Three Down, Two To Go
I hate drugs. I hate all drugs. Alcohol, Meth, Coke, Crack, Crystal Meth, Weed, you name it... I hate it.
I am losing my family one by one. First my sister Mary, then my sister Alma, then my sister Doris. My sister Pam is somewhere unknown. For all I know, she is dead too. Although I spend hours upon hours, week after week searching the faces of the dead and unidentified looking for her. Because I know one day I will see her dead face on the screen. And my brother, Bob, will be there too one day.
What evil drugs are. I don't need to hear about the medicinal uses for certain drugs. I know that. But I also know that each and everyone of my siblings first took a hit off a joint. And enjoyed that high. Then they were more relaxed and open to other experiences. And experiences led to more drugs then to death and destruction.
Addicts are like viruses. They contaminate and make others sick. Little balls of emotion germs. And not good emotions like love and peace and joy. They hurt everyone they come into contact with. Whether it be stealing, lying, cheating they destroy. Satan comes to steal, kill and destroy. And one of the ways is drugs. I know that addicts do not want to be addicts. That is why I know this is the work of the Devil.
Now I see the next generation reeling from the effects of my siblings. One niece dead. Another gaunt, frail one with no life left in her once beautiful eyes. A face pained and sunken. Skin picked sore and raw. And still wanting more. One more hit. One more. One more. How much is enough. It's never enough.
And let us not forget my other niece. Undressed and on set for the next porn shoot. Earning money doing things that one can't undo. Being degraded. All for a dime to get a dime. Or a gram. Or whatever measure of whatever drug she chooses that day. To kill the pain of the pain of her mom killing herself with pain pills. The sadness in her eyes is chilling. And yet I am unable to help her.
The third generation already affected by this second one. Another niece has already lost her child because she is unfit to parent. And because of all the lies her mother told her she is unable to trust. So she won't listen to those who try to help. Who want to show her a way to love. To parent. To live. And who can blame her. She was touched by the Satan's drug virus. So now her child is experiencing the pain of no mother. A lost maternal bond that will effect her for life. A change that cannot be undone. And the virus spreads.....
Of course, I am the bad guy in all of this. Because I won't believe the lies or open my wallet. I am the bad guy because I am ready at a moment's notice to get them into rehab. And they won't go. I am the bad guy because I pray to the God they hate. But I pray for them. Because at this point that is all I can do. They do not realize that God did not abandon them. He gives us free will. He is always ready. We just have to want Him.
I begged and pleaded for their mothers to get help. I fed and clothed their children and cared for them while trying to get their parents help. Yes, I made mistakes. I believed lies. I wanted to see the good so bad I made mistakes. Just one truth. I don't even know if they loved me. But I loved them. I LOVE them. Oh, to be able to believe one thing they said. I was unprepared for the Drug Grenade that exploded in our family. But I gave all I gave with every ounce of love that I had. I went without because I love them. And I would do it again. Had the drug demon not taken over.
My eyes burn often. Not from the smoke of a family BBQ. Or the lovely salt water at our nearby beach where I once picnicked with family. Not from the pool outside that once saw my nieces and nephews frolicking and begging for 5 more minutes. But from the tears I shed knowing that if I cannot find a way to help them I will one day bury them too.
I am tired of funerals. I have no celebrations. I do not dress for Thanksgiving. Or Christmas. There is no family there to cook for. Instead of festive holiday clothes I have black dresses. I hate the black dresses lining my closet. Like uniforms for my death job. One that has become a regular gig.
I can drive to the funeral home blindfolded. I have folders filled with pictures, receipts from funeral homes and cemeteries and death certificates. Sad little reminders of lives that once were. I used to keep them for their children. For when they would be ready to have them. But they do not even want the pictures much less the other stuff. So I dust off the file box and stick it back in place. And wonder where it will go when I die.
I hate the sound of the phone ringing. I shake at times when I hear it. Because of all the past calls. Your sister is at the hospital, the jail, the sheriff's dept., Highway Patrol, the state jail, the morgue. This one is suicidal, that one is homicidal... oh the problems stemming from drug use and abuse.
Bystanders get hurt too. Innocent or guilty. There is shrapnel for all. I won't forget burying my father and looking for all my siblings and finding one in jail pending trial for murder. Yes. Murder. A Meth Lab blew up. So I had to tell her that her father died on the phone. She had to be sedated, the sheriff said... I am sure she enjoyed that high a little too. And I bet her addiction had her milking it for more. I was numb too. But from all the pain. Not drugs. I received no comfort from anyone related to me.
The marriages that crumble. Mine too. I was so lost in helping them that I failed my husband. I hurt him. I am sorry.
The children that become adults with no desire for education or family life. The arrests of the 2nd generation... will I be able to handle the next one.
I have a painted smile that is part of my routine. I wear it daily. I still reach out to others to help them. I will give you my last dollar if you are hungry or in need. I will clothe you. I will love you. I will share my love. But my smile is no longer there. My heart is so full of tears and cracks that smiling hurts. Loving hurts too. But I still have the desire to love.
I am the face in the crowd with no smile and sad eyes. I am the one that picks up the stray and feeds it and spays it and finds it a home. I am the one that talks to the homeless man everyone else walks by. I hug the prostitute on the corner and tell her that no matter what, God loves her. Because someone should.
Because in my pain I owe love to others. Because in my pain I see their pain. Maybe I have cracked. But this is my last shot. Someone out there hear my cry. See my love. See the love that GOD gave me. Feel that love and know he gives it to you too. Someone change that pain to love. One person. And my life has been not been in vain.