- Alcohol
- Drugs
I met a person today whose story validated my mission to write about life even when I don’t want to. It was a strange meeting that seemed to be more of a destiny than a casual conversation between two strangers. The empty space in the heart of a stranger is almost more visible than a friend or a loved one in need.
The day was warm, although the clouds were dark and the wind was blowing. There was an empty seat on a park bench where no wind or chill of the air could touch, and so I sat down. Seated on the other end of this bench was a stranger. Within minutes I felt a sense of sadness floating above this stranger.
I watched in silence while trying not to invade the stranger’s quiet time. I was drawn to continue watching, and I did not know why or for what reason. I allowed this quiet time to settle on the two of us and knew we were meant to occupy this space together. About 15 minutes into my meditative state, I heard the whisper of a small voice, and my silence was broken. I glanced to my right and met the eyes of the person whose heart shared this bench, and I said, “I’m sorry, I did not hear your words clearly, were you speaking to me?”
“Yes,” said the stranger, “I was. I asked, ‘Do you feel it too?’ Do you feel the emptiness, the void of the world? Do you feel it too?” I was not completely sure I was following the conversation, but I heard this soft-spoken stranger say, “I have seen more death than anyone should see. I have attended more funerals than a body should attend, and I’ve hugged more people with broken hearts than I’ve hugged those whose hearts are happy.” The stranger’s words continued to flow in a sad, yet poetic fashion. “I’ve bought more flowers for funerals than I have for weddings. Actually, I’ve never been to a wedding, but I’ve heard they are fun.” The conversation stopped, and, once again, we sat in silence and shared a bench in the park.
A few minutes passed before the stranger’s words continued: “I’ve dried more tears of pain than I’ve dried tears of joy. I’ve packed up more personal belongings of someone gone too soon than of someone moving into a new home. I’ve served more meals to families whose hearts are broken from pain than I have to families in need of a hot meal, and I have more friends gone because of an overdose than I have those still standing near me. It would take more than two hands to count the number of friends who left too soon, but I only need one hand to count the friends that are still here.”
I watched this stranger in silence, as I had no poetic words to share. We sat and enjoyed the warmth of the sun for several more minutes. We shared this bench in the park, and, still, I was uncertain as to why this encounter had occurred. Was I meant to tell a story? Was I meant to share my own words with this stranger who was sharing such profound ones with me?
It felt like hours had passed since the conversation ended, yet only minutes surrounded us before I replied, “I knew you had experienced pain. I saw it in your eyes, though I was not sure where it came from. I have seen this pain in others when I watch and listen to stories unfold in a special support group I attend, and I have struggled with fear when watching my own child struggle to find his place in this often-chaotic world.”
I continued my conversation with this stranger who occupied the other end of the bench. I shared, “I write stories about the pain I see, the pain I feel or the pain I witness in those around me, and sometimes I want to run away and hide. I want to stop writing about pain and fear, and I want to write about happy times. I want to write about love and about a child’s first steps, and at times I want to stop writing altogether, but I can’t because there are so many stories yet to be told.” At that moment we both stopped talking, and once again we sat in silence and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on a bench in the park. I’m not sure why I shared this information, but I felt somehow compelled to volunteer my story.
It appeared we both said what we needed to or were meant to say or to share with one another. At nearly the same moment in time, we stood up, looked into each other’s sad eyes and prepared to leave and continue on with our day. As we stood in an almost awkward moment of silence, this stranger turned to me and said, “I am only sixteen years old, and this is not how my life was suppose to be. I don’t think I am old enough to have witnessed so much in such a short period of time, and I don’t know what to do with what I have seen in this sad world.” I hugged this child. I felt the tears in my eyes, and I felt the tears in my heart. I now understood this chance meeting with this young soul was not a chance meeting after all. It was a strange destiny for each of us.
As we parted, I offered these final words to the stranger who shared a bench in the park: “I know some wonderful people who can help you to deal with or to better understand what you’ve been through. I can give you their numbers.” This young boy looked at me, smiled a most beautiful smile and said, “I just met one, and I want you to talk about me. Maybe someone who reads the words I know you will write will offer hope to a stranger in the park. I will be fine. I know there are better days ahead for me, and I surround myself with positive people. For many others there is only the dream or the vision of a better future.”
I watched as this child of only sixteen years walked away, and I cried. He was right. He was far too young to have seen or to have witnessed so much pain, and yet he did seem to know or to understand that there is hope for a better life especially if we show others in need that someone, even a stranger, cares. I will continue to write, and I will continue to share the stories of those I meet as I journey through the world of addiction.
As difficult as it is for me to write the stories of so many who struggle with the disease of addiction, their stories may help to heal a broken heart or offer a ray of warmth to a stranger in need of a hug.