To tell this story, it will help to know the basic background of my family history. We are all well-to-do people with humbling jobs: my mother is a business owner, my father a body man for the city, my brother is a journeyman within the ironworks business, and I am a teacher. As the family branches out on my mother’s side, the humbleness varies from person to person, but we remain a family.
This is not a story demeaning those who use, shaming those with addiction, or even a story that paints an unrealistic dramatized version of the truth. This is real.
This story is about a family torn apart by meth.
No one is born addicted to drugs. Through a series of choices, a possible genetic predisposition to addiction, trauma both emotional and physical, and struggles with mental health, some look to state-altering substances to ease the pain or just enjoy the high. And ever since my uncle was young, he engaged in high-risk behaviors. By the time he was thirty, he had his license revoked after a near-fatal drunk driving accident, served jail time on multiple occasions, and eventually found himself on the path to meth addiction.
Years later, we are still seeing the effects of this, but it wasn’t until recently that things spun out of control, leaving his three sisters–one of which is my mother–, nieces and nephews, and other loved ones scrambling to find a way to help him.