Remember, Compassion

Source:Pinterest

"Remember, compassion," I said as sweetly as I could through gritted teeth, hiding my own impatience.  Reminding my two older children to not get mad when their new baby brother cried all the time.  But, the constant crying of my third child was wearing us all down a little bit.

"Imagine what it must be like to be hungry or in pain or sad or need to be held but you don't have the words to say it," I explained to my then 3- and 5-year old "olde” kids.  "You cry, you scream until someone helps you."

I still use the "remember, compassion" line with my kids.  And myself.  A lot.  

I think we could all use the "remember, compassion" line.  I don’t want to sweetly say it to anyone though.  More like I want to scream it to the world.

When I saw the news of Philip Seymour Hoffman I felt sad.  I felt so sad that he died, that his children lost a father.  I felt sad because addiction is an incredibly sad disease.

But then I got angry and confused.  Reading Twitter and watching people on TV talk about how “Hollywood is so messed up” and “do drugs and that’s what you get.”  The messages were so ugly and mean and heartless.  Where’s the compassion?

You think prescription drug abuse and heroin addiction is just in Hollywood? Oh man, I have compassion for your ignorance.  I am a suburbanite born and raised (much to my wish-I-lived-in-a-big-city chagrin) and my very suburban family has been impacted by prescription pill addiction in a devastating way. For my mother, it began with prescriptions from doctors in the 1980s for her anxiety and depression.  Then a LOT more prescriptions for chronic pain and more anxiety in the 1990s.  The new millennium has been a blur of opiates and muscle relaxers and pain patches and overdoses and withdrawals and relapses.  I have sat with my mother holding her hand while she suffered the most terrible, ugly, inhuman withdrawal.  I searched for the mother I knew as a child.  For a moment, I thought I saw it.  Right before she kicked me out threatening to call the police because I was trying to control her.

Sure I’m mad, my heart is filled with all kinds of mad.  Mad that I don’t see that mother-person I knew so many years ago.  Mad that I can’t help her.  Mad that she is missing so much of life.  And then I remember, compassion.  I imagine what it must be like to be hungry or in pain or sad or need to be held, but not having the words to say it.  And my heart breaks.

My husband, Tim, is a high school principal in a very suburban area. He has seen a lot of well, everything.  One night, I called him wondering why he was late and yeah, I was annoyed because he had promised the little kids a special story and I was tired and I needed a break and you know, geez why wasn’t he home already?  

"Sorry honey, I have a kid with me right now overdosing on heroin," he said very calmly.  "Tell the kids I love them, but I'm not making it home for that story tonight."

But Tim sure had a story for me when he got home.  He told me how a young man stumbled into his office unable to stand or make much sense.  His eyes were rolling back in his head and he was crying and moaning.  Tim got down on the floor and held his hand while he waited for the ambulance and searched for some sign of the regular teenage kid that had been in his office a few days earlier.  "I couldn’t see him," Tim said.  "He was no where.  It's the most awful thing I've ever seen.”

Should we get mad? Hell yes.  Mad that a teenage kid will either die or struggle for the rest of his life with addiction. Mad that he was so stupid to get mixed up with heroin. 

But then we remember, compassion.  That kid is just like my mother, just like Philip Seymour Hoffman and a million other people...broken.  I lump myself into this broken people category (but thankfully I've never been a drug user).  Everyone has different reasons for being broken.  Parts of my heart are patched together shoddily with cheap glue that needs to be reapplied sometimes.  Those damaged parts of my heart are from bad genes, a mean mother so doped up she said a lot of cruel things that sometimes haunt me and really shitty coping skills early on in life.  

Broken people tend to have an unbelievable sensitivity that makes them feel more and feel deeper. Which sadly, makes them hurt more.  Sometimes broken people just don’t have the words to express to the world that they are hungry, in pain or sad or that they need to be held.

Should we get mad? Maybe. But I think we should all take a moment to remember, compassion.  It probably won't totally fix the broken people, but neither will rage and hateful comments.  There is always room for more love, understanding and acceptance.  

If you want to DO something, here’s my advice:

• Open your eyes suburbanites, addiction doesn’t give a shit how much money you have.  Your kids will see drugs and know people that snort or shoot heroin.  Know that it can happen in your neighborhood.

• Talk to your kids about drugs and the real, ugly, deadly consequences.

• Report doctors that are more drug-pusher than doctor.

• Don’t share prescription drugs with people.  Duh, but I’ve seen a few mom friends do this.

• Lock up the prescription drugs at your house and your in-laws if you have children over the age of 12.  Hopefully you would do this with a loaded gun, do it with the pills.

• Volunteer at a homeless shelter, soup kitchen or hospital.  Help people that are broken or sick or down on their luck or sad...that really can make a difference.  

• Hug your kids and your friends.  Be a good listener.  Reach out to someone struggling.  

• Teach compassion. Remember it. Live it.

Here's another time I wrote about reactions to a drug-related celebrity death.

Walking the Line

"I don't want it, no thanks," I said.  My heart was pounding out of my chest.  

"Just take it," she told me.  "It will help with all your pain."  

No, no, no, no.  I'm not like her.  I won't do it.  I'm not like her, I'm not.  I'm not.- My mind was both screaming and whimpering.

"I really feel uncomfortable taking these," I calmly, but quietly told her.  "I will find other ways to manage the pain."

"Well, I'm giving it to you anyway, take half," she said waving me away like some silly fool.  She was probably thinking who in the hell wouldn't want muscle relaxers?

I put my coat on, grabbed Wade's hand and made my way to the front desk.  "Okay, which pharmacy do you want me to send your scripts to?," the receptionist asked.  "You okay, hon?"

"No, I'm not, I don't want the Flexeril," I informed her.  

"Oh, it's not a big deal, just take half," she reassured me as if I knew nothing about drugs, as if I didn't know the difference, as if my mother hadn't given me these exact same drugs in fucking high school, as if I hadn't had to take this exact drug away from my mother along with countless other muscle relaxers and opiates.

"Listen, I just don't want it because my mother's a drug addict and it scares the hell out of me," I said in a breathy, I'm-about-to-cry voice.

She looked down, typed something in the computer and told me to "have a good day."

Then I got in my van, buckled the baby in his car seat, climbed into my own seat and took a deep breath.  And then I cried.

I won't be like her.  I'm not like her.  Oh god, please, I can't be like her.  

It hit a nerve. It happens.

When I'm sad for no reason I think holy shit, this is the beginning.  This is my descent into madness.  Not every time I'm having a bad day, but sometimes.

When I reward myself for my exhausting day of badass mothering with a few glasses, or a bottle of wine, I think this is the beginning.  This is my descent into addiction.  Not every time I drink, but sometimes.

As I get older, it gets scarier.  But I also have so much more compassion for my mother.  Thirty years ago when she got really sad and messed up no one knew what the hell was happening.  I, we, are all so much more aware now.  But yet, drugs are still such an easy answer for so many doctors.

Going to my drug pusher's doctor's office last week for a strained calf muscle and being bullied made me feel small.  It made me question why I wouldn't just take the drugs.  

But what scared me more is that there was a part of me that was interested.  I wanted to feel calmer and numb.  And I'm not suffering any great depression or anxiety issue (right now).  Why was there a part of me wanting this?

Life is intense. Slippery slopes are well, very slippery.  Walking the line can be hard. 

But you better believe I'm walking it.  There's no time for slippery slopes when I have four amazing little beings depending on me and a supportive, loving husband.  Just like the great Johnny Cash sang, I keep a close watch on this heart of mine, I keep my eyes wide open all the time...because you're mine, I walk the line.

I walk the line because I know how it ends if you don't.  And I will not be like her.