Waiting for the Crash
Addiction is a constant fear your loved one might die
“How are you handling it? Do you think about it a lot?”
“I wouldn’t say a lot, no. I guess I try not to think about it. It’s more like…like this constant thought lingering in the back of my mind. This constant fear that my brother might die…And, I mean, I know everyone might die at any time, but, like, with him, he’s at some elevated risk level and I’m very aware of it.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah.”
I’m not sure what the worst part is about learning your brother is an addict. There are a lot of terrible parts and no good parts.
Sometimes the worst part is that he won’t admit it. Not really. Not enough to seek real treatment. And so there’s nothing anyone can do. You can’t help those who don’t want to be helped.
Other times the worst part is seeing the toll it’s taking on your parents. They wonder where they went wrong. What did they do, as parents, to cause this? What could they have done to prevent it? And, of course, the answer is that they are not to blame — there’s nothing they could have done to change the course of events that led to his choices. But, of course, they can’t help but wonder.
The worst part is reading about all the overdose deaths everywhere every day over and over and over and being reminded, constantly, that you are not so far removed from being in those families’ shoes. You wonder what they went through, if it was the same as you. You wonder how many times they tried to help. You wonder how many times they cried out of utter fear. You wonder if they are overwhelmed with grief or if there’s any teeny tiny part of them that feels relief. Relief from suffering. You hate yourself for wondering that.
The worst part is every movie scene where an actor is shooting up. The spoons, the lighters, the needles, the glazed over euphoria. It’s nauseating to watch because it’s too fucking real. It’s so real you close your eyes.
The worst part is the worry that comes with every unexpected phone call. You worry it might be the worst call you’ve ever received.
The most worst part might be the intertwined feeling of heartbreak and helplessness you’re forever carrying with you. You try to stifle it as much as possible, but sometimes you can’t ignore it. And you’re not trying to ignore it as if ignoring it will make it go away. It’s just that you need to ignore it in order to function like any kind of normal person. If you think about it too much, it’ll incapacitate you.
Another worst part is the anger. It’s not just that you’re sad all the time. You are also angry. Super. Fucking. Angry. You’re angry at him. You’re angry at every faceless person who ever sold him dope or even showed him how to shoot dope to begin with. Who the fuck are those people? You wonder all the time. You’d kill them if you could. You wouldn’t think twice about it. You’d. Fucking. Kill.
You’re angry at the whole vague pharmaceutical industrial complex at the root of this epidemic. You’re angry at the extreme lack of access to mental health and substance abuse programs. You’re angry at the entire fucking system for telling your poor little brother addiction is bad but creating barrier after barrier to any form of help he might be able to get if or when he decides he wants help. All the hoops are so difficult to jump through you almost don’t blame him for giving up on treatment. You’re angry about all the fucking hoops.
You’re angry everyone seems to be talking about this problem but, somehow, there are still no solutions. Oftentimes, it’s still not easy to talk about. But maybe it’s good we’re finally talking about it. That’s something. It doesn’t alleviate your anger though.
The worst part is the lying. Aside from the drugs themselves and the fact that they may very well kill this person you love, the worst part is how the drugs turn him into someone you’re not sure you recognize. Addicts are the best liars around. It’s impressive, really, the extent to which they can fabricate. Embellish. Omit. Pull out of thin air. It’s so impressive it’s terrifying.
You want to trust, but you can’t. You want to take his word, but you can’t. Or you can, but there’s always doubt. It’s like you’re in a fun house with those mirrors that distort reality. You’re never quite sure what’s real and what’s not, so you’re just sort of wandering through, hoping maybe on the other side of it all, you’ll find some truth. But you probably won’t ever truly find the truth. Also, there is no fun.
The worst part is the longing of nostalgia. The longing to go back to when you were both kids and everything was just so innocent. To when you’d play video games together, when you’d try to help with his math homework, when you’d husk corn out on the porch in the summer next to the aroma of burning charcoal. You want to protect that version of little brother forever and always. But you can’t protect him now and time never goes backwards.
The worst part is when you think he’s better, you think he’s finally doing well, on the straight and narrow, and then you find out he’s actually doing worse than ever and you were blind to it because that’s just the way addiction goes sometimes.
The worst part is when your hope is crushed like that. Loudly and instantly, like a glass shattering, your hope crashes to the ground in a bunch of delicate, glistening shards.
You sweep them up, trying not to miss any.
You gather them into a little pile and swoosh them into a box, saving them for a later date. A date when, through all the heartache and anger, you’ll muster up the tenacity to piece them back together again. Back into a glass that’ll sit precariously on the ledge, just waiting. Waiting and wondering if the next crash might be the last.
