A hat from Abercrombie’s stockroom. 1950’s or so just waiting for a customer.
What is this book? A thought that comes to mind almost daily, now that I’m selling it, giving it, launching it, asking it to run and play with the other books. I’m happy that’s it’s been released ( though I expect one more upload down the road, to fix some tiny issues); it feels like a graduation.
So far the response has been overwhelmingly kind and positive. Readers see their own world in literature, and my intention in creating the work was to sort through my feelings, emotions, and experiences with addiction. Though the large theme is the relationship I have with my son, I also touch on addiction in various other places (the sickness called greed for oil), people ( a rock star), and forms (my mother’s addiction to rage). All of this whirls in a blender, and then along comes big Pharma, Mexican farmers, traditional growers from Malaysia and such—and our country becomes a target for opiate dealers. Money and drugs, poverty and drugs, anger and ignorance serve as fuel to the fire, and we’re burning down a generation! Who needs war? The war on drugs has backfired into the population and everyone knows someone caught in the pandemic, sadly, sorrowfully, entangled and drowning and dying in it. It’s too sad, too frustrating, too not funny at all, and yet the nation turns it’s back on the problem.
There is still the stigma and shame, still the belief that addiction is a person’s moral weakness. Doctors prescribe opiates as if oxy in all its permutations is just a bump up from aspirin. It’s not. It’s a lethal killer as dangerous as playing catch with a loaded gun. American Roulette. Addiction by definition steps away from simple choice very early on. The illness rages like a cancer that lies about its intentions, and then goes viral.
The poems and stories in the collection attempt to cover the bases, mostly as experienced in my family: my heart, my love, my life. Alcoholism is not exempt, nor is tobacco—both are on the big five or six list of highly addictive, highly dangerous drugs along with coke, crack, meth, heroin, and opioids—now add Fentanyl and the creepy legal designer drugs: Spice? Ecstasy? Inhalants and high fructose corn syrup ??
I write about my son’s battle, my willingness to learn as fast as I could the ropes, the rules, and I found out that my addiction is an addiction to his addiction. I had to quit messing with it. It wasn’t mine! I have had to learn to live my own life, without expecting him to fix me. I learned a lot through 20 years in 12-step programs, medical lectures, books by experts, journalists, and other parents.
The stages of grief match the stages of recovery and acceptance. There is no denial, blaming, controlling, or bargaining that will influence an addicted person to quit using. That must come from them, inside, just as my recovery comes from inside me. I have had to set myself free from him and address my denial, anger etc., and my desire to live the life I envision for myself. I gave myself permission to check in with him, but not to enable him or remain possessed by his demons. I thank everyone who has helped me along the way: all the 12-steppers, counselors, friends, writers, doctors, and my patient, loving spouse.
My book seeks to convey through poems and stories, what I have gleaned, what I have felt and suffered, and the conclusions I have come to. I am very fortunate that my son is alive and in recovery. I finished the book at the same time that he found and accepted real help in a compassionate treatment center in Farmington, NM. He gave me an excerpt from his own writings that I have used as an epilogue. I knew people would ask me about him, and I am so stoked that he has spoken for himself and allowed me to share. He also did the art for the cover. The cover seems to have a magical effect on those who see it and hold it.