Addiction changed my life

When I held my first baby in my arms thirty-three years ago, I never could have imagined the direction my life would take. The early years of diapers and sleepless nights gave way to first steps and first words. Those seasons passed quickly, replaced by soccer games, karate lessons, school dances, and football games.

Then came the nightmare of addiction.

In AA, they talk about “the wreckage of our past” — the destruction addiction leaves behind. Before long, our family became engulfed in that collision course.

Today, we are slowly coming out the other side of that nightmare, but my view of the world has been forever changed.

When I hear about a house being robbed, my thoughts often go first to the perpetrator instead of the victim. I imagine a young person desperate to feed a drug habit. When I see someone wandering the streets asking strangers for money, I don’t just see a panhandler — I see someone chasing relief, searching for their next high. When I hear about homeowners shooting intruders or shop owners carrying guns, I don’t see “a junkie who deserves it.” I see another life consumed by addiction.

A few days ago, a young man approached me during my morning walk and asked for spare change. His designer clothes were disheveled, his hair unwashed, and fresh bruises marked his face from what looked like the night before’s fight.

“I don’t have any money,” I told him.

As he walked away, I couldn’t help myself. I called after him, “Go home.”

Without turning around, he replied, “I don’t have a home.”

Immediately, my thoughts went to the mother who had probably bought those expensive tennis shoes — a mother somewhere praying her son was safe.

The next day, I saw him again at a coffee shop. He came in to use the phone and hurried to a corner table. A few moments later, I heard him say, “Mom… I’m okay, Mom.”

My heart broke for both of them.

When he hung up, he looked utterly lost. I motioned for him to come sit with me and said softly, “I knew you had a home.”

He told me he’d been talking to his mother. He admitted he knew he was breaking her heart.

We talked briefly. I could tell how much he missed her.

He shared that he was an alcoholic and had spent time in and out of the rooms of AA. He was scared. Overwhelmed. Tired.

As I looked into the face of addiction, I saw my boy.
I saw your boy.
I saw someone’s child.

I saw the wreckage of his past.

And as he walked out the door, I said a silent prayer that Danny would survive one more day. I prayed he would find his way home — and back into the rooms of AA.