now, you and I are going to sit down and map out the rest of the world for us—and I’m not promising anything, but I can say that I’m here. And I’ll listen, even when you’re being voiceless.
Hey Rich,
I saw a film that reminded me of you,
(My man with a plan, Richie T.)
God, you were like the most beautiful kid that I have ever seen . . . but no one ever told you the truth, which is that you were the best.
And you still are. The best, I mean.
At least to me.
I just wish we had one more talk.
But I get it . . .
I might not have listened either when I was in your shoes.
But I’m not in your shoes.
No . . . I’m just a friend who misses you and wishes you knew the truth about you.
(Instead of the lies.)
Your friend always,
Benny the Priest
The Written Addiction 