Usually when I start telling a story, I have a general idea how it’s going to end.
Not this time.
I DO know that the last line of this blog post will be “Please pray for my mom,” but the story itself will be far from over. The ending could be wonderfully great OR tragic.
I’ll start with a harmless question: How did you spend Mother’s Day?
We found out about my brother’s meth addiction last Wednesday, and our love-inspired and motivated family put our lives on hold and took immediate action.
• We did our research on the drug.
• We located a treatment facility for him.
• We met with an interventionist.
• We put a game plan together.
That game plan consisted of expressing our undying love and support, but also putting some non-negotiable ultimatums in place. All of this was in the form of thoughtfully crafted letters.
It was the most emotionally exhausting day of my life. (I can’t imagine the impact it had on my mom.)
For seven hours, we had a conversation with one of the most psychologically addictive drugs on planet earth. The meth was communicating to us through the man I used to call my brother – the man my mom used to call her son.
After we read our non-negotiable bottom lines – which included calling the police, banning him from our homes and stripping him of his spiritual duties as a Godfather – he reluctantly decided to get in the car and go to treatment.
Happy Mother’s Day, right?
Not so fast.
Meth is the devil in crystal form.
I won’t bore you with the dramatic details created by the drugs, and I’ll just jump to the end of the story: Before being admitted to the treatment facility, my brother grabbed his bags and walked out the front door. All he had to do was sign his name on the consent form, and he would have started down the road to recovery.
Instead, he decided to run away – bound and determine to beat his addiction on his own.
I pray he can stare the devil in the face and say “fuck you,” but I’m confidently pessimistic he will fail miserably. According to the research, he has a better chance of dying from a stroke or heart attack and/or developing terminal psychotic behavior.
That thought makes me cry. Actually, every aspect of this nightmarish hell
makes me cry.