Grieving Gary

For many of us,

Life is about managing pain.

We begin

By desperately trying to change the subject,

Struggling to transform

Psychological anguish

Into something physical -

Cutting ourselves,

Over eating,

Raging,

Exercising -

Something

That we can actually touch,

That we can wrap with gauze.

Something diverting us

From the trauma

That hardened

Within the plastic of childhood.

Then we grow up.

Or not.

If we don’t, or can’t,

We can move on

And try to drown

These childhood monsters

In an ocean of dopamine.

Opiates and other drugs

Almost enable us to do this.

Almost.

It’s hard to give up something that almost works.

About 8 to 12 percent of us,

Those among us who become

True addicts,

Do, in fact, change the subject.

The drugs hijack our neuro chemistry

And it’s no longer about

Childhood monsters.

It’s about managing the pain

Brought on

By the voracious molecules

We ourselves have swallowed,

Inhaled,

Injected.

It’s a troubling trade,

One set of monsters for another,

Especially since the new bunch

Bring with them

The dangerous delusion of control.

 But now, at least,

The pain is physical

Something we can wrap with gauze…

This was much of Gary’s life

It was the noose around his neck,

The other end of which

Was wound round Ed and Vickie,

A rope

Which they desperately tried to climb

To reach him,

To help him untie the knot

That they knew,

That even he knew,

In his clearer moments,

Would eventually end his life.

And as if his addiction weren’t

Terrifying enough,

Between the tik and tok of nightmare endings,

There were those moments

When he came home,

The Gary

That we wanted to hold,

To heal,

Moments when the drug

Seemed to have loosened its grip,

And we could pretend he was

Our child again,

And we allowed ourselves to hope:

Maybe this time…

But for this percent,

For Gary,

The unyielding chemistry rises,

Bares its time worn yellow teeth 

And he again is sucked down

The gullet of the beast,

Leaving us behind

To dry up and blow away,

Like empty sacks.

Again.

And what becomes

Of that hope

We so bravely allowed ourselves?

Like a small mammal

In a world of monsters,

It burrows each time

More deeply

Into the deeper parts of our brains -

But never so deep

That we can’t glimpse it every so often,

Pale and weak,

Blinking

Against the black light of the world,

Just enough for it to tease us into believing,

Even after so many years,

Believing that,

Well,

Believing that things will be okay,

That there is still hope.

La Esperanza Muere Al Ultimo.

Tik tok.

Tik tok.

The darkness falls and

We are alone again,

Alone with our thoughts,

Alone with the terror of the telephone,

Anticipating the call

That can come at any time,

The all too practiced voice

On the other end of the line

Calling from…

Where are you calling from again?

Pain is both the alpha

And omega of addiction.

And however much we struggle

To accept the loss,

Especially of a child,

Trying desperately

To turn it into wisdom,

We will always carry

This cross of melancholy,

Always

Having to talk ourselves down

From our own crucifixions.

For those of you who believe

That Gary

Is finally at peace,

That he is finally

In some better place,

I offer these words from Ron Mclean:

“May God shower you with his infinite love”.

But,

For those of us with no such faith,

We raise our fists to the sky,

And shout

Into the obstinate,

Absolute zero of the dark,

“What is the meaning of this?”

And, in spite of the

Childish gesture of our rage

And the absurdity

Of the question itself,

There is an answer,

Wavering against the background clutter

Of our everyday lives,

The only answer that can ultimately save me, 

As imperfect as I am,

The only answer that can ultimately save us,

As imperfect as we are,

The only answer

That can make any sense

Of Gary’s death,

Of Ed’s grief,

An answer so simple and sweet,

As if from the throat of the meadowlark:

And in the end

The love you take

Is equal to the love you make.

Metaku Oyasin