This is John Watson and his Mother.
John was an addict. He struggled for more than half his life with his demons. His mother knew those demons. She says that an addict has as much difficulty with the good times and the bad, and I believe her.
I believe her because sometimes there's overlap when it comes to weird wiring, and I know how it is to be as afraid of, as unsure of, the happy as it is to be of the sad. How many times have I said or written that I don't know how to be happy? Depressed, miserable, stressed, angry, hurt, and confused I can do. Happy? Can be terrifying.
An addict will deal with their stress in predictable ways. Sobriety requires learning new ways to cope. Sometimes those new ways are not as effective as the addiction. Sometimes all the happy is too much.
John was nine months sober this time. I am told that's a dangerous time in sobriety. He had a young woman he loved, who loved him. He adored her daughter. He was working and reaching out to help others.
His memorial is on Tuesday. My friend A and I are going. Won't be blogging until I'm home again.
I am mourning this young man who I loved like a brother, a son, a friend. I ache for his mother, his sister, his lover. I ache for his friends. I ache for the little girl who thought he hung the moon and sun and stars.
I will miss my smiling, vividly blue-eyed friend. There is a John shaped hole in the world, and nothing will ever fill it. I hate heroin. I hate the chemical monsters that eat up people, eat up hope and love and family, eat up lives.