Rest in Pieces

As is the norm these days I learnt about Chad’s death from a Facebook post. His name, colored in the familiar blue of hyperlinks, gut punched me. We were not particularly close. We had befriended one another at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting in Palm Springs. He was very good to look at and I was always happier when he showed up for a meeting. He knew I was cruising him and he cruised me right back. Conversations were cursory and superficial, but somewhere along the way we exchanged information and began a sextual relationship using Facebook’s Messenger and WhatsApp.

Chad was part of a large family, although following the immediate news of his death there was nothing anyone had posted on his Facebook page suggesting there was any truth to it. I instinctively wanted to write something but, given the limits of our interactions and the primarily flirtatious nature of our communications, there wasn’t much that I felt compelled to share in that moment. Something about the absence of any acknowledgment of his death cautioned me to refrain.

When the notices and messages acknowledging his death did eventually begin propagating I was glad I had remained silent. Chad was a loving son, brother, uncle and friend to many. He touched many lives. Yet none of the notes nor obituaries stated what had happened to this young, healthy, vibrant, handsome, 42 year-old man. Of course not.

For those who have spent time in recovery the unspoken is often enough. Unless something specific is mentioned — like a tragic car accident or heart attack — the likelihood of what caused the death is addiction-related. It’s a fair assumption. Whether it’s a mistaken or deliberate overdose, or a calculated suicide, there are few other predictable outcomes.

Somehow the silence — or perhaps worse, euphemisms — in the obituaries were more unsettling to me than Chad’s actual death. He was gone. It was all over for him. Whatever pain punctuated his life had finally come to an end for him. The sadness and the pain now transferred to the loved ones he left behind.

I’m not sure what I was expecting exactly. I certainly didn’t need graphic details, but at least some kind of acknowledgement about his struggles would have helped explain such a tragic loss. Not just for me, but for anyone trying to make sense of it. We tend to rely on euphemisms to soften the blow. To mask the magnitude of the loss. To mitigate the pain of the reality. We pass. We pass away. We pass on. We transition. Words that tiptoe around the finality of the word death.

All this raised a fundamental question for me. Was the aftermath of his death simply a reflection of what caused it?

The shame and its attendant silence that Chad struggled with through his life was being replicated in how he was being remembered in death. Of course he was more than his addiction and his sexuality, but he navigated a society where those traits were demonized and vilified at every turn. He may have come to terms with his sexuality (although images of him as a younger man suggest he grew up closeted in a big boisterous testosterone fueled family of five brothers) but the scars of youth are deep and linger. The narrative that defines many gay people is frequently one of deep shame, and all too often is one of the primary sources of the numbing that ensues, characterized by addiction, that further fuels the shame.

It’s easier to navigate that shame with the help of substances. Chad had grappled with these issues even though we had never personally discussed them. He had even recorded a video discussing the roller coaster ride of addiction and recovery, doing his best to make others understand that there shouldn’t be any shame when it comes to addiction. That empathy is more helpful to an addict than judgment and condemnation. The extent to which being an addict isn’t fun. The perpetual cycle of self-loathing and self-love that characterizes the condition. He was tuned into it.

And yet at the end of the day Chad chose to let the numbing win. Whether consciously or not. He had had enough. I hope for his sake that the end was indeed mind-numbing oblivion rather than pain and guilt. That the payoff was worth it.

It turns out Chad had relapsed and had subsequently overdosed. Whether it was the first conflicted dose of a relapse, or the tail end of a binge, is irrelevant. The euphoria of the high after a period of sobriety is always tinged with an element of guilt. A gut feeling of knowing what’s about to happen — the people you’re likely to disappoint, and most importantly yourself. And yet you go ahead anyway. Fuck it. Fuck them. Fuck everyone. You don’t expect to die but whether or not you will is hardly a consideration — and if it is a consideration, the risk at that moment seems worth it.

So Chad dies. His pain journey is over. He is given a Catholic funeral which is live-streamed. These are the times we live in. (A Catholic funeral is quite possibly the worst way for anyone living to have to say goodbye to someone. At least that’s how it was for me. The forlorn operatic baritone over-singing, making every hymn sound the same, was so monotonous it made me want to slit my wrists. )

The priest who clearly didn’t know Chad, but had spent a bit of time reading Facebook posts, decided that Chad was happy. That his legacy was one of happiness. Judging from the photos he had seen, Chad was always smiling, always joshing around, always happy. Because, of course, what more epitomizes someone struggling with addiction and sobriety to the point it kills him? Perpetual happiness. It made me want to shake the priest by his collar and tell him to wake the fuck up.

Chad obviously had happy moments like we all do, but he was also tormented and sad. As good-looking as he was, there was a sadness in his eyes. Perhaps it was what made him so alluring. Chad sought to de-numb himself through recovery but he also understood that relapsing and using wasn’t fun. It was devastating. And difficult. And exhausting.

The idea that a gay man raised in a Catholic home and forced to navigate the cruelty of the church’s antiquated views on his very existence — enough for him to seek solace in the chemicals and other distractions — was now being sober-washed and desexualized, is cruelly ironic.

It’s not my place to second guess how his funeral ought to have been orchestrated. After all the ceremony is for his family and the manner in which they process their grief is their private prerogative. There is absolutely no doubt about how much they loved him. But it seems they were remembering an idealized version of him that only skimmed the surface of who he was in the world. The very ceremony that lauded this idealized construction would, in fact, have contributed significantly to his unhappiness. They wouldn’t have accepted his relationship with another man. They would have deemed him a sinner. Some “love the sinner, hate the sin” bullshit. They would have viewed his addiction as a weakness, and like his sexuality, a moral failing. They would have done everything in their power to ensure his unhappiness.

So I choose to remember Chad for his totality. For his struggles, trials and tribulations as much as his kindness and generosity. He was much bigger than the image through which the priest and Facebook posts sought to portray him, and more complex. The kind, goofy, fun-loving friend, sibling, son, brother and uncle were components of him, but they were roles he played. They did not define his essence.

I choose to tell this story because these stories need to be told until shame and stigma stop perpetuating the condition. Slid under the rug with innuendo and circumlocution. Until we can confront these issues without condemnation and judgment. Until we look at the underlying causes of addiction, such as mental health and wellness, rather than continue to simply chalk it up to an incurable, fatal disease.

I am revealing a lot about myself in this piece, because I owe it to Chad to the extent I have used him as a mirror.

The ultimate question I am grappling with is the extent to which my own de-numbing has been worth the effort — and to what end and for what purpose. Despite having spent the last four years excavating it in writing — digging in the dirt, and exposing the wounds — I am left with more questions than answers. And with an uncomfortableness resulting from feeling everything I once ran away from. And with the emotional toll such a degree of introspection ended up costing. I had no idea my de-numbing process would be further framed by the additional existential questions raised by a global pandemic.

Am I inspired by my ability to stop using substances as an escape? Sure, even though I may occasionally still enjoy a foray into chemically induced oblivion. As a treat more than an escape. (At least that’s what I tell myself. I’ll leave it to the armchair psychologists to draw their own conclusions as to whether I’m deluded or they are qualified to judge.) But tempered with the terrifying notion that just one mistake — one hit, one snort, one gulp, one line, one inhale — could trigger a cascading domino chain of events resulting in an irreversible outcome that will forever define my life, and possibly death. The very moment Chad chose to roll the dice.

For me the next chapter is figuring out how to find peace in the uncomfortableness. To embrace it and be conscious of the ways I seek numbness when it all seems too much. It’s not only substances. It’s the quest for distraction. Whether it’s obsessive-compulsively binge-watching any crap Netflix vomits out, or jamming in my earphones to listen to music — anything that distracts from the incessant thoughts permeating my head. Seeking numbness by avoiding the reality in front of me. I don’t think my desire to engage in some kind of escape will ever go away. In some ways it is how I survive.

The power lies in figuring out how to put on the brakes when necessary and avoid the excesses. To know when to put the dice down rather than roll them. To fine-tune the alarm so that it rings loudly enough for me to hear it when danger looms. Or care enough to listen to it.

I have changed names and a few other details to protect and respect the anonymity of anyone involved.