Currently experiencing anger, I believe depression is next.
Warning, this post is rambling, nonsensical and essentially crazy-talk. Don't consider it to be any indication of any long-term feelings, problems or issues. This is me venting, stream-of-consciousness style.
So...
About two hours ago, I learned that a girl I used to work with OD'd on cocaine and, as people who OD on coke often do, died. But she spent a couple of days in the hospital first, from what I was told, probably in a coma. The thing is, I worked with her, joked with her, drank with her, but I wouldn't call her a friend. Nevertheless, I am not some unfeeling monster, and I can't help but be sad that a vibrant girl was cut down before she was even 23. It's taken me a couple of hours to get over the shock of it, which is normal. I consider myself an amateur expert in the fields of addiction and grief (which sounds really fucked up when I admit it aloud), so the fact that I'm supremely pissed off now is no shock to me.
Her funeral is tomorrow, and I don't want to go. If I do, I'm liable to tell her scumbag, shit-eating, drug-dealer boyfriend that this is all his fault, and if he gives me any attitude, I'd beat him into the fucking ground. This is one of those situations where I'd put my gun in my car and pray that things escalated so I could shoot him in his fucking low-life face, protecting any future girls he plies with abuse and drugs so they'll be too fucked in the head to leave him. The thing is, I know it's not all his fault, only mostly. He claims he didn't know she was stealing coke from him, which is probably true (like all shit-bag predators, he doesn't touch his own product). But not knowing that she's on coke, when he plied her with enough Xanax to drop an elephant is a poor fucking excuse.
Of course, I'm angry right now. Cerebrally, I know that no matter how many bullets I put into his skull, it won't make any difference. And as I write that, I realize that it may be time for the next stage of grief. Because there is nothing that can be done to help her. Her time here is done, and I can only hope that whatever awaits her on the other side makes her happy. It's sad to think that all her hopes and dreams are gone, never to be fulfilled. It's sad to think that all the things she could have done will go undone. Instead, she leaves a Loni-shaped hole in her family's life, not much different from the hole my father left in mine.
I remember telling her something. While we were working together, she got clean for a while. I don't remember how long. It was probably for four to six months. I remember telling her that I could tell the difference in her, and that I was proud of her. She told me that I had helped her with it a lot. I demurred. I didn't actively encourage her to quit, and I didn't really notice that she had pulled her shit together until a couple of months had passed. I knew that there were other people we worked with who had helped her a lot more. I told her so. But she told me that I set a good example for her. That she knew that I didn't approve of that shit and that she appreciated how I encouraged her to be better without preaching to her. We had conversations after that. We had conversations after she fell back into old habits. After she got fired for being too strung out to wait tables at Mellow Mushroom. But right now, I can't remember any of those conversations.
I know that this isn't my fault. I did try to help her. But I know that I could have tried harder. I couldn't have done it by myself, but I could have helped. If everyone in her life had tried harder, she could have been saved. But I guess that could be said for just about anyone, couldn't it? Every person that dies like this could have been helped. We just didn't try hard enough.
I don't remember the last conversation I had with Jonathan, because getting him to hang out was difficult. And now I'm left with the knowledge that we could have hung out more, but I didn't try hard enough.
Yet I know, no matter how hard I try, I will live to see more friends and family buried. No matter how hard I try, I will go to more funerals.
That knowledge should make me sad. But that the difference between who I once was, and who I am now. All this thinking makes me do is want to enjoy my life more.
So...
About two hours ago, I learned that a girl I used to work with OD'd on cocaine and, as people who OD on coke often do, died. But she spent a couple of days in the hospital first, from what I was told, probably in a coma. The thing is, I worked with her, joked with her, drank with her, but I wouldn't call her a friend. Nevertheless, I am not some unfeeling monster, and I can't help but be sad that a vibrant girl was cut down before she was even 23. It's taken me a couple of hours to get over the shock of it, which is normal. I consider myself an amateur expert in the fields of addiction and grief (which sounds really fucked up when I admit it aloud), so the fact that I'm supremely pissed off now is no shock to me.
Her funeral is tomorrow, and I don't want to go. If I do, I'm liable to tell her scumbag, shit-eating, drug-dealer boyfriend that this is all his fault, and if he gives me any attitude, I'd beat him into the fucking ground. This is one of those situations where I'd put my gun in my car and pray that things escalated so I could shoot him in his fucking low-life face, protecting any future girls he plies with abuse and drugs so they'll be too fucked in the head to leave him. The thing is, I know it's not all his fault, only mostly. He claims he didn't know she was stealing coke from him, which is probably true (like all shit-bag predators, he doesn't touch his own product). But not knowing that she's on coke, when he plied her with enough Xanax to drop an elephant is a poor fucking excuse.
Of course, I'm angry right now. Cerebrally, I know that no matter how many bullets I put into his skull, it won't make any difference. And as I write that, I realize that it may be time for the next stage of grief. Because there is nothing that can be done to help her. Her time here is done, and I can only hope that whatever awaits her on the other side makes her happy. It's sad to think that all her hopes and dreams are gone, never to be fulfilled. It's sad to think that all the things she could have done will go undone. Instead, she leaves a Loni-shaped hole in her family's life, not much different from the hole my father left in mine.
I remember telling her something. While we were working together, she got clean for a while. I don't remember how long. It was probably for four to six months. I remember telling her that I could tell the difference in her, and that I was proud of her. She told me that I had helped her with it a lot. I demurred. I didn't actively encourage her to quit, and I didn't really notice that she had pulled her shit together until a couple of months had passed. I knew that there were other people we worked with who had helped her a lot more. I told her so. But she told me that I set a good example for her. That she knew that I didn't approve of that shit and that she appreciated how I encouraged her to be better without preaching to her. We had conversations after that. We had conversations after she fell back into old habits. After she got fired for being too strung out to wait tables at Mellow Mushroom. But right now, I can't remember any of those conversations.
I know that this isn't my fault. I did try to help her. But I know that I could have tried harder. I couldn't have done it by myself, but I could have helped. If everyone in her life had tried harder, she could have been saved. But I guess that could be said for just about anyone, couldn't it? Every person that dies like this could have been helped. We just didn't try hard enough.
I don't remember the last conversation I had with Jonathan, because getting him to hang out was difficult. And now I'm left with the knowledge that we could have hung out more, but I didn't try hard enough.
Yet I know, no matter how hard I try, I will live to see more friends and family buried. No matter how hard I try, I will go to more funerals.
That knowledge should make me sad. But that the difference between who I once was, and who I am now. All this thinking makes me do is want to enjoy my life more.