I spent Saturday off Twitter and Facebook and kept my phone hidden so that I could get in some valuable family time. When I peeked at Facebook after dinner, my stream was abuzz with Whitney Houston's death. While no cause of death has been named yet, there is speculation that the pop diva of my youth drowned in her bathtub after taking a deadly mix of prescription drugs and alcohol.
Sad? Yes.
Tragic? Perhaps.
Expected? Maybe so.
Perhaps I'm blessed that I've never had a drug or alcohol problem. I partied in my 20s with the rest of 'em. I experimented with a few drugs that are known to be addictive. I smoked and snorted and drank at frat parties like every other insecure girl there. And then I grew up. I grew out of it. Now as real adult (you know, one that doesn't call her dad at the end of every month asking for $50), I have a glass of wine maybe once a week. I walked away from all that crazy and I feel blessed that walking away was more than easy. It was effortless. So effortless that when I walked away, I didn't even realize the importance of it.
But I have friends and family that haven't been able to walk away on their own. I've watched them destroy their lives during their addiction. I've watched them try to pick up the pieces. And I've seen that once something is broken, no matter how much glue you have to put it back together, it never quite fits the same way. I've witnessed people closest to me fall back into addiction just when you thought they were pulling themselves together. I've been there to walk beside those whose journey in recovery never ends. Never. I've never been more proud of these people.
One of Neville's childhood friends is an alcoholic. A raging one at that. I've known him as long as I've known Neville. Over the course of the 12 years, he's always been an alcoholic. I've seen him get sick at parties. I've heard Neville's phone ring in the middle of the night because he's too drunk to even walk home. I've had to ask him to leave when he shows up fully loaded at our house to play with our kids. At 33, Neville's friend is dying, slowly and painfully, from his addiction. His liver has begun to shut down. The doctors have given him two years at most - if he stops drinking. Less, if he continues to drown himself in jack and coke.
Neville's friend is a talented guy. He's funny. He's caring. My children love him. He's patient and kind. He's smart. He's drinking his life away. Literally. He's taking forty years off his life - maybe more - by poisoning himself. And it's unbearable to watch.
So I'm not going to wax poetic about Whitney Houston. I'm not going to reminisce about her music - the music of my childhood. I'm not going to pretend that her death was tragic. The tragedy began long before her death. It began when Whitney continued to abuse. It continued when Whitney didn't get help. The tragedy wasn't in her death. It was in her life.
Drug addiction, from what I can gather, is like a death sentence. It's a prison. But here's the remarkable part. The addict himself is the warden. He has the key to his release. It's recovery. It's asking for help. It's a choice that may seem impossible to make. But it can be done.
Just as Neville can't release his friend from his addiction, we can't take pity on Whitney Houston's death. If you want to honor her, stop posting her videos from the 80s and seek out a friend who is struggling with addiction. Help someone see that they are worthy of recovery. They are worthy of life. They are worthy. Period.
