This entry is number eighteen. Come to think of it, I don’t remember much about when I was 18. I know where I was, which was not the typical norm for most 18-year-olds. I know that I was living on a farm with a bunch of kids and grownups who came with problems of their own.
I was learning about living life without the use of drugs or alcohol. At the same time, I was learning to live without being caught up in some image about who I was or about being tough.
And no, I wasn’t tough.
Not at all.
I was scared. I had seen things that were not typical of a suburban teenage kid. I put myself in harm’s way. I found myself in some of the worst spots in my city. I saw violence that I never thought was real. But it was real.
I was a kid.
That’s for sure, but I put myself in an adult game. Only, I had no idea how ruthless the players could be. I had no idea that life could be so desperate and no, I didn’t think I’d be so small, like a guppy in the mix of angry sharks, hungry, yet I wasn’t even big enough to be considered a snack. No, I’d have been inhaled without an effort and eaten alive.
I met kids from other places in my country. I never knew that people like them could exist. And I heard about what happened to them. Or I heard about what they did. I heard about the rapes, abuse and beatings and the alcoholic backgrounds.
I heard about some of them and how they lived on the street. In one case, someone who I knew well and considered to be a very close friend of mine—he lived beneath a bridge and nearly drank himself to death. He was only 17.
He was just a kid too.
I have heard stories and also thought about the different levels of dysfunctional living. Then I think about the times when parents talk about sending their kids “away” or sending them off to rehab, which is not something that I am against; but at the same time, I am a firm believer in seeking treatment that matches the needs of a person.
I think about the people I met. I think about the way they lived or hustled and then I think about some of the kids who were sent away, just because their parents couldn’t handle them.
They sent their kids off to rehab, insisting that they had a substance abuse problem, when meanwhile, they only experimented which, again, I am all for treating the heart attack “before” it happens. However, I’m more interested in seeking the appropriate level of care when it comes to mental health.
Therefore, in the case of kids with behavioral problems or when it comes to the kid who had a few beers or smoked weed a few times, my answer is no. I don’t think sending them to rehab where people talk about their lives and what they did to get high will be helpful to a young kid who is lost and doesn’t need to be diagnosed as someone who is an addict or an alcoholic. But even more, I don’t think this kind of background inspires the right choices. In fact, I think this can spark the idea machine and turn someone into a personal monster.
You can learn a lot in rehab. You can learn how to live. You can learn how to change your life. You can learn to understand yourself more and you can learn coping skills and living skills, which are valuable. In my case, many of the skills I learned were lifesaving to me.
And they still are, too.
However, not everyone who goes to rehab is there to get cleaned up. Not everyone wants to be sober or live sober. In fact, many times, people jump into a program or sign themselves into detox or they find themselves in rehab to beat some kind of punishment.
They can be the treacherous ones. They are the ones who look to talk and relive their war stories and brag about their drug use, as if they’re still cool, and it’s clear that they have no intention of quitting or changing their life.
I remember when I was that person too.
I had no intention of cleaning up. I know there are people who say that sometimes, if you bring the body, the mind can follow. I don’t know if this was true in my case.
Maybe this is true others, but not for me.
No.
I had to lose more. I had to hurt more. I had to realize more about life and the mortality of man because midway through my time at rehab, I wore a “good guy” mask and pretended to walk the line.
But then The Old Man got sick. And then I found out that The Old Man was going to die.
But he told me that I looked the best that he had ever seen. Then he told me four words that I seldom (if ever) heard from him.
He said, “I’m proud of you.”
I never heard those words, at least not too often.
How could I?
I was a behavioral problem. I was in the newspaper for a crime. I was chased through the neighborhood by helicopters. And the list could go on.
I was so crazy and so angry and I fought so hard to get my Old Man’s attention that somehow, I caught it, right before he died.
I can say that I remember when he told me that he loved me. I remember when he told me that he was proud of me.
I can remember the change that this created because I remember when The Old Man told me, “I want you to stay like this.”
This was my very first moment of clarity.
The Old Man’s last coherent words to me were, “Take care of your Mother.”
Okay . . .
Dear Pop,
I did my best and sometimes, I did my worst.
There are times when I am (and was) both intellectually and spiritually lazy.
There are times when I wanted to quit and just leave. But no.
I’m still here.
I’ll never know what could have happened for us if you managed to stay around a little longer. I’m not sure what you would say if you could see me now — but either way, here I am, Pop.
I’m still here.
I’m still clean and sober and sometimes I am clean and sober in name only.
But either way, I’m here.
I’ve made some mistakes, Pop.
I’ve missed a few opportunities.
I always wondered when something good was going to happen for me. But also, I have times when I wonder when the other shoe will drop or when the next thing will go wrong and yes, there are times when the impending doom is a killer.
But no matter what, I’m still here, Pop.
I just wanted you to know that.
The Written Addiction 