Finding Hope in the Dark: Miracles and Depression
Today, I left work to go to an optical appointment at Costco. It was a beautiful day, and I just wanted to be outside enjoying the sun and nature. It was one of these perfect days, sunny and clear, while being just warm enough at 72 degrees. While I was at Costco, I picked up a case of pop-top chili and some packages of Chomps, thinking of people in need who live on the street.
On the drive back, I took a wrong turn on autopilot, leading me to drive past a park beneath our main bridge. This is a place where people without homes congregate to eat, to sleep, to live, and for some, to satisfy their need for drugs. It felt serendipitous. I’d bought food for them, thinking of another day, and here was an opportunity today.
I passed out a few cans of chili and then encountered a group that brought tears to my eyes and love to my heart.
There was a young man in the center, his lips slightly blue, who appeared to be on the edge of death. A young woman was kneeling over him, performing CPR. I called 911 and watched as each of the men surrounding him did everything they could to help. One man was pulling out Narcan. Another was administering it. The young man had, clearly, overdosed on drugs.
They told me he still had a hint of a pulse.
The woman who was doing CPR shared that she had been a CNA for 9 years, and she was remarkable as she gradually brought him back from the edge. Another man was rubbing his feet, while still another was shouting at him and smacking his face, trying to shock him into a return from the precipice. These people surrounded this man with love and determination. They were not going to let him die without a fight.
“This happens at least twice a week,” one of the men told me.
What I realized is that they’re experts. Despite the hardships they face and the lives they lead, they watch out for one another. They have learned how to recognize an overdose and how to bring their friends back.
The young man would soon have to face losing his high, and whatever pain he may have been trying to escape by doing drugs. Maybe that’s just what he needed to grow. Maybe he was carrying grief or trying to forget trauma. Maybe he lived with chronic physical or emotional pain. Whatever his struggles were, they mattered, and they weren’t his fault.
Addiction is complicated. Genetics is the primary risk factor, but others include mental illness, life circumstances, and other factors.
No one wakes up in the morning thinking, “I think I’ll become an addict today!”
Addicts simply find themselves caught up in something far more powerful than they ever intended.
The man who had been so close to death began opening his eyes a squint and making sounds. His group continued encouraging him to wake up, to talk to them, to sit, and to stay present. Eventually, they pulled him up into a sitting position and then urged him to stand. From there, they pushed him to walk around the park. They didn’t even know how old he was, but they acted like his family. They acted like people who loved him.
It was beautiful.
It was miraculous to watch a group of people who are often shunned, dismissed, or seen as the worst society has to offer, reveal themselves as angels.
What I saw that day showed them in a completely different light, one that highlighted the spark of God within them, highlighted the love available within them, and accentuated their remarkable ability to care for and serve others.
I was so moved by their behavior that it brought me to tears.
I have always seen people struggling with addiction, not as addicts, but as sons and daughters, wives and husbands, mothers and fathers, human beings just like you and me. I am not better because I do not have a drug addiction. It was simply the luck of the draw. My mother’s family includes many people who struggled with addiction and alcoholism. I could have inherited that vulnerability, but I didn’t. I was married to an alcoholic for a while, and my son with him did get the gene, the same with his older brother.
I was married to an alcoholic for a wile and my two oldest sons inherited that addiction. They got the gene, and they also saw how he dealt with his mental illness by getting drunk. They learned that coping strategy while I taught other options.
My oldest son was that young man in the park.
The difference is that my son was alone in his bedroom, with no one there to save his life.
He fought his drug addiction for 4 years. There were periods of recovery, but with many relapses. I know he tried to stay in recovery and help others when he could.
When he died, more than two hundred people attended his celebration of life. Many of them were members of AA or NA whose lives he had touched.
That son, my oldest son, is the reason I returned to writing, sharing my heart beyond my therapy office.
My oldest son died alone in his bedroom because no one knew he needed help. He lived with my parents, who were elderly and probably thought they were giving him privacy, or maybe just didn’t think he was in danger.
Watching this young man survive today, after coming so close to death, brought my son’s loss rushing back to me. It is possible that the same drug was involved. The difference is that this young man still has a chance.
His family still has a chance with him.
He still has a chance to recover if he chooses to seek help and is able to find his way forward.
As painful as this experience was, it also reminded me that miracles sometimes arrive in unexpected forms. Sometimes they arrive through strangers, sometimes through a group of people whom society has forgotten. Sometimes through a second chance.
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I hope this story will bring you hope if you’re struggling with depression or addiction, or any other brain disease. Share your experience or reaction at “Contact Erica” or ask a question if there’s an issue you’d like me to focus on.
#depressionrecovery, #findinghope, #secondchances, #overdoseawareness, #griefandhealing
#unexpectedangels