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The Maelstrom – Chapter 3.3

Tim’s addiction notwithstanding, he was so compassionate and tender when the demons would rest. It would, however, be to whitewash his terrible behavior when they would awaken, to refuse the acknowledgement of how he put the who of his true self aside, as addicts inevitably do.

FB_IMG_1443631419037The story is tired and worn. The addict, driven by demons that manifest anger wrought from anguish and a sense of misunderstanding by friends and family, often lashes out at them. In the aftermath, he concerns himself with the destruction brought by his own hand and desperately tries to repair the damage that confronts him when the harsh reality of sobriety beckons. Continue reading

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The Maelstrom – Chapter 3.2

As I contemplate the draw of the Maelstrom and the descent of my family into the angry vortex of my son’s addiction, I contemplate more than anything the denial of truth addiction foments. The worst parts of addiction are the lies.

TimAndSparkyWhen we think of lies we tend to imagine them in individual terms, utterances from human lips intended to deceive. But intention has no place in the world of the addict. This thing that compels the human to act against his will of self-preservation obliterates any awareness of truth or reality.

The sense of what is true becomes lost in a sea non-truths that refuse to comport with reality. In my experience, the very sense of reality itself ceases to exist in the addict and how he deals with everyone around him. He ceases to understand what is real or imagined and things once known as certain can be transformed into things that no one but the addict recognizes. Continue reading

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The Maelstrom – Chapter 3.1

So many things preceded the storm. Things I haven’t mentioned. Things, the details of which seem so unimportant given my retrospective view, which forces me to evaluate what matters and what, ultimately, does not.

Photo_3.1The night Tim took his mother’s car, and challenged a friend to a race that ended with a care flight and a fractured vertebra, and which should have ended his life, but didn’t. The St. Patrick’s Day that same year, on which, unsupervised, all three children left the house with the dog to visit a friend, on a night, black as pitch. An innocent driver who was simply taking her family home didn’t see the family pet who ran into traffic striking her as my children looked on with no adult to assist them, save the attending police officer.

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