The Death of an Alcoholic, the Death of a Culture

For all those who have lost someone to alcoholism and drug-addiction...


Wishful Thinking from a Degenerative Timeline

I wish I could say that she passed amongst friends and family, surrounded by the love and comfort of those closest to her.  I wish I could think this was the natural end to the natural circumstances of life, an inevitable conclusion that we all will some day face.  I wish I could tell people that, though her life had expired, we could find solace in the remaining memory of a life lived to it’s fullest.

But, as the saying goes, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

In truth, she died alone, deceased for a day before anyone noticed, living in family-provided residence after bankruptcy filings from years prior left her unable to pay her own rent.

A 62-year old life cut short by the consequences of personal decision making.  The inability to deal with the strange and harsh realities of life claiming another soul, and with it, all future possibility of happy moments and cherished memories.  She will not see her 1-year old granddaughter grow, or her son marry.

When she passed, she had no money to name, her entire life savings long gone years prior for the addiction of instant and short-lived satisfaction of alcohol, jewelry, and expensive landscaping.  That was the whole point though; the polished exterior, a front for the decay consuming within.

But, isn’t that all that matters these days? Objective truths are obsolete.

What do you identify as?  Are you generous?  Are you kind?  Actions be damned, how do you FEEL?

By all those standards, she was a victim.

Fictionalized Identities in an Objective Reality

My first intervention some 16 years ago, any awareness about what had already become an easily discernible problem fell on deaf ears.  I said, it is not normal to consume alcohol all day, everyday.  It did not matter.

She did not identify as an alcoholic.  And I’ll be damned if a decade and a half later, approaching what would be her final months of life, the plain reality was still utterly rejected.  In the course of that timespan, I’m not sure if I ever heard an honest and open acknowledgement of the reality of the addiction.

When the tremors and hand shaking became a constant at age 53, she would tell any who noticed it was Parkinson’s.

When she couldn’t find anyone who would employ a person of such rapidly declining mental and physical status at age 55, she would say the unemployment was due to an MBA-graduate being overqualified for such positions.

When her doctor warned that her liver was failing and her blood-cell count was falling to critical levels at age 58, she told family she was afflicted by brain cancer.

And when she finally lost her ability to walk autonomously at age 60, she said it was from her genetic inheritance of arthritis and osteoporosis.

Glancing back over the last 2,000 days of absolute madness, the final 5 years of life for my mother, the woman who once earned an impressive salary as a corporate pharmaceutical sales manager, it is hard not to notice the decay into a physically-decrepit and mentally-delusional alcoholic happened in tandem with our own cultural devolution, and for the same reason:  valuing feelings over facts.  She was poster-child for a society that has discarded unsettling truths for comforting lies.  I can only wonder if the future for our species holds the same self-inflicted suicide that led to my own familiar turmoil and demise.

She did not wish to identify the state of reality, the true nature of affairs, and it killed her.  The destruction of humanities fundamental evolutionary tool, the ability to discover the true nature of being and applying this knowledge to create a brighter tomorrow, took with it any ability for recovery.

She never identified as an alcoholic, and thus, never got sober.

Could This Be Your Future?    

What is YOUR reality?  Is it in harmony with how the world actually exists?  Without human pursuance of the objective ways of the universe, as a species, we all will head towards this same demise;  no hope for a happier tomorrow, meandering in a life filled with the mundanity of now, paid for at the expense of the future.

The death of an alcoholic, and the death of a culture, dancing gleefully in lockstep toward their own eradication.



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