Incomprehensible: The Irony of Life

I knew it was going to be a bad day when I decided to quickly grab a few items from the grocery store before heading to work. I never do that. I am always running late, but that morning, it felt as though the store was calling me. I cut the engine and sat there for a minute, gripping the steering wheel. It was 7:50 AM; I was supposed to be at work by 8:00. When I finally stepped out of my car, I looked up and saw my younger brother walking toward me. An eerie weight collapsed onto my chest, but I forced a smile and said, “Hi.” He bypassed the pleasantries and went straight to the point. “Mom hasn’t slept in three days. Tessa has kept her awake.”I took a deep breath and told him I would go right over. But first, I walked into the grocery store. Inside, my mind went entirely blank—I couldn’t even remember what I had come in for. I just walked the aisles, praying for God to give me the strength to face what was coming.

You see, I don’t have a "normal" family—though who really does anyway? Addiction runs deep within us. Alcoholism, drug abuse, depression, anxiety—you name it, we have it. We medicate ourselves to soothe our pain. Tessa was no exception. She had been addicted to opioids for arthritis pain for years, and it had only gotten worse. As with every addict, her disease became a "family disease." It never just affects the person taking the pills. For years, it had created a destructive ripple effect, shattering trust and warping the dynamics of my mother’s household. We lived under immense emotional and psychological strain, all because Tessa chose to silence her pain while the rest of us screamed in agony.

As I approached what was once my mother’s peaceful home, a suffocating blend of dread and hyper-awareness washed over me, the kind you feel when approaching a haunted house. I walked in to find the frail visage of my aging mother. Her eyes were red, swollen, and drooping with exhaustion. I hugged her tightly, then turned to face my sister. She lay on my mother’s bed, buried under the covers, fast asleep. I ripped the blankets off and told her to wake up. She couldn’t—or perhaps she wouldn’t. Finally, her eyes fluttered open. I yelled at her, desperate to make her listen. My voice sounded controlled, but my heart was screaming because I was hurting so deeply for my mother. I told her she needed to snap out of it, or I would send her to rehab. She looked up at me with a glossy, hollow gaze. Through those soulless eyes, she grinned. It was a chilling moment. I knew right then that she was fully aware of the chaos she was causing. The pain and fury boiled over, and I screamed at her. How could she put an elderly woman through this?

But Tessa didn’t change. She didn’t even try. Instead, she became a needy, distant ghost to her own children. Bitterness grew among her siblings, leaving only heartbreak for our mother—the only one who would still be there for her.I walked away because I had given everything I could of the person I once was. I lost my purpose. How can someone choose this road? Why put yourself through this type of pain on top of your existing pain?

She started asking for money from distant family because the help she once relied on was gone. I heard rumors that she was buying opioids off the street, and that she was badmouthing us, claiming our family didn’t care. How were we now the villains? Her own children stopped coming around; she had drained them of all their life and love. Yet, there she was in my mother’s home, still sucking the life out of her, too. The rest of the family hardly visited when she was around. It broke my heart, but I understood. As a mother, you do anything for your children. So, I stood back, and I let my mother do everything for her.

Months and years passed, and now here I sit—in a place no one ever wants to be. The tears of her children, the pain they’ve endured, and the sheer fatigue in their eyes and bodies are completely visible. They fought so hard for her. Her brothers and sisters, who had a front-row seat to her badmouthing, stand in silence, having come simply to say goodbye. Then there is the unfathomable sadness of our mother, the unimaginable pain of burying a child permanently embedded in her crying eyes. Yet, under it all, the pain is the same: just pure sadness. We fight to live another day, yet she said she was tired. But tired of what? You did this to yourself. You continued to feed your body the disease of opioids, damaging every part of yourself, and when there was nowhere left to run, and no one left to lie to, you just gave up. Here we are, mourning a daughter, a sister, and a mother whose conflicted life left us with such conflicting feelings at the end. When this silence should be filled only with tears of grief and longing, there is instead awkwardness in what we all feel. Is this longing a fragment of my guilt of not doing enough or the void of broken relationship with someone whom you should have an inseparable relationship. Left with all these tangled emotions without an end; and without a resolution.There is no neat goodbye here for anyone and no answers to the questions you left behind. So I will simply sit with the silence, carry the love we once had, and try to find my own peace. Save our mother from this yearning pain and for those who fight for a beautiful life fight for the live we all deserve and start living our lives once again no matter how estranged life can seem. I started this journey praying to God for strength here I am with the strength he gave me.