Imagination and Grace

My brother Joey finds himself in between bouts of trouble these days. Having recently been released from prison (his sentences have always been solely for minor possession), he spiraled down quickly, as AA tells us is common with advancing addiction. To use his language, he "caught another case." This is the addict's consistent language of "not I," the language of "they."

"They raided my house."

"Someone I don't even know told them I'm a dealer."

"They're full of shit."

"They called the cops at the music store."

"I wasn't even doing anything."

"They're a bunch of assholes."

"The system is fucked."

As opposed to: "My parole officer came over and found me in violation of my parole," or, "I was holding my stash of heroin, meth, rock, weed," or, "I was high in the music store creating a commotion." The language of "they" speaks of "other" and therefore requires neither action nor change. AA talks about the futility, the insanity, of trying to apply reason to an unreasonable state.

What are reasoning beings to do when they have an addict in their midst and want to be part of that person's life, no matter how zany the ride? What can they do if they don't subscribe to the theory of "tough love"? We try to make sense of things. We get creative. In this case the whole notion of acceptance began with Joey and his words, "Why can't you just accept me as an addict?" The acceptance has become about letting go—not of the addict but of the attempts to reason him out of his addiction. Am I beginning to accept something so seemingly grim? Of course we can accept, and in our quiet moments still hope and pray for change, for health, although my current, recurring prayer these days is: "Please be with Joey today, that he may not walk alone."

You should know that Joey will be forty-two in December, on Christmas Eve, that he turned forty in prison and that he and, by extension, everyone who knows and loves him has been living with his addiction for twenty-eight years. This is at once impossible to imagine and painfully immediate. He is an addict: willing, hardcore, strung out, psychotic at times and, somehow, amazingly clear. And consistent.

Now we wait for the lawyer to do his work, for the compromises, the judge's decision. In the meantime Joey should put himself back into treatment, go for counseling, whatever it takes to turn his path around, show good faith to the judge. Joey says, "Why should I go into treatment to avoid a harsh sentence, and not because I really want treatment—which I don't?" Part of me thinks, "Because any reason that might get you sober will do, if it would help you avoid, or lessen, another term in a prison I can't imagine." But I also admire him for getting off the manipulation train. And I realize how deep my denial runs. I haven't accepted the problem. He is an addict, and while out on bond he lives the life of an addict.

Meanwhile, I'm on my own new path. I've abandoned the inconsistent practice of no contact, the "tough love" approach. I became good at it. So good that I passed imperceptibly from "I refuse to be an enabler" to "I don't want you in my life. Call me when you're sober."

That call never comes. So what can you possibly conclude at three A.M., when life sleeps, you're not getting high, the world seems to be crumbling and you picture your brother in a crack house somewhere, or under a bridge, nodding in and out of "the big hug" heroin gives you every time, no matter what?

One thing Joey committed to recently was going to our doctor to get a full physical. His getting to that appointment...