Denial is an inroad to personal destruction. It should be listed as the "D-word" right up there in a place of badness with the "F-word" or the "C-word." Because it is every bit as offensive, angry and hurtful.
I've got this friend. (Though lately that relationship is more of an allusion to the past than an indication of anything going on in the present.) Like a good many people do in this advanced culture of ours, where medical care often includes passing out prescriptions to patients like candy to trick-or-treaters, he developed a dependence on legal medications. Only he didn't, and still doesn't, see it that way. It began with a back injury which required muscle relaxants and pain meds. Later, it expanded to include the need for Xanax and anti-depressants to alleviate anxiety. The professionals in charge, one in particular, did not push the need for physical therapy or counseling to go hand-in-hand with the medicinal treatment. But because he often bailed on one doc to find another who better fit his desires for a quick fix, tailoring his story to fit his growing dependence, it may have been impossible for them to do so. Insurance loopholes allowed him to troll from one pharmacy to the next, corner drugstore to corner drugstore, without recognizing a pattern of drug-seeking behavior. At least not initially. And this behavior widened to to include requesting leftover pills from friends and acquaintances; many unwittingly handed them over.
Over the course of a year or less, his personality began to deteriorate. His demeanor morphed into a thing most unrecognizable. His affect was often flat. Actions, or lack thereof, both large and small demonstrated his inability to engage in the everyday patterns of life: no more almost obsessive washing of his cars; a lack of humorous texts to me about what dessert I was making for dinner that I could share with him; an absence of enthusiasm for birthdays and celebrations with family and friends. Not to mention what was happening in his own home unbeknownst to many, including his close family outside of his wife and three young children. A man gone almost comatose at times. Glued to his couch and computer. Shut off from interactions with those around him in need of his attentions and affections. A man who most likely suffered from depression but could not find the wherewithal to seek out lasting help outside the zipped confines of the little bag of bottles and packets he toted with him everywhere.
About two months ago, I responded to an SOS from this individual's spouse. Being the close friends that we are, I was in the know about this situation. She called to explain that he was in very poor shape and was finally ready to be checked-in to an addiction treatment facility. Could I come and watch him while she quickly arranged rides for her boys after school? Prior to this, he'd been AWOL from work and home for the entire night, not replying to phone calls or texts, prompting intense concern for his welfare with his frustrated wife. It turned out he'd had to pull over and sleep on the side of the road as he could not drive without drifting into a daze. All I could think was "thank the Lord" as I imagined the people who were saved from harm by a man in a drug-induced stupor. Including himself!
Aside from my stepfather, never have I witnessed a person in real-life in a more pitiful and disturbing physical, mental and emotional place. He could barely sit up. His pallor was gray. Red weepy eyes and drool collecting at the corners of his mouth attested to a most unnatural state-of-being. I held his shaking hands and asked him questions to gauge his responses. He vacillated between nonsensical and being aware enough to feel scared and confused. He had no idea what day or time it was. The shock of seeing this friend, husband and father reduced to this hit hard. I was beyond disturbed. All that came to me was to hug him, kiss his cheek, pray for him, and remind him that he was loved by a Lord more capable than any of us. I assured him that no one was judging him but we wanted him better so that we could have the real him back. He was loved. In the midst of this, he began to cry in a way that reminded me of a small child. He was at his most vulnerable. My hopes were high that he would make it to the clinic and find the help he needed to return to his life as a whole person.
Story of MY life. Hoping against the odds. I have the baby brother to prove it.
Sadly, it has not gone as I had hoped. After a concentrated weaning off the Xanax, this man went from agreeable to downright indignant. He distrusted the doctors and and discounted their assessment of his condition. Despite his blood work. Despite the contents of the bag which never left his possession. Despite the years of experience this place had in dealing with men and women in addiction crisis. "I don't have a problem. I want to leave. NOW!" And that was that. Once he could stand and speak for himself with clarity, he signed himself out against the express advice of staff. His wife made it clear that if he did not remain where he was and complete the program, he could not return home. (In varying degrees, they had been down this particular road before in the past several years.) He chose to discount the concerns of people who had his health as their number one priority.
Two months into a separation from his family, he shows no signs of accepting that he has a serious problem which could forever affect his life. Which could permanently scar his spirit and the psyches of his children. Which could, and most likely will, lead to divorce. Already, he's closed the door on his real friends. Including me for the most part. When he does communicate, it is indirectly and with complete denial and a selfish focus. There is a litany of one-liners: he hasn't done any drugs since that day. He has no desire for drugs. He loves his wife and kids. It's all his wife's fault. He's a victim in the scenario. All of which are hallmark behaviors of an addict who does not believe himself to be so.
Deny, deny, deny.
The fallout has been painful to witness. His wife is an incredibly strong woman. Resilient. Capable. Smart. And she will come out all right on the other side of this. But in the midst of this, she is hurting. Unable to sleep. Higher-than-normal blood pressure. Sick to her stomach. Worried about everyone. Including the man to whom she is married who happens to be acting like a complete juvenile ass. (Sorry, but I have to call it as I see it.) I worry about her: she tops my prayer list.
Her kids' behavior has gone downhill. They know all is not well or right. The younger ones are unruly; the eldest wants to take the place of his absent father and help his mama so she can stop crying and be okay. They miss who their father once was. But not who he now is. Just today, while we joked about random subjects and ate our McDonald's ice cream as we drove about town to give their mom a much needed break, they innocently brought up their father. In describing their dad's routine, they said, "He gets up. Takes a bath or shower. Sleeps. Eats. Sleeps again. Eats some more. And sleeps. Then he does it all over again." The other day while babysitting them, my husband brought me lunch. The moment the boys saw him walk in the kitchen, they ran and jumped up on him, hugging and laughing. They wrestled with him for the next 20 minutes without ceasing. I had to hold back the tears until I returned home over an hour later. Spilling it all to my own husband and admitting to the growing anger I would have to resolve within myself.
Their daddy has had opportunities to see them, but because he can't call the shots, he allows these moments to slide on by. Then he blames the wife for keeping him from them. But he withheld his new address. He racked up new charge card bills for furniture and the like when their finances can not handle such a burden. When he could have called to check in or gone to a scheduled event or mailed a card, he opted not to do these things. Choosing, instead, to entertain himself with boat outings on a local lake with friends, while his wife shuffles the kids back and forth to their activities, contemplates the rest of their lives, and gets by with nary a break from reality. Sadly, he also finds ways to play emotional games with his wife to keep her on edge and draw attention away from his true issues. I believe his addiction makes it easier to hang on to pride and anger and blinds him to the obvious.
They say addicts have to hit rock bottom before they accept the reaching hand which can lift them from the pit. But I know of addicts who have drilled past the bedrock of such a bottom and kept on going. Never to resurface. Succumbing to these forces seemingly larger than themselves. Surrendering to desperation and depression . . . sometimes even self-harm or suicide. Just because this man isn't using meth or heroin like my brother doesn't mean he isn't every bit the slave to his cravings. Just because he drives a Mercedes and lives in suburbia instead of rotting in a prison or surviving a mental institution doesn't mean he's guaranteed a better chance of recovery and remission. In some ways, it's uglier to watch someone with this man's more comfortable and fortunate station in life as he self-destructs. Even with good insurance, concerned friends and family willing to support, and a team of professionals ready to help, this guy can't cope or make an informed decision any better than a man with almost none of those advantages at his disposal.
Obviously, this is a highly condensed version of a far more detailed and long-term story. But it painfully represents a segment of our society which deals behind-closed-doors with this growing problem. This social trend-turned-norm which sucks in high school and college students with stolen ADD meds; hits-up stressed-out moms whose afternoon cocktails aren't hitting the spot; hunts down work-addicted fathers who require attention and validation but don't know how to ask for it. It hurts to know that in the time it has taken me to write this, other families have broken up with no guarantee of restoration. Even as an addict isolates and separates, he or she wounds those who truly care and leaves a trail of brokenness in their wake.
And friends are not immune.
