Finding Peace, Somehow

an essay

Photo by RoonZ nl on Unsplash

Finding Peace, Somehow

Dear Reader,

Every one of us is walking around with stories inside that matter. Some are beautiful and happy memories, treasures that we hold close to our hearts. We like to relive them in our minds, reminisce about them with those who were there, and share them with other people. Some might write a memoir about those kinds of stories. Other stories are not happy, and some are horrific to the point we wish we could erase them from our minds. The memory of things we went through haunts us, are painful, and did things to us that can keep us emotionally, psychologically, and even physically trapped inside a prison. But not always.

Some people find a way to use the bad for the sake of good. Some will write memoirs, too. They may only do it for themselves or to share with their immediate descendants. Sometimes we can write these stories with another audience and intention. To send a message out into the world for someone who we have never met. To tell the story of struggle not for sympathy, applause, or shock value. We write the story with the hope that it will reach the right people, even just one. We write with the intention of helping the life of someone who might need to know that they are not alone.

The thing about writing about true-life struggles is that it drags up all the old sensations. The heartache, anxiety, and grief. It can put the writer back into the war zone that they escaped. It does so because of the way the brain functions in reactive protection. The brain cannot distinguish between the current reality, a dream, and a memory. Sometimes, even a book or movie can be similarly immersive, and though we can feel enthralled and emotionally moved by fiction or someone else’s true story, our reaction will not be as traumatic. Unless we are or have gone through something very similar.

When a writer pours their heart into retelling their story, be aware that there is a toll to pay no matter how healed they are. If we have been in similar places as they describe, we can hear the ring of familiarity, and also the pain behind the quip, a chuckle, the ghost haunting sorrow, and the demon driving anger. I hear most of that. I’ve become fluent in a number of languages that hide underneath the surface of my native tongue. And sometimes it makes me want to turn away and pretend I don’t recognize it.

I heard someone say once that we are not given more than we can handle in this life. I don’t know if I believe that is true. I also don’t want to believe that we are here to be an example to others. Both seem like cruelty drafted by something evil. And maybe that is it. It could be that we keep carrying the burden of past generations. Unresolved issues that keep compounding through time, until someone recognizes it when opening their own dark package. If we somehow survive this trauma, something lingers in its wake. A voice inside that won’t let us wipe the sweat from our brow, get therapy, a prescription, and move on.

The voice won’t let us settle that easily. It demands resolution. It demands release. It demands to be heard. Not just shouted into a void of pillow stuffing. It wants an answer. Action. If the nagging voice doesn’t receive reparations, we must go to our graves with the knowledge that we did nothing to help. The heart will stop, but we will witness the horrible truth before the eyes no longer see.

The demon steps into a box and is passed on to the next generation. Not just to blood of our blood, either. Every person affected by this swell of throbbing, seething, oozing, suffering mass becomes entangled by it. Past rolls to the present, holds its breath, waits for the voice, and then an answer. Silence. The nightmare adds more people to the score. A historical shit bomb grows exponentially. On it rolls.

Sometimes the demon that comes out of the box carries multiple shit bombs. After the reckoning comes, and the voice speaks, it is difficult to know where to begin to formulate an answer, though we feel undeniable responsibility. A call to the duty. We were born to be the one to take action.

Correct action feels impossible to determine, and fear of making a mistake is strong. I have a box like this and have determined to turn toward a wisdom heard more than once. The most frightening obstacle, the thing that brings dread, a scream, tears. The name that hurts to speak. This is the demon I am meant to hold and drag into the light.

That demon is addiction.

I am someone who has experienced the trauma of watching the destruction caused by drug and alcohol addiction as a mother and a friend. Some survived, barely. Others did not. Those who survived are not wiping their brow, breathing sighs of relief for having dodged the proverbial bullet. They didn’t pull the stop cord, jump off the addiction train, and get handed a golden ticket to Happyville with nothing more to worry about. They fought for their lives. And some of us fought with them.

Recovering addicts/alcoholics are not on a timeline. They are in it for the rest of their lives. Recovering is not a switch. It is a daily conscious choice to put one foot in front of the other every day and see the good and the reason for doing that walk each day. It takes seven years for an addict’s brain to mend after the chemicals are no longer being received. This is not something that can usually be accomplished alone. When the brain is damaged by addiction, feeling ‘normal’ does not exist in the same plain as someone whose brain has not been altered by addiction.

Recovering addicts are parents trying to deal with responsibilities, guilt, distrust, and smoking remains of disaster in their rearview mirrors, while heading to jobs they are fortunate to have. Others have healed enough that they dare to bring a new life into the world, make new relationships, and turn their faces toward goals and dreams they had been denied by addiction for years. In the process, knowledge resides behind a desk, taking notes and sending out reminders that one misstep can destroy what is precious. Then there are others who live in torment, not yet able to find their worth, no matter how well they are moving in the right direction. Something inside does not allow forgiveness, nor peace. What lingers is the memory before all fell to shit. A time before parties became the nightmare. And that memory is what can become glorified. The good old days. The best days of their life, according to memory.

The lie is sweet.

The truth is the demon. Trauma, pain, and shame medicated to the point of addiction. Drugs and alcohol create the dreamy escape from suffering too painful to carry alone. It isn’t always this way, though. According to Rose House women are likely to have suffered a history of abuse, domestic violence, and PTSD. Hormones and metabolism also make women more susceptible to the biological ‘reward’ effects of drugs and alcohol than men, leading to higher risk of addiction. Romantic partner influence to use, and the common practice of being given prescription medications to manage emotions, are also initiators leading to dependency.

I have not been a drug addict nor an alcoholic. Who I am is someone who lost an aunt and uncle to addiction. They were in their forties. I am a mother who fought for twelve years for the life of a daughter who nearly died from overdose, domestic violence, and infection. A mother who watched another daughter slip into addiction when I thought it couldn’t happen because she was an adult, past all that, in her thirties. I am a friend who did not see the addiction clues of friends until it was too late, and was emotionally destroyed when two ultimately committed suicide.

I am someone who hears the tone in someone’s voice that sets every nerve in my body on alert. Who understands the language hidden behind the words of my native tongue. Someone who cringes against the jokes that grate. Hears the truth behind a sideways comment that sounds like a call for sympathy or attention. Recognizes the suggestion of suicide. I am someone who is all too aware of the embers smoldering under the surface.

While others are unaware of, or in denial, I am moving around that devious, dangerous glow that isn’t quite visible. Careful. Watchful. Listening. It’s what I do. Because if the smoldering pile were to ignite and try to reclaim those who have climbed out, the fire returns for us all. I have two granddaughters now. The voice is strong, and it demands my action. My mission is not to save but to offer a way to some kind of peace.

I want to give a way to forget about worries for a little while. I don’t know exactly how or where to start, but believe in the power of art as a way to get to a state of calm. On Sunday, I’ll be on LIVE (10 am MST) making a ‘positive peace of art’. Everyone is welcome to watch or participate. Bring paper, pencil, colored pencils, eraser, and markers (optional).

Annette J Sharp