The cure for crying

Take one. Call me in the morning.

One of the earliest Alcoholics Anonymous meetings that I attended was a 'speaker's meeting.' That means, instead of sitting in a circle, sharing stories about our struggles with addiction, one person stands and delivers their personal story.

At this meeting, a woman addressed the crowd. She was about my age, but she had lived a much longer life. From a brutal childhood to the brutalities inflicted by one man after another, it seemed impossible to squeeze so much suffering in those years. How did she fit it all in?

I love speaker's meetings because they're ultimately the story of human triumph. No matter how dark the stories, there was always a reception arc. After all, the speaker is here today, telling you their tale. What's more, you learn that she's found a new life. A new career. A new love. A new family. Hollywood directors looking for ideas for their next feel-bad then feel-good film would do well to sit in on a speaker's meeting.

But this particular speaker had lost something she couldn't recover. Not even in recovery. Nearly 30 years of clean and sober living couldn't get it back.

She was an alcoholic and an addict and somehow managed to raise a son she adored. But the son took notes from her. Eventually, he became an addict too.

When the police came to her door one night, she was drunk and high. She thought they were there to arrest her again. Instead, the officers asked her to sit down on the ragged mattress that was her sole furnishing.

They informed her that her son had died. Overdose.

Here's the thing though. The woman couldn't cry. Not a single tear. She understood that this was devastating and that life would never be the same. There was a torrent of tears inside of her. Nothing could escape.

Listening to her story, I wanted to cry. I knew exactly how she felt. She wasn't a bad mother. She was a high mother. She was smoking crack - the only medication she had access to - to treat the countiess wounds she had sustained in life.

What did she do when she heard her beloved boy had died? She got rid of the officers as soon as she could - so she could hit her pipe.

Crack is effective like that. It's Tylenol 1000 for body, mind and soul. No matter what the catastrophe, crack's got you covered. It’s simply the most powerful numbing agent you can get without a prescription. But when the coverage wears thin, the pain returns a thousand fold.

I couldn't imagine the tears this woman must have cried. She was crying that night even. Standing there on the podium in front of strangers, weeping uncontrollably.

In that moment, she probably could have used Crackynol 1000.

But this is the part that always gets me. She hasn't self-medicated in decades. Imagine the strength that must take - when the pain isn't in the past, but with you every waking moment.

I'll always remember her because I was so raw in my recovery - still wondering when I might reach for my meds. And what immeasurable torment was I looking to treat? Specks of anguish here and there. Maybe. But it was nothing to her sea of sorrow. If she got off the painkillers, why not me?

We don't all get a tidy redemption story. Sometimes, you lose something along the way that you can never get back.

If I hadn't lost anything I couldn't get back then I was one of the lucky ones. Why keep tempting fate?