The loss of a loved one due to alcoholism
or drug addiction profoundly stirs emotions in family members and friends. The normal grief process is typically interrupted with unanswered questions of why alcohol or drug treatment
wasn’t sought or didn’t work.
In some cases the release of emotion through creativity brings healing, and gives the rest of us a chance to relate.
Ruth Marcia shares this poem
I was awake in my sleep; I couldn’t release my mind, and put it on idle for the
I wasn’t tired. I was just awake while asleep.
I felt cold. It was not the usual way to feel, always on the
move of active mornings I was cold on my feet. I kept telling people how cold I was,
especially my feet. My shoes felt so big that day and my feet so skinny.
The last few days, my body has been as old as always, but
my mind has been so aware, of unknown sensations, like a clock clicking in my
head about something to do; of undone things.
A week ago my dearest root of my ancestors succumbed to years of usage. Blind and
with her memories erased, she expired in the comfort and company of loved ones.
Knowing that brought a generalized internal peace to the heart of the bloodline.
Five o’clock, out in the field starving, my wise liquid food supplies helped to ease
sweet blood to my cells. Or so I thought. My gastric organs didn’t appreciate such
an invasion and forced me to rush home sweet home to alleviate the discomfort.
And my mind clicking, wanting to do things undone for months,
like when you clean your house because you are expecting a guest. And, yeah, I was
expecting company. The same company I’ve had before, which never baked a worry
Food was made, sort of a meal. A different meal, a texture
of meal, a comfort food, and then the phone call. A crying voice was heard, a
voice that couldn’t talk but cried. What can be possibly wrong now?
The Matriarch had been gone for a week. What else could it
be? We knew it was her time to go.
And then another voice announced to me I just had lost a
brother. Without saying a name I know which one, the troubled one. He ceased. He
couldn’t bear life any longer. He couldn’t keep his life
inside. He released his emotional pain with physical pain.
It was not the weather's fault for my being cold. It was not
the liquid meal that made me sick. It was the bad news circulating in the air,
a foreign air coming from the South. Five o’clock when I felt sick, when he died.
I don’t know what to say to the people I love; I don’t know
what to say to people who love me. I just want to talk and keep quiet; I just
want to keep quiet and talk. But I don’t know what to say.
Would he be forgiven?
A candle is smiling in the kitchen, lighting his journey to the other