The death of Whitney Houston, whatever the final cause,
is a tragedy, but one that can also serve as an opportunity to talk about
addiction; the horrible effects, the road to recovery, and, most importantly,
prevention.
When I was a child waiting to be picked up after middle
school one day, a high school girl told me about a party that had taken place
the night before, just a few blocks from our school located on the Upper West
Side of Manhattan. The girl was convinced that the party would be in the news;
at the party there was alcohol and marijuana cut with PCP. That got my
attention, but still, the story was not yet out of the ordinary for New York
city during that time. Then she continued with the story, telling me that one
of the girls at the party had a little too much of both drugs and ended up
going to the roof for what people thought was some fresh air. The how and why
of what happened next was speculation, but the conclusion was not. The girl
ended up falling from the roof and landing on a solid metal fence below. The
girl, who fortunately did not die, was from a good family, and the building
from which she had fallen was in a very respectable neighborhood.
My mother, who at the time worked as a hospital
chaplain, heard about the incident during her rounds. She saw this as an
opportunity, which she frequently did, to use this real life example as an
opportunity to create a lasting impression on my sister and me.
My mother picked us up from school that day and drove to
a local methadone clinic and parked out front. We looked out of the car window
at the clinic’s front door, watching people of all colors, economic backgrounds
and ages enter. Some wore business suits, while others were dressed in torn
jeans.
While waiting in the car, my mother told us how some
people became so addicted and desperate not to be caught with track marks or
because their veins had collapsed, that they ended up shooting drugs into their
eyes or groin. Some users spent their life savings or stole from their
families, while others became prostitutes. Many were so frightened and
exhausted from hiding their addiction that they collapsed under the weight of
the lies they carried. She also emphasized that the fight to keep clean was a
lifetime pursuit.
My mother did not want to remove peoples’ anonymity by
having us watch them walk into the clinic. Rather, she wanted us to see that
the face of addiction could be anyone, no matter the clothes they wore or
income they earned.
I am not advocating for people to take their children to
clinics. But I am advocating for parents to take every opportunity to teach
their children in a way that is appropriate for their family about the possible
repercussions of drug use.
For me, as I navigated the confusing road of high school
and later adulthood, I never tried drugs because my mother’s discussions with
me became my comma in the sentences that make up my life story — that is, the
pause that gave me a chance to say no to whatever was being passed around.
Published by the Vineyard Gazette
http://www.mvgazette.com/article.php?34037
