Gritty

I am a positive, happy person, so writing something somewhat gritty or poignant is not necessarily my forte.  I started journaling at age 7 and continued quite faithfully until I was 31 years old and my older brother, Tad, passed away at age 32. 

 

We took this picture together at a high school dance for fun when he was 17 and I was 16.  His death was unexpected and tragic and I wish I had been able to write then.  Every time I tried to start, I would put my journal away with another blank page.

Before his death, my writing was pretty flat, cheerful, and mundane.  I wrote a lot about what I did that day, what the kids were up to, and recent events.  Now that I am working on personal history, I've realized that much of that is useless.  I'm a little sad that one could easily choose a single entry from each year and get the gist of what my life was like as a young mother. 

When I look to parents' and grandparents' histories, I want to know what was inside their minds and hearts, and what made them tick.  That means sometimes I want to read the hard stuff; therefore, I have to write hard stuff too.  I'd rather stick to rosy vignettes and picture perfect moments of parenthood, but that's not all life's about.... which leads me to the post of the day.

Writing class began with the following prompt:

Once I was.......      Now I am......  (example: Once I was young, now I am old)

This was a fun exercise.  I came up with:

Once I was enthusiastically ambitious.  Now I am happily practical.
Once I dreamt of motherhood.  Now my dreams are coming true.
Once I thought sleepless nights would not end.  Now I'm ecstatic because they actually did!

We moved on to:

Once I believed....     Now I know.........

This naturally led to heavier thoughts.  Here's the one I started with:

Once I believed I was inferior for not having a university diploma.
Now I know the education I've earned raising a family is worth more than any degree.

I decided to go home and write something more complete.  I prefer to keep my writing brief when I can, because I think my reader might get bored with something long and wordy.  Once I sat down to write this one, it didn't take long (when I write from the heart, it usually comes quickly).  I'd like to preface this piece with a reminder that just because I chose this subject, doesn't mean I was depressed.  Most of my writing stems from prompts, and not because of a mood.  I do think the gritty stuff is incredibly valuable when it comes to a personal history.  I want my posterity to know who I am, what I believe, and in some instances, how I got to where I am.  Here goes.

Once I believed druggies were twenty-something losers in hoodies hanging out in dark alleys, determined to corrupt poor, innocent youths.  They were men with facial hair, tattoos, and piercings.  Druggies smelled bad and were uneducated, parentless, and evil.

                Life taught me otherwise, through my brother.  Bright and curious, Tad took the path of experimentation, pursuing now and then adventures yet to be discovered.  One day, a little pill connected his neural pathways like puzzle pieces, and he knew he might never be able to turn back.  Tad graduated high school, served a mission, married, became a father, and a social worker—reaching out to those who, like himself, ached for understanding and direction. 

                He was on the brink of losing it all: his wife and family, his job, his reputation, when on an early June morning, he broke down in my arms as the sun rose.  “Do you think this is fun?  Do you think I’m enjoying this?” he sobbed.  I tucked my bloodshot-eyed brother in the guest bed.  Chemicals had trapped him with sharp teeth and clenching jaws.  It was likely he was not be equipped to navigate the way out of his current situation, and Tad knew it.  Days later, his life was over, at age 32.

                Now I know users are not druggies.  They are mothers, sons, grandfathers, aunts, and brothers.  Some, like Tad, innocently happen upon substances at parties on weekends.  Others are merely searching for relief from physical pain or emotional wounds.  Educated or not, rich or poor, they are human beings who love, and ache to be loved in return.  Users are not evil, though sometimes they are lost. Tad taught me that judgment won’t end drug abuse.  Knowledge, compassion, and charity are the weightiest tools to begin this battle that must be valiantly fought.