The fallout from my son’s addiction–that is, the ways his problem is our problem–got worse yesterday, in a way I didn’t expect. I read a new essay I wrote to a group of peers. It’s about Chris’ meth addiction, and the writers who listened are normally supportive and kind. I think I’m the only confessing Christian out of six members, but the group’s unwritten code is tolerance, diversity. Yet never have I felt so abandoned and ashamed.
If you are thinking about becoming a writer, please understand that your skin is going to need to become much thicker than it may be today. It’s tough, writing as honestly as you know how, only to have others (readers!) pull you apart for bad sentences, unintended meanings, missed opportunities to dazzle with well-crafted prose.
I often think Jesus’ apostles had to be tough, too. They couldn’t stop telling what they’d seen and heard even when their lives were in jeopardy. At my group my life wasn’t on the line, but my ego was.
I know I walk a fine line, telling about what I know about this drug called meth. It’s not easy to air my family’s insanity for all to see. But the real test is to write honestly and stay far away from any hint of self-pity, self-indulgence or just plain stupidity. I read the story of my son’s five day binges, the ones where every time he recovers and everything is going to be different this time, he slips away for another binge, and the cycle begins anew. As I read aloud, I winced inside, knowing my husband and I seem like idiots in the level of our continued enabling. And, sure enough, some members (those who are usually supportive and kind) pounced with near disdain upon the glaring errors our family commits .
One member said, “This borders on having the air of ‘poor me.'” I wanted to shout, “Not intended!” but I stared into my notebook. Another said she was completely turned off by our enabling (that is, allowing ourselves to keep helping him after he’s conned his way back into our house and our hearts one time too many.) A third said my essay was brave but almost too voyeuristic.
By the time I left the meeting, I burned with shame. That deep shame haunted me all afternnon, until I wondered if the apostles ever felt embarrassed to be associated with a guy whose ideas brought society to its knees, who radical honesty made it impossible for his followers to conform to the corrupt and the cruel.
In my meeting, not much was said about whether my essay hung together, if the writing was weak or how to fix it. Likewise, the fools who still told the truth about Jesus–knowing they could be stoned or worse for speaking out–had to prepare themselves to be rejected the same ways Jesus had been rejected.
Today I’m not as hurt or filled with shame as I was sitting with my peers. I have to prepare myself for critics who may blast us for not doing this or that, for putting up with too much, for not showing our son the door long ago. I am learning that if you write (or talk) about your life honestly, in ways that make others uncomfortable, be prepared for some discomfort yourself.