Messages from the Grave

Learning a lesson is sometimes really hard. There are lessons in life that are learnt easily, like the time I was so proud of myself for unclogging my kitchen sink. Single mother, first time something mechanical/plumbing happens that requires serious attention. I was not calling a man. A man was not fixing this drain, damn it, I could do it myself. I got a bucket to put under the drain trap; I found tools to unscrew the pipe from the drain. The drain came apart, dirty water littered with food and God knows what else poured in to the bucket. I used a wire coat hanger that I straightened out to stick up the pipe and hallelujah out comes a big ball of spaghetti and potato skins, stuck at the elbow! I threw the junk away; cleaned up my mess and proceeded to dump the shitty water back into the sink. Instantly my feet were soaking wet and I heard a loud splash. I never reassembled the drain to the pipe so the water rushed out all over me, the floor, the bottom of the cabinet, soaking everything including my pride. But I learned a lesson. I can fix the drain and make sure the drain and pipe are back together before pouring anything down it. I only had to do that once to learn that lesson!

There are other lessons in life that are harder to learn. We don’t always learn them right away. I have learned a lesson from someone who was once very important to me. Unfortunately, I learned it long after he died. My daughter is a heroin addict. She suffers from a terrible disease. She would risk her life and probably the life of those around her if it meant copping dope.  We have enjoyed clean time, and we have suffered through relapses.  During those relapses I have begged and pleaded for someone to help, for us to be able to find a cure. I have called on those who have passed before us, praying for them to watch over her and guide her so she can live. In those moments, I can’t help but think of the souls that have been lost to addiction. I know many people who have lost their battle and I am sad for them, but there is one person who I feel sorrow for. One person whose passing was the most stunning and shocking. One person whose life was important to me and important to people that I cared for. And in those of my darkest hours it is not him that I pray to, it is him that I beg forgiveness.

This person struggled with addiction for as long as I knew him. He was probably the first person in my inner circle that I would have seen in active addiction. I just didn’t know it. I wasn’t aware enough, or present enough, or educated enough to understand what it really meant. I remember when he was actively using and we would all drink and party and have fun. And then it went too far and he was in recovery. He had to stay in recovery. He had a family and a life. He thrived. He succeeded. And then he relapsed and he stole and he lied. I was angry at him. I thought he was no good. I judged. I made judgments. He found recovery again. This time stronger, more involved. I saw his time at meetings as time away from his family, not home with his kids, his wife. I never said anything out loud, but I didn’t understand. Not understanding is ok, as long as you work to understand. I didn’t. I held my own opinion because I was holier than thou and I had a right, an entitlement to judge. When he would leave Sunday dinner to go to a meeting, I rolled my eyes. When his kids or wife were sick, but he left them alone, I was disgusted. What could be more important than his family?

Then his family broke up. I didn’t see him as much, which was sad for me. I loved him like I loved his wife. I was close to both of them equally. It was a loss to me. It was a great loss but divorce is tricky and sides are taken. Right or wrong, I didn’t see him anymore. If I did I was polite. I was happy to see him doing well, I saw him with a new woman and she was pretty and kind and she made him happy, and I was happy for that. I was glad he was doing well.  I never knew he wasn’t doing well. I had no idea how bad things were for him. I didn’t try to find out either.  He knew the devil was calling his name. He knew he was in over his head. He was angry and bitter and he missed a happiness he once had. Not from lack of love, he had a woman who loved him and children who adored him. But the evil in drug addiction blinds a person to those things, all you see is desperation.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

He may not have died with a needle in his arm, but the needle took his life all the same. His was an act of fraught. His act changed the course of many lives. I can’t describe the anger I felt at that. I wouldn’t be able to do justice to the range of rage. As I walked through the motions of his death, cleaning his apartment, picking his clothes for burial, helping arrange the funeral, and finally, placing his ashes in a grave I was furious. I almost couldn’t contain my anger. Because I was ignorant. It wasn’t until five short months later that I found out about my daughter's heroin addiction.  Before it was my child, before it was my family, I didn’t get it. How could I? Even though we were close, it wasn’t the same. There is no way to see the wrath of addiction unless it’s in your house, your blood, your life.  I was unforgiving until I realized I was the one that needed forgiveness. I wish I could tell him that I don’t judge him. I want him to know that JoDee has shown me why it’s so hard. I always thought he made a choice to put drugs before his family which ruined his life. But it is so much deeper than a choice. It’s something unseeing and not tangible that drives the car of desire we all ride in. No one can see it or touch or smell it or feel it because it is buried in your soul.

About a year ago I was sitting in the hospital room with JoDee, during another one of her overdoses, and I started praying to him. I kept asking him over and over and over why he didn’t do something from the other side to help her. Why couldn’t he send her a message or an epiphany or something to show her that this was a road to death? I told him I was sorry I was so angry when he died and I understood better now. I cried until I fell asleep. And suddenly there he was. Standing in my driveway, staring at the sun. I asked him where we were and he told me the past and the future. I asked him what was going to happen and he told me to prepare for the tornado. He told me a storm was coming and I needed to be ready and be strong. I asked him why he couldn’t stop it, why didn’t he do something. He said to me that he was doing something; he was showing us what happens if we aren’t honest, if we don’t speak about what we feel because the darkness lives inside lies and pain. He started to fade away and I yelled not to go because I was afraid. He gave me a hug and told me I was forgiven. And then he was gone.

I have never dreamed about him since then and I don’t know that I will. He has so many people that want to see him in their sleep, I will be grateful for my one visit. He looked like he did when things were good for him. He looked like he was at peace. I woke up with a feeling of appreciation for his struggles. I learned that there are people we loved and cared for on the other side, but they can’t help. Addiction can’t be stopped by praying it away. I had to stop wasting energy praying for a miracle that wasn’t going to happen. The miracle happens when the addict follows the steps, asks for help, and finds reason to live. I have to fight to keep my daughter alive until there is nothing left to fight for or until she learns to fight for herself. It was a hard lesson to learn and I’m not sure I would have gotten there if he hadn’t shown me that. 

Today I am happy to report she has been clean just shy of 60 days. Just for today, we can celebrate our success, mourn our fallen loved ones, pray for those still struggling and be grateful we are still here to do it.

Melanie Brayden 

Melanie lives in Danvers, MA with her life partner, her three kids, his two kids, 

two cats Diego and Blu and their dog Bud. Her oldest child, her daughter, is a heroin addict. 

Melanie began a blog, The Addict in My Basement, to chronicle 
her struggles as the mother of an addict.