The End of Addiction

August 7, 2009

I was 18 years old. I was working the morning shift of my first “real” job at a clothing boutique, texting my friends about going to the movies after I got off. My boss stopped by to see how I was doing. She already knew. She didn’t say anything.

I continued to blow up my mom’s phone, trying to get her permission to go to the movies. No response. I then received a text from my sister saying I couldn’t go, and she would be picking me up after work. Spoiled, stupid me responded that there better be a good reason.

There was.

That morning, all was right with the world. Life was going on as normal. It was just another hot summer day in the south. I was just a teenager, fresh out of high school, enjoying the simple days, oblivious to the vast future that awaited me. Then time froze.

It was not uncommon for my sister to pick me up from work. What was uncommon was for my sister and her husband to be standing outside of the car when I walked out into the parking lot. Immediately, I knew something wasn’t right.

There was something about the way my sister stood, weakly folded into herself, her hands cupped over her face, that impacted me almost as much as her next words,

“Jason…” her voice broke, “They found him.” She reached out to hold me.

Numb.

I do not know how else to explain it. I felt life drain out of me so quickly that I don’t even know if I lifted my arms to hold her back. I don’t even know if I asked what happened. I don’t even remember if she finished the sentence to say the one thing I knew she meant. 

Dead. They found him dead.

For a brief moment, I had pictured him in the hospital, recovering from whatever accidental overdose had happened. Of course, I knew that was not the case.

Anger and frustration rose up inside as my sister held me, and I stared blankly across the parking lot. He knew better. He knew better! He had so many chances. Why did he keep going back to it? He knew it could end up this way! We all knew it could end up this way! All I could think was, “Of course.”

Still at a hard age, I tried to suppress the emotions that swelled inside of me. My head hung low during the car ride home as the tears began to come. I knew my brother in law was keeping an eye on me in the rear view mirror. I wanted to disappear.

It was so hot that day, yet I just wanted to stay wrapped up in a blanket. I thought I could hide. I didn’t want to face anyone. I couldn’t handle my own pain, and I knew seeing others hurting would only break me more. My parents were on their way back from the scene, and I didn’t want them to see more sadness on top of the devastation they had just experienced.

Broken.

Our family was broken. But as everyone started arriving at our house, the pieces started to come together. We were all there, what was left of us at least. We sat around the patio outside, trying to make light of the tragedy we were now forced to go through. Somehow, we all knew this was going to happen. Somehow that makes it easier to handle.

I don’t remember when I finally stopped crying. One woman told me that it takes a year to mourn. During that first year, you’re going through everything, all of the holidays and birthdays and events, without that person for the first time. She was right.

In time, although I thought about him every day, the tears came less and less often. Occasionally, I would play the slideshow of his pictures or listen to the same songs I listened to when he passed. I would purposefully bring myself back to that time of mourning. This lasted years. 

Mourning.

I constantly cycled through the stages of grief, often favoring denial. Although, instead of denying what happened, I preferred to pretend he never existed at all. This was easier to understand than the thought of losing him.

Anger may have been the first reaction, but it was also the first to go. I no longer wished harm to those involved. I no longer hated my brother for what he did but understood it was a battle he fought every day.

Eventually, acceptance began to make its way to the surface. Eventually, I could think about him and see his face and remember that he was real. I could speak about him to others without putting up a barrier to block my emotions from spilling out. Death is a part of life that we all must go through, and there is nothing to hide.

The tears never stop. The pain never goes away, but it does get better. As time goes on, God brings restoration.

You have turned for me my mourning into dancing. – Psalms 30:11

My brother tried to get help. For years, we prayed for him. For years, he was in and out of jails and rehabs. Many times he was so close to the end, to the answer, but addiction pulled him back down again. We always feared the worst would happen, but we never stopped believing he could overcome.

Addiction comes in many disguises. Please, do not be afraid to reach out for help if you think you or someone you know may be struggling with addiction. We must never forget to continue to pray for those who battle this enemy daily, regardless of how many times they fall. We must never give up on ourselves or on others. We serve a God who breaks chains.

Not every addiction story ends this way. Don’t let yours.