Six truths

1. A mother’s love

People say a mother’s love is blind, but that’s not true. A mother’s love is like x-ray vision. It sees her child’s soul, the ultimate source of truth. The only truth worth seeing. The rest of the human condition is camouflage.

I’m not blind. I see Tristan’s deceptions and hear his lies. I know his desperation, and where that leads him. Sometimes more clearly than he does. But that’s not the truth of who my son is. That’s the camouflage of addiction.

I also see Tristan’s radiant grin, overflowing into a goofy belly-laugh that washes us all clean. I smell his young-man scent, still distinctive through the mist of tobacco and Axe body wash. I wake up to his home-made cinnamon buns and caramel sauce, and the steaming cup of Earl Grey he makes just for me. I taste love in his hand-rolled gnocchi, prepared specially for his grandma on her birthday. I share his pride in his gold medals, and black belts, and sobriety fobs. I feel his solid warmth as he hugs me and says, “Love you, mom”, on his way out in the morning. I know his sensitive heart, fragile and fractured, so affected by the wounds of the world. So quick to self-blame. And I’m inspired by his bravery and strength as he fights to heal himself.

My love for Tristan isn’t blind. It’s complete.

2. Society’s stigma

 “There goes another junkie on a mission!” a dear friend says to me, again, as she points to a street person precariously balancing his worldly goods on his bike. She scorns his soulless appearance and dangerous maneuvering as he “hurries to his next fix.” She doesn’t see the person, only a farcical caricature.

I ask her to stop saying that around me. I explain how it feels like a punch to my gut every time. How the pain of her words literally stops my breath. She turns to me confused, and it’s a moment before she understands.

“Oh,” she says, “I’m so sorry. But Tristan isn’t like that.” She pauses before continuing. “Those junkies aren’t even people anymore,” she tells me. “They only have one function, and that’s to get their next fix. One of them growled at me the other day when I put garbage in the bin after work! I saw one open her purse and needles fell out everywhere, and she just left them. They break in to places and steal. They’re not themselves anymore, not who their parents loved. They’re just rabid animals, soulless zombies, who’ll do anything to get high. Tristan’s not like that, he’s such a sweetheart. Those junkies are monsters.”

I did not tell her of the time when Tristan sat among garbage in a dirty alleyway, in psychosis, yelling at his hallucinations. And how much I still loved him, in that moment, exactly as he was.

3. A roommate’s reminiscence

I spoke with one of Tristan’s roommates from a treatment centre he had spent time at. He told me, “Tristan was always up for adventure. He brought out the silly in me. Last spring, we went to English Bay and jumped in the icy cold ocean. It was freezing outside but in we went, stone cold sober. It was pure silliness. When we lived together at the house, he’d come home late after work and we’d go to this little baseball diamond near our place and lay on the ground, looking up at the stars. In the middle of the night, in the middle of winter. And we’d talk about everything or nothing and laugh like crazy over the stupidest things. In the morning, our sides would hurt from laughing so much.

Tristan was a little brother to me. He was a bit like a puppy, his eyes would light up when he saw me. But he was also my hero in recovery. He was inspiring. There’s a language and a rhythm to recovery, and he had it. There were times when he was just so into it, he could quote what was on page 62 in paragraph three of The Basic Text. He encouraged so many people. He’d tell us we’d be OK when we weren’t feeling it, but he said it in a way that made it seem true. We believed him and ended up believing in ourselves.”

4. A doctor’s rage

 I attended a Narcotics Anonymous meeting where one of Tristan’s friends was taking his two-year cake, celebrating 730 days of of sobriety. One of the people who chose to “share” at the meeting was Tristan’s sponsor, who also happened to be a medical doctor who specialized in addiction.

“We’re not stupid and the choices we make aren’t based on stupidity,” he said. “I have two PhD’s. I was always top of my class, and yet there was a time when I thought I was managing my drug addiction by drinking myself into a stupor every night. As long as I avoided the Demerol, I was fine, right? That’s the thinking of a person suffering from the disease of addiction. My problem is not with a specific drug. It’s with addiction and how it changes the way I think. That’s not stupidity.

We can’t shame ourselves, thinking we’re in control of every choice we make. We’re losing people with this thinking. A dear friend of mine, Tristan, died because he thought he was stupid. Because he made bad choices, again and again, and hated himself for it. He couldn’t understand that he was suffering from this disease of addiction which made it damned near impossible for him to make good choices at times. I watched Tristan struggle, and tried to help him understand that this isn’t about him, but he felt so sick and hopeless and at fault. So stupid. His shame tore him apart and finally killed him. And it breaks my heart because Tristan was one of the most sensitive souls I’ve ever known. Tristan had such a capacity to love and give himself to others. He didn’t need to die. None of us need to die. We need to realize that this is a disease that messes with our mind. We need to treat the disease. And stop telling ourselves we’re stupid.”

5. A sister’s gratitude

I watched my daughter share her story of experience, strength, and hope with a room full of 300 people. She was onstage, poised, as she spoke about how she stayed sober through grief and loss.

Her voice was steady and strong as she spoke into the microphone, gazing at the rapt crowd of young, heavily tattooed people in early recovery. She spoke of the terrible pain of losing Tristan—her little brother who saved her life by introducing her to recovery. Tristan, who was honest and vulnerable with her, before she could be honest with herself. Who was the first person to understand, love, and support her when she was finally able to say, “I’m not OK. I need help.” 

She told the crowd that she stayed sober through so much pain and grief because she allowed others to love her in the midst of her pain. At a time when she was only just beginning to rebuild her own life, she found the strength to fall and trust that others would catch her. And they did. By hurting out loud and letting people into her life, instead of shutting herself away, she was carried forward in love and community, until she could carry herself again.

She dedicated her recovery to Tristan, without whom, she may never have received its blessings.

6. Tristan’s wisdom

 “I believe very simply that I am just a man with a drug problem. Yes, I have hurt those around me—my family, friends, strangers—but I have also helped many people, loved many people, and helped them grow as human beings. I am human. I make mistakes and I solve them. I cause anger and I cause happiness. I could be seen as a monster, or a guy with a good heart who cares for people.”  
~ From Tristan’s journal, spring 2017