A TYPICAL RESPONSE
(Original Image by Gras Grun)
I wish I could save Nate, but I just can’t. I’ve given him the business from all angles, in person and over the phone. I roughed him up sometimes, empathized at other times. But we’ve recently crossed a threshold of sorts, and now nothing I say appears to get through. And so, I am haunted by images of needles, of pills, of powders and the merciless faces of those that accommodate his addiction.
Nate last visited us about a year ago. He looked tired, strung out, but he was in good spirits, joking with myself and Mandi, holding Alex for series of photos he later posted to Facebook. Later that day, he told me he would sleep on park benches when the home scene got too volatile. His father was the grand antagonist, often kicking down his door when drunk, hoping to catch him in the act of deviant consumption. I admit, it was funny to hear at first. But, these days, I can’t help but think of him as even more tired, even more strung out, sleeping the day away on a park bench only to shoot up at night with “friends.” I’ve had fantasies of driving down there, abducting him, and tossing him over the wall of some reputable rehab center. It costs money. Yes, of course it costs money. But I’d be willing to help. There’s a local liquor store hiring stockers. Seems simple enough for a second job. Plus, I could get a handful of new experiences to write on and a plethora of discount liquor to ease the pain.
I shouldn’t speak of such things around him though. He’s never been one to accept charity, even by force. Not to mention, he’s never been much of a drinker…
Though Mandi and I and other family members have been worried to some extent for several years, it was really last week that threw me for a loop. He had messaged me early in the morning as I was working. He was beside himself with grief. He told me that, the night before, in a drug-induced haze, he had threatened suicide on a local Facebook group. Another member of that group read his comments, took him seriously, and called the police. Two officers arrived at his parent’s house at 5am the following morning for a wellness check. They recommended he be transferred to a mental hospital. And, once the squad car pulled away, his father kicked down the door, tore his room apart, found his stash, and tossed it down the drain. He told me he didn’t know what he was going to do. The world was caving in around him with every passing day, with every sleepless night, with every acquiescence to a murderer’s row of addictions he now needed to function normally.
“It’s Mom and Dad,” he said. “They’ve sheltered me for far too long, and now I’ve got nothing to offer. I’m just a disappointment… to everyone.”
“No!” I shot back. “It isn’t them! It’s you! You’re the one that takes all those drugs! You’re the one that posts that suicide garbage online! You’re the one who makes excuses to not find a job! You’re the one who gives up when the slightest setback occurs… You call yourself a disappointment, but that’s just another excuse to dig yourself deeper and deeper. You’re not perfect. I get it. None of us are. But we learn, Nate. We learn from our goddamn mistakes and, from there, we build a life that’s at least tolerable. It’ll never be as magical as the churches and the movies and the television shows promised you. In fact, it’ll be the most tedious, thankless work you’ve ever taken on. But hopefully, by the end, you’ll be able to look back and feel satisfied you didn’t entirely waste your life.”
It was about halfway through my screed that I noticed Nate had stopped reading my messages. I had given a “typical response” as he had once admonished me not to do. I told him then as I tell him now in spirit that if messages of love are considered typical, then they wouldn’t be needed… not to mention the needles, the pills, or the powders. I hope you hear me, Nate. I hope you listen. Please listen. There is love in all directions.
