Overdose?

I keep hearing about people dying. Not the regular kind of dying I’d expect at 67 with friends well into their 70’s. No, these are other kinds of dying. Some end the life of the body. Some just slowly kill the soul.

A woman who was a member of AA for years started drinking again and died from alcohol poisoning.

Another woman who had years of sobriety drank again while caring for her dying parent and is going back to treatment.

A 60-year-old man struggled for years to stay sober. He started drinking again. He was taken from the bank to the ER and then admitted for an apparent stroke. He’s having trouble talking and walking.

A woman with grandchildren starts prescription pain medicine after a knee replacement. When the prescription runs out, she looks for other sources. She finds an opioid laced with fentanyl. It doesn’t end well.

A young woman with anorexia died because she was too weak to survive necessary surgery.

A man committed suicide after a long stretch of untreated depression mixed with a lot of alcohol and a gun in his house.

A woman dropped out of Social Work because she couldn’t leave her troubled clients behind at the end of the day.

A man is forced to retire from stressful, lucrative work because he has heart disease and unmanageable diabetes.

An 8-year-old overweight child is teased and bullied at school. Her mother gives her cookies after hearing her story saying, “These will help you feel better.”

A young woman becomes consumed by what’s in the news and what is wrong with her world. She doesn’t see how she can make a difference.

A husband with a young daughter gets hooked on internet porn. His wife asks him to leave.

An older woman whose kids and grandchildren have moved away starts to miss purpose, a reason to get up in the morning. She dwindles, begins to fade away.

Overdoses?

I say “Yes.”

An AA friend says we are all feel-good junkies, just wanting to feel better. Or not feel anything at all.

So we drink. We eat (or not). We misuse drugs. We stay busy. We become focused on sex or online porn. We care for others. We work. We just stop caring.  And because they work for a while, we do these things more and more until they start to do us harm.

Money or lack of it doesn’t seem to matter. It happens to people in good health and to those who with chronic illnesses. To those with families who love them and those who are truly alone. Some may appear happy and content.  Others may obviously feel bad.

Maybe the difference is being able to ask for or accept help. These holes are hard to climb out of alone. Love and support from others are good things, but enabling self-destructive behavior is not good. What all enablers have in common: they love someone who is out of control, and they find themselves taking more responsibility for the actions of that person than the person is taking for themselves. A woman once said at an Al Anon meeting, “Help is the sunny side of control.” Think about that for a minute.

So what do we do?

When one of my grown daughters was going through a hard time, a friend told me, “All you can do is love her and pray for her.” It didn’t feel like enough.

I think we also need to keep talking and writing, with friends and more publicly, about our own experiences with addiction and mental health issues. We have to lessen the shame.

And we need to listen mindfully and lovingly, without judgment, without trying to fix them, when others trust us enough to share their hard stuff.

And my friend was right. We need to love them and pray for them.

 

 

 

 

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Does my butt look big?

(Don’t answer that!)

Will I ever look in the mirror and see what I really look like?  Why don’t I see how much I look like my mother or the extra neck flesh?  I see it in pictures and it shocks me.

Will I ever be able to see the acceptable size of my butt?

It’s my mother’s fault.  She was probably anorexic, but I just thought she was mean.  She told me often to tuck in my bottom, but it’s the stick-out kind that doesn’t tuck.  Like Beyonce’s.

I wasn’t overweight, but I thought I was.  I remember the taste of Metracal.  It was like Slim Fast, but worse.  I used to do thigh and butt exercises in my room after dinner.  I tried to roll and bounce off my thighs and butt.  My parents asked me stop because I was directly over them bumping away while they watched television.

I won’t let anyone take pictures of me from behind.

Maybe one day I’ll wear light-colored pants.  I’ve read that white jeans are as flattering as dark jeans.  My snow-white, like-new white jeans are flattering with one loose, long, gauzy black top that covers my thighs.

Mostly I wear black pants or dark jeans.  When I find some that fit, I buy as many pairs as I can afford.

This morning I put lotion on my butt.  I’m trying to be nice to it.

I wonder sometimes what my daughters see in their mirrors.  What seeds of doubt and insecurity have I passed on?