I was 18, when two meth users – friends of mine at the time – were smoking in one of their bedrooms one night after clubbing. I was one of those anti-drug judgmental people, but for whatever reason, I let my guard down as I glimpsed to see one of them rocking the pipe to service the other. They asked if I wanted to try it, and I said no. Then they asked again.
I think it was how nice they were, and how they assured me that I wouldn’t die (then and there at least) and that it would make me feel great. I took my first hit, and the rest you can figure out. I became an addict. I would use the drug chronically on and off for nearly 20 years, graduating some 15 years later to shooting the drug into my veins.
Some of you might be tempted to feel contempt for my two friends who offered the drug to me. Don’t. My addiction isn’t their fault. The underlying factors for my fall to peer pressure wasn’t their fault. How I damaged my life and the lives of others for the next two decades was not their fault.
It was all mine.
I’ve been sober for years (I take THC-infused gummies at night to help with my insomnia, quit cigarettes, and rarely drink alcohol), and think about my drug use less and less as the days go by. For an addict, this certainly is a gift; the more a sober addict remembers the high, the higher the risk of a relapse. These days I am blessed to remember everything I hated about being a drug user.
Among my thoughts in hindsight is my gratitude for my family. They never supported my drug habit. They never condoned it. The second time I got chronic, I was living in a slum with a bunch of other users and this one night I called my dad to ask him to bring me canned goods. We were so hungry. He came to the door, dropped off a bag, and said it was the last time he would give me anything while I was using.
I’ll never stop being grateful that my dad knew exactly what to do with me, when I was destroying myself.
That occasion was a wake up call for me to control my appetite for meth, though it would be another 20 years before I would stop cold turkey. I learned how to be what many call a ‘functioning addict;’ a meth user who parties largely on the weekends, and is able to hold down a job without much suspicion of drug use.
In the past six years in my journey of sobriety, I have learned a great deal about myself. But what I’m most grateful for is what I’ve learned about myself as a child of God. My life from middle school to my fourth decade was the same self-destructive, sinful prison sentence of addiction, lust, and vanity bordered by unhealthy boundaries of self-consciousness, extreme desire for privacy, and a selfish, hardened heart.
God works in mysterious ways.
Seven years ago I was arrested, and my privacy died. At the time I had no idea what to do with myself. I was fully exposed, and in a situation completely out of my control. At first I blamed everyone involved with my arrest and exacted nuclear vengeance. And while I wasn’t wrong that the more culpable of these were bad people who had targeted me for bad reasons, it took me some time to realize they had done me the greatest favor.
That was the crossroad of the defining change in my life. Not the sobriety that would ensue. The Christian journey I would take.
I’ve been reading the comments many have been making about the three siblings who recently were arrested and charged for a string of heinous crimes. I understand the outrage over what they allegedly did. I could not begin to imagine the trauma the victims must live with for the rest of their lives. If proven at trial, they absolutely should repay their debt to the victims and to society. But I refuse to condemn them.
As much as (you or) I want to believe that we could never do things like that, the truth is life has so many twists and turns, and we can never truly be in control. The same can be said about our attitudes and outlooks toward the disheveled poor walking the streets. It is easy to judge their situation, make assumptions (that likely are partially correct) about drug addiction, or to dismiss them altogether. But I presume it would be much harder to walk a mile in their shoes.
I say these things because, as we enter Holy Week, the challenge we face is to see Christ in each other; and that is especially difficult through our judgments, prejudices, established mores and boundaries, and our perceptions of how others should act and be.
One of the more unfortunate political debates enveloping American society deals with the rights and the very existence of transgender citizens.
Transphobia and transhate make no sense to me. What is so wrong with a human being born with free will – an American at that – who decides to dress a certain way, identify with one part of a gender construct, or to urinate or defecate peacefully and privately where they and others won’t be at risk of harm? I don’t know enough about the subject of gender division in sports, so I’ll refrain from commenting on that. But everything else? Why do some keep such preoccupation with another person’s genitals?
At my parish, Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church in Yigo, many of my transgender “sisters” are parishioners as well. They sing. They pray. They are joyful, with eyes fixed to the Crucifix. I can’t think of a single reason why any of them shouldn’t be there. In fact, I can’t think of one reason why any person should not be welcome into our parish or any other.
That includes people like me, a man with a terrible past who continues to fall to sin of different sorts. That includes people like Jathan Tedtaotao or Jeromy Pangelinan or Shaenita Pangelinan. That includes the street beggar with mental health and substance abuse issues. That includes you, no matter what you have done or what you are doing. That includes the people who have wronged you and me, no matter what they did to us.
My Christian journey the past six years has opened my eyes to the message of Christ that politics and agendas have bastardized. These politics and agendas are convincing so many people that segments of our society should be abandoned and marginalized. They are telling us that men and women should be a certain way, have some ridiculous ideal of loyalty that creates idolatrous cults, and rewarding hatred and pride with self aggrandizement.
Had I followed that path or paid attention to those messages – and they were loud in the period following my arrest – I would not have followed the Christian path that has shown me the power of love — the virtue of seeing Christ in every person and falling in Love with His Creation, and every person He has created. Had I relied on myself and fallen to the temptation of ignoring and qualifying my sinful ways, I would be hateful and spiteful, not joyful and grateful.
But, Christ took my hand and led me to Him the moment I turned from my Prodigal ways to make my way home – ashamed and scared – to the arms of the Father whom I spurned. My story is the story of every sinner. Take this journey with me.
I hope to see you all at Holy Mass this Holy Week. A blessed and glorious Palm Sunday to you all.
