His name is Austin. He's my son. He was the second of 6 siblings. He’s Over 6 feet tall, blonde, and absolutely handsome. So artistic and brilliant, and funny to talk to. Animals are a passion of his, and for good reason, they loved him. Some of his most treasured times were spent on a lake in his kayak fishing with his dad. He loved nature, and modern electronics…so many interests he couldn't settle on just one. He developed his own teas, grew the leaves himself, drying the leaves and making variations in flavors. With an Entrepreneur type of aptitude, and an unmatched gift of Gab, he could talk to anyone. He has taken beautiful photos, all inspired by nature, small captures of his minds eye. Music moved him, and his favorite singer lady gaga often spoke to him almost directly in her songs, or so he felt. He Was magnificent. He died April 25th, 2016. He was just days from his 19th birthday.
The most common question, of all that have been asked, is how did he pass. 19 is too young to die. It is too young, and no parent expects to ever be in such an awful reality. My son died of an overdose. He used heroin, and he died. What I want you too take away from this comes next. He is still my son, that I described above. He is still a brother, a grandchild, a nephew. He is still a person.
People have grown desensitized to overdoses, because they are all to prevalent in our society today. They use generalizations, little to no facts, and labels to discuss the issue and the people affected. Had my son died in s tragic accident with a drunk driver or a texting teen, had been an innocent child in a school shooting, or a victim of domestic violence, there would have been articles written, new laws proposed, benefit dinners to raise awareness and help curb expenses that no parent ever expects to have, as well as numerous calls to action for justice. There was nothing. It was as if the moment my child closed his beautiful eyes for the last time, his identity ceased to exist. He war now that “kid that overdosed”. “the druggie kid that died”, that “kid with problems”. He became a statistic. His entire identity fell under a heavy suffocating blanket of judgmental labels.
Judgement.
Let's put that label where it belongs. My son, like many others, was not a bad person. He had faced trauma as a child. Like so many others, he was failed by the justice system. He was tossed about in the system and segregated from his family in the process. So many of the programs in place for our children are developed with the right intentions, but are so unfair to the children affected, and their families. He was manipulated, confused, and terribly lonely. He tried medications, and when at good levels were helpful. But not unlike most teens, maintaining good levels through puberty is highly challenging. He often wouldn't feel good on them, and would stop taking them as a result. As he grew older, he turned to other ways of numbing the pain he felt. Misguided by those he thought he could trust, he started to experiment. One of our conversations no more than a week before he died, war about alcohol. He told me he thought he was am alcoholic. He said, “I'm just trying to feel happy”.
The alcohol use, marijuana, wasn’t a recreational way to have fun, or a cool thing to do with friends. It was a means to try and find happiness. My son suffered from mental illness.
Mental illness manifests itself in so many ways. Often it results in criminal activity, abusive behaviors, suicidal ideation, self sabotage or substance abuse. Mental ILLNESS, no different than cancer, or any other medical condition, yet hidden like a dirty secret.
Nearly everyday, in any scenario where drug use is discussed, it has become common practice to place that person's value far below that of a ”normal citizen”. I’ve done it myself, as have you if you are to be honest with yourself. We forget that they are people, and mean something to their families. We forget that even when they stopped caring for themselves that someone war losing sleep over them with worry. If you can't feel compassion for them, at least attempt to for those that love them, and keep your blissfully ignorant comments to yourself. I'll never forget the way I learned this lesson.
I'll never forget the phone call I received from his dad. Making arrangements. The tears of his siblings. The guilt for words unsaid. The panic of being trapped in a nightmare you can never wake from. The desire to follow him. Everyday when I wake, until I fall asleep that night, I remember.
I wear his ashes around my neck.
Please consider this the next time you hear of “another overdose” .
Their family members need support just like those of home coming queens, and quarterbacks. Their pain is the same as those that lost their most prized creations to accidents, and illness. They hurt the same. They do not want their child remembered as a statistic. To lose their identity because of how they died.
They died. If it's punishment your looking for, they have already paid the ultimate price.
He is not a statistic. He is not a label. He is not a disposable human being.
He is my son.
His name, was Austin.
