On addiction, don’t forget victims of the addicted
The other day, I was riding on the El toward the 69th Street Terminal when I heard a commotion behind me. People started running around in the car, and a young girl slammed into my seat as if she was fleeing some kind of murderous thug. That wasn’t so far from the truth. It was a thug, although perhaps he would have stopped just short of murder. The reason for the panic on SEPTA was a crack-head who had decided to beat up on a young, innocent man who happened to be riding on the same car. Irony of all ironies, this passenger had gotten on the wrong train and was supposed to be heading home to Frankford.
The police were called, and we made it to 69th without anyone else being physically attacked. The poor young man who just happened to cross paths with the addict was bleeding from the forehead, but was helped off of the train and seemed to be okay. Physically, at least. I can’t vouch for his peace of mind, or discount any nightmares he might have well into the night.
This incident, though brief, stayed with me long after the train doors closed and we were safely home. In fact, I posted about it on Facebook, and in a moment of uncensored honesty wished for that drug addict to just overdose and save us all the trouble of having to deal with his violent offense against innocent civilians in his personal war with drugs.
You can imagine the kind of reaction I got to that posting. It was nuclear, and I’m still brushing the radioactive dust off of my fingers. Basically, the way that people reacted had a lot to do with the way they approached drug addiction. Those who had either suffered from addiction and then recovered, or who had family members who were in the throes of addiction, were angry. One old friend from grade school posted some searing criticisms, a few of which were unnecessarily personal and vitriolic, and unfriended me. I won’t go into detail about the type of “enlightened conversation” that passed between us, but suffice it to say she was profoundly angry, hurt and embittered by my words.
Others who I hadn’t even met in real life went for the jugular and called me a hateful beast who should “just die.” (And in an ironic twist, they hoped I would OD. You would think that someone so offended by the use of an overdose as a critical threat would not then pray for someone else to do exactly that. But passion generally dilutes our ability to reason.)
Many others were in agreement that just because someone is an addict, that doesn’t mean we need to ignore the fact that they are capable of hateful, criminal, destructive behavior that destroys countless other lives. They were sympathetic to the idea that even though we can feel sorry for the abuser (even though many of us refuse to call it a “disease”) it was more important to recognize the pain of the innocent victims, like the young man on that El train.
Or, like some people very close to me, people who were beaten and physically or mentally abused by their friends, relatives and lovers. I will not tell these stories of pain, because they are not mine to tell. One day, perhaps, I will be authorized to put names and faces and heartbreaking humanity to these people, but not today. I can, however, use the pain I know firsthand, deeply and intimately, to say that I am in no way ashamed of my anger at the addicts.
We have a society that is waking up to the scourge of addiction, and that is a good thing. We have programs for those who cannot rip the heavy chains of addiction from their necks, and who fall, and rise, and fall even further even after mountains have been moved to help them. We show concern for the afflicted, even though in many cases that affliction was self-imposed (but we can’t say that because it’s mean, it’s cruel, it’s counterproductive, and it promotes shame, and shame is bad).
In other words, we are a compassionate society that tries to help our loved ones and strangers escape the hell of addiction. That’s good, because the alternative is losing generations to. Not even a heartless, bitter woman like yours truly thinks that is a good idea.
But while we are so concerned with the addicts, including the ones who are violent and vicious, who break bones and who terrorize train passengers, who destroy the fabric of city streets and open places and who make it impossible for parents to bring their children into the parks bursting with sprint flowers, let’s also pause for a moment to consider what we owe to those who are the silent victims of the scourge: Families, friends, and strangers whose only crime is being in the wrong wrong time.
Frankly, I’m tired of the do-gooders preaching to me to shut up about my anger at these destroyers of peace. I’m fed up with the holier-than-thou masses who shout down at me from their mountains of superiority, giving me lessons in how hard it is to shake an addiction. I’m over the people who keep saying “it’s a disease, dammit!” and plug up their ears when I say “a self-inflicted one, dammit!”
I’m even willing to bow to the experts on addiction and concede that there is some truth to the science of addiction, because I have seen firsthand how normal humans can be biologically transformed into hollow-eyed zombies looking only for their next fix. There is an alchemy there, a change worked upon the body and the spirit by these toxins.
But I’m not going to be silent when I see humans turn into animals and prey on other innocent beings, or bow my head and pray for their redemption. I will pray, all right, that the victim is made whole and brought to a place of peace and safety.
Only then will I have some consideration left over, a few beads on my rosary, for the suffering, victimizing addict. And if that guarantees for me a place in purgatory, or hell, so be it. Leave your comments online Use hashtag place at the at