“Is this the long way?” she asked. And the guide said: “Yes, and the way is hard. And you will be old before you reach the end of it. But the end will be better than the beginning.”
But the young mother was happy, and she would not believe that anything could be better than these years. So she played with her children, and gathered flowers for them along the way, and bathed them in the clear streams; and the sun shone on them, and the young Mother cried, “Nothing will ever be lovelier than this.”
Then the night came, and the storm, and the path was dark, and the children shook with fear and cold, and the mother drew them close and covered them with her mantle, and the children said, “Mother, we are not afraid, for you are near, and no harm can come.” And the morning came, and there was a hill ahead, and the children climbed and grew weary, and the mother was weary. But at all times she said to the children, “A little patience and we are there.”
So the children climbed, and when they reached the top they said, “Mother, we would not have done it without you.” And the mother, when she lay down at night looked up at the stars and said, “This is a better day than the last, for my children have learned fortitude in the face of hardness. Yesterday I gave them courage. Today I have given them strength.”
And the next day came strange clouds which darkened the earth, clouds of war and hate and evil, and the children groped and stumbled, and the mother said: “Look up. Lift your eyes to the light.” And the children looked and saw above the clouds an everlasting glory, and it guided them beyond the darkness. And that night the Mother said, “ This is the best day of all, for I have shown my children God.”
And the days went on, and the weeks and the months and the years, and the mother grew old and she was little and bent, but her children were tall and strong, and walked with courage. And when the way was rough, they lifted her, for she was as light as a feather; and at last they came to a hill, and beyond they could see a shining road and golden gates flung wide. And mother said: “I have reached the end of my journey. And now I know the end is better than the beginning, for my children can walk alone, and their children after them.”
And the children said, “You will always walk with us, Mother, even when you have gone through the gates.” And they stood and watched her as she went on alone, and the gates closed after her. And they said: “We cannot see her, but she is with us still. A Mother like ours is more than a memory. She is a living presence.”
Your Mother is always with you
She’s the whisper of the leaves as you walk down the street, she’s the smell of bleach in your freshly laundered socks, she’s the cool hand on your brow when you’re not well.
Your Mother lives inside your laughter and she’s crystallized in every teardrop.
She’s the place you came from, your first home; and she’s the map you follow with every step you take.
She’s your first love and your first heartbreak, and nothing on earth can separate you...
Just a quick note to let everyone know that my novel, CUTE, is now available in trade paperback and in all electronic formats, including for the iPad, the Sony Reader, as a PDF or Plain Text file, and for the Amazon Kindle. To order, click on the approprate link below
I never thought I’d see the face of God before I die I never thought I’d find Him in the country I spent a lot of prayer asking how much instead of why And wondering what it really means to be free
But I saw Him in the autumn and I saw Him in the spring And in the summer sun against my window I saw Him painting flowers and I saw Him taking wing And I heard Him in the winter make the wind blow
Springtime came so softly, like a whisper in my ear And all the world was waking up around me The morning frost had turned to dew, the snow had disappeared The waking flowers smiling up to greet me
I heard the sound of footsteps on the fragrant summer breeze I heard the sound of tears in summer showers A thousand wild imaginings were singing in the trees And as I strolled in silence through the flowers
I saw Him walking slowly in the warming summer sun Chipmunks playing games upon His shoulders Leaving stalks of goldenrod to sway in unison And growing very slowly one year older
The autumn’s changing colors in the evening of the year The sleepy forest waits for night to fall As petals close and oak leaves fold and winter time grows near The artist paints in brilliant hues on green cathedral walls
Soon the swirling dewdrops turn to alabaster tears And clinging like a blanket to the hillside Secure and warm the flowers sleep to wake another year And as I sat in silence by their bedside
I saw Him put the earth to rest with one sweep of His hand I saw the great Mandela at His side And as the scene unfolded I began to understand That all the world would soon be purified
And though my God cannot be found in prose of ages past And though my chapel has no colored windows His presence is as clear to me as dewdrops on the grass And all my fears are stilled each time the wind blows
Just a quick note to let everyone know that my novel, Barbara, is now available in all electronic formats, including for the iPad, the Sony Reader, as a PDF or Plain Text file, and for the Amazon Kindle. To order, click on the approprate link below
Of all things I consider nowadays, the most positive I can think of is the potential (and I use the word "potential" for good reason) of Obama's presidency. Being a died-in-the-wool cynic, I no longer take anything at face value, nor do I allow myself to get caught up in euphoria or celebration over historical events (which this inauguration certainly is). It is my fervent hope that Obama will be able to do at least one-third of what he intends to do, and if he accomplishes that, I will consider his presidency to be a success. My greatest worry is that some idiot fundamentalist macho neo-Nazi will manage somehow to assassinate him.
Instead of reveling in the historical moment, we should all be thinking about what sacrifices we can make in the coming years—rather than waiting for our new president to solve all the problems put in place by the criminal, mass-murdering, incredibly corrupt and totally unrepentant Cheney Administration. And, yes, it was the Cheney Administration; Bush was of no consequence whatsoever as a president, other than responding to the jerks on his strings by The Devil Incarnate, Mr. Cheney. Kind of harsh, I guess some would say, but, well ... sorry, the truth is the truth, even if Political Correctness keeps most people from stating it clearly and without equivocation.
I wrote the words above to a friend of mine today; a woman of simple lifestyle, modest income and deep commitment to her fellow creatures and the environment in which they all must live. I was writing in response to her statement that the prospect of an Obama presidency gave her “hope.” After writing them, however, I realized I should make it clear that these admonishments were not aimed at her personally, since I had no doubt that she stood ready to make whatever sacrifices might become necessary.
I met Janet at a small church I once attended, and of all the people I met there, she was one of the most dedicated to understanding the world and it resources and the need to make personal sacrifices for the betterment of the universe (she was also the least evangelical about it). Though I probably never actually said it out loud, I always had high respect for the way she conducted her life, and her general indifference to monitory wealth or the social stature of those with whom she came in contact. Vanity, pride and ego are terms I could never in my wildest dreams think of applying to Janet, and because of that simple fact, I had greater respect for her than I did for most of the folks I met at the church. I strive to emulate her, as I do many other persons I have met, however, I always fall short.
In any case, I did add an addendum to the note explaining that I was not speaking about her, but more generally admonishing the now-mesmerized electorate to be prepared to do the things she had always done as naturally and instinctively as dressing in the morning. I also told her I shared her "hope" for the future, adding the following caveat:
‘There are no assurances, of course, though I do feel that the tone set, the concepts presented, and the power of having a positive, thoughtful, and intelligent person as president, may just help raise a dam against the roaring tide of corruption that has nearly drowned this country, and possibly lead us out of the wilderness of criminal government activities, into a new era of honesty (in so much as any politics can be honest), empathy, understanding and statesmanship in that bastion of indifferent, self-serving, money-grubbing, amoral fantasy called Washington DC.’
Though I had read about it a good bit, and even served as a volunteer probation officer once, dealing with a couple of heroin addicts, the truly devastating effects of drug addiction never really hit home until I realized that my son was an addict. Mike (not his real name) is 24 years old and has been hooked on several prescription drugs now for many years. His drug use began in late middle school with marijuana, and evolved over the years to include experimentation with several other drugs. However, none have been as destructive, both physically and emotionally, as the particularly sinister prescription drug, Oxycodone. This now-infamous pain medication has not only led to a powerful addiction, but the ramifications of its use have nearly destroyed Mike’s life, causing all manner of legal and health problems, including obesity, the loss of nearly all his teeth, the near destruction of his sinuses (due to snorting the crushed pills), and ultimately, his incarceration.
To see a kind-hearted, loving, intelligent, creative and talented kid, turn into a self-indulgent, desperate, dishonest, manipulative person, often in fear for his life from various drug dealers and sleazebags and riddled with medical and hygiene problems, is quite simply incredible to me. And, of course, Mike is not alone—far from it.
The epidemic of prescription drug abuse is much more far reaching than most might think. Mike once told me that, at one point in time, back in the early days of high school, when he was on the Honor Roll and was one of the most popular kids in school (the “class clown”), he didn't know anyone who did not do drugs of one sort or another. That, I said, sounded like quite an exaggeration, but he assured me it was true, and also that he knew (either casually or personally) practically everyone at the school. There were, he said, a few egghead or nerdy types that probably didn't do drugs, and maybe a few health-conscious athletes (though most of the football players did take steroids), but other than those he couldn't think of one kid who didn't at least dabble in drugs, most of which were of the prescription variety.
I have asked Mike to keep a journal while in jail, and as soon as he is able to buy some writing materials, he said he will (we cannot send such things to him, only money orders for his account, from which he then can buy things from the proverbial “company store”). He has, in the past, kept a journal, and as the years passed and he became more honest with me about his drug problems, his writings began to reveal a lot about the overall drug situation among teenagers of the 90s and early 2000s.
According to Mike, though marijuana was prevalent during his middle school and early high-school years, and other illegal drugs were also available, around the time he began high school, the drug scene changed in a way that drew in kids who might never have even considered doing illegal drugs. That change, he said, was due to the discovery by some kids that the prescription drugs they found in their parents’ medicine cabinets could also be used to get high. And the main reason they (and others they informed of this unexpected treat) were willing to try these drugs, was that they were not illegal, but were actually prescribed by doctors, and therefore “must be safe.” Once they realized what these drugs were being prescribed for, it was a simple thing to fake the necessary symptoms and have the drugs prescribed directly to them, rather than having to steal them in small quantities from parents. And in many cases, it was the parents themselves who facilitated this drug supply by believing the kids medical complaints, sending them to their insurance-paid-for doctors, and supplying them with insurance-supplemented prescriptions for drugs that would otherwise have cost hundreds of dollars.
Soon, alerted to the possibilities, there entered the clever drug dealers, many of whom were not street-drug pushers or anything like that at first; but were just kids or young adults who had access to money, and would offer to pay for clandestine doctor visits and expensive prescriptions, if the “mules” they supplemented would agree to give them a portion of the pills. And so began the era of teenage doctor shopping, and an explosion of pill-pushing doctors, who prescribed everything from muscle relaxants and anxiety meds, to the many painkillers, of which the worst offender was Oxycodone (basically synthetic heroin). These prescriptions were often prescribed with little or no testing or verification of the supposed physical problem they were intended to treat (back pain being the most prevalent imaginary ailment). And, of course, in the case of psychotropic drugs, there really was no way to verify medically that someone was suffering from anxiety or depression.
All this was enhanced and made ethically acceptable for the doctors by the fact that Oxycodone, when first placed on the market, was touted as being non-addictive, due to its synthetic nature. There are now dozens of lawsuits against Purdue Pharma and other manufacturers of pain killers like OxyContin, that contain Oxycodone, which is now known to be just as addictive as morphine or heroin.
Eventually, the underground trade in illicit prescription drugs became a large cottage industry, mostly carried out in the middle and high schools and among the created addicts who had grown into their early twenties. It starts with the idea (either original or induced by a peer or a teenage drug dealer) that a kid can go to a doctor, claim some type of ailment, receive prescription drugs, have the drug dealer pay for the doctor visit and prescription, give the drug dealer, say, half of the pills, then use the rest for recreational purposes. Of course, the newly created addict soon begins to run out of pills before his/her next doctor visit, so he/she decides to go to a different doctor with the same complaints. Meanwhile, the addict enters the world of drug trading in order to satisfy his/her needs until more pills can be acquired. This trading scenario, which is rampant among all these addicts, basically works like this: the addict, in almost desperate need of pills, goes back to the drug dealer (or a fellow addict) and begs for a supply. The drug dealer agrees, but only on the condition that the addict pays back twice (or more) the number of pills he/she has been advanced, thus reducing the addict’s “net gain” at each turn.
It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to extrapolate what happens from there on out. The situation almost automatically compounds itself, turning into a vicious circle, wherein the drug addict requires more and more, allowing the drug dealer to demand more and more, and so on until the addict begins committing crimes to acquire money, or cheats his/her dealer and is assaulted or killed, or dies of an overdose, or ends up in jail or prison. Meanwhile, the dealer has no real worries about losing a particular “mule,” because there is a nearly endless supply at any local middle or high school.
I know this scenario will sound to most folks like something that would only happen in the ghettos or rougher neighborhoods of large cities, but this all took (and takes) place in the most academically and socially prominent schools in Pasco County, Florida, which now serves as an upper-middle-class bedroom community of Tampa. Unfortunately, most parents suffer under the illusion that if a child is brought up strict enough, in the right neighborhood, with enough restrictions on his/her lifestyle, and is well provided for, they need not worry about him or her getting involved with drugs. Actually, this is far from true, especially when it comes to prescription drugs. I have known many of Mike’s now-addicted friends (including those who have died from drug abuse) from early on, and they run the gamut from modestly well off to rich, strict to liberal parenting, restricted to unsupervised social interactions, deeply religious to agnostic families, and just about every other variable you can think of. Plus, they all went to the same, highly rated schools. And the idea that kids could not possibly hide their drug use from parents, even in the strictest most heavily supervised and restrictive family environments is, according to Mike and his friends, a running joke to them.
There are no-doubt some exacerbating factors in the lives of many teenagers (including Mike) such as a low self-esteem due to the growing obesity epidemic, wanting to be accepted as “one of the guys/girls,” etc. However, according to Mike, it is more a matter of proximity, desire and peer pressure than anything else. And, as any seasoned parent who is honest with him or herself will acknowledge, once a child becomes a teenager, outside influences from peers become far more important and persuasive than anything a parent says or warns against. If you add to this the fact that parents often take prescription drugs for one thing or another, the idea that there might be danger in abusing them can be nearly non-existent in the minds of their children.
I’m sure this will sound like an exaggeration, however, I am not kidding when I say that no less than seven of Mike’s “friends” from high school have died in the past four years. Including his “best friend,” and three young girls. All these deaths have been associated with drugs, both prescription and illegal, mostly in deadly combinations and quantity. Some have been suicides attributed to anxiety disorders and depression, clearly brought on by drug use and exacerbated by the over prescribing of psychotropics. And at least one was due to an auto accident caused by a driver impaired by prescription drugs and alcohol.
Of course, this epidemic of prescription drug abuse also leads to other drug use, since the “high” created by the prescription drugs lowers inhibitions and opens the way for experimentation with just about anything out there. Drugs like LSD, ecstasy, crystal meth, cocaine, heroin, and many others are still readily available, and are used by kids as well, especially when they are first introduced to getting high through prescription drugs, which they thought of as “safe” in the beginning (Mike’s “best friend” had a total of six different drugs in his system, plus a good deal of alcohol, when he died).
I have spent hours, days even, discussing this with Mike in an attempt to get him to see that he needed to break the chain and exit the vicious circle. But even though it was crystal clear to him that he was headed down a dead-end street, with physical and mental devastation at the end, if not death or prison, he was unable to stop. Not that he didn’t try. Many times while he was living with me as a young adult, he would voluntarily give me his pills and let me ration them out to him, in hopes that he could eventually cut down on his intake, but it never worked. If he couldn’t convince me to stop the rationing, he would simply steal them back, or make other arrangements to get more from his dealer(s) and “friends” through the trading scenario, or by doctor shopping.
Everyone has heard about Rush Limbaugh and his addiction to Oxycodone, an addiction that led him into doctor shopping and other illegal activities. And there have been other high-profile cases in the news that have begun to expose what is really only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to prescription drug abuse. What is not getting enough publicity as of yet, however, is the enormous and growing problem among this nation’s youth that promises a next generation of addicts entering the workplace and society with enormous handicaps that will put extreme pressure on our legal and medical systems, not to mention causing the deaths of many and leaving families devastated with grief.
What I am hoping to do with this entry is to motivate parents who are either in denial about the growing epidemic or are simply ignoring the facts, to open their eyes and work hard to curb prescription drug abuse before it traps their children in the vicious cycle that has captured Mike and millions of others. Mike hopes to use his journal entries and experiences over the years to put together a book, or perhaps a series of articles on the subject, in order to help raise consciousness among parents and others and alert the public to the growing storm that approaches. Perhaps such personal reporting, written in first person with true stories, insights and observations, will have more impact than cold, factual, news reports buried on Page 14 of the newspaper. In any case, it is something to hope for and something that may help give Mike some purpose in his life; a life that has been adrift like bottle with no message bobbing on a sea of chemically induced apathy now for several years.
In the end, though, it will be up to parents and, to a lesser degree, the schools and the media, to educate and alert the next generation of kids to the truly devastating effects of prescription drug abuse. The time to do this is in grade school, not when kids become teenagers, which will often be far too late. As much as parents fear discussing such things with younger kids, and as hard as it may be to do so, believe me it is far easier than seeing one’s child lost to the prison system; or to the psychiatric ward; or, ultimately, to the morgue.
His name was “Crazy John,” and he lived, it seemed, on the streets of downtown St. Petersburg. Most folks remember a “Crazy John” from their youth; that oddball who wore strange clothes, or babbled incoherent phrases over and over, or maybe just sat on a bench and stared into space all day. Always the butt of teenage jokes; sometimes baited to perform his or her standard “act,” but mostly scorned and feared, as if a leper.
John was a weight lifter; a huge man, with bulging muscles and rippling veins that stood out on his head like trapped snakes trying to break free. As a boy of only nine years, my fear of John was great, but as I grew older and realized that he never really hurt anyone or did any harm, that fear began to subside. Back then (in the early 1950s), we kids spent a lot of time wandering around downtown, checking out the dime stores and other businesses, and hanging out at the drugstore soda counters. I noticed that John sort of made “rounds” downtown, stopping in at various businesses where he would be greeted by the owners and employees like an old friend. And I began to wonder why these people put up with him.
You see, John’s “act” was a strange and scary one. One minute he would be conversing in a fairly normal way, and the next he would be shouting a string of almost unintelligible curse words, sometimes pounding his fist on the nearest wall or counter. Then, just as suddenly as he had begun, he would stop, look down at the ground, and move slowly away, mumbling quietly. John’s presence and these episodes became so commonplace that, by the time I was sixteen and had acquired a driver’s license, I used to pick him up as he hitchhiked down Central Avenue, and was even tolerant when he occasionally threatened to bash in my dashboard during one of his fits.
Many years later, I learned that what we thought of as John’s craziness actually had a name. It is one manifestation of a disease called Tourette’s Syndrome, whose symptoms range from involuntary movements, such as facial tics, to obsessive-compulsive behaviors, to violent mood swings. In John’s case, the disease manifested itself as "coprolalia" or what is called the “cursing syndrome.”
It seemed that, even in those years, some people had learned a tolerance for the mentally ill, as long as they were deemed harmless and did not cause undue problems. But the stigma remained and the fear was widespread among those less tolerant or understanding. And, unfortunately, that fear and stigma remain today. Today, also, there is the added problem of pervasive street drugs available to those mentally challenged folks who have been more or less abandoned by society to live on the streets.
My impetus for writing about Crazy John came from a poem recently passed along to me in an e-mail. The poem, by a mentally ill fellow named Moe Armstrong, struck a chord and brought back memories of John. It appears below, and if you would like to read more about Moe, you can click on the link at the bottom of this page, where you will find his story told in his own words.
Possession, witchcraft My name is Moe Armstrong I am mentally ill I need to believe I can make changes I can become a better person
Being a broken person, gives me the chance To rebuild myself To a position of stronger unity Unity with my hopes, and realities for, peace of mind Unity with others, for their opportunity, to get to know me Unity so that I can love, and be loved again
I have a chance in life To gain happiness I got this chance, because of my mental illness My name is Moe Armstrong I am mentally ill I need help and assistance in life
I am asking for help I have been mentally ill a long time, I have suffered a lot I have caused other people suffering I have a chance to feel better I have a chance to become happy
I've had this psychiatric condition a longtime I will have this psychiatric condition a long time I want to keep learning and improving Mental illness devastated my life I now have the chance to learn, social acceptance I have the chance to discover, personal happiness
This chance This opportunity I might never have gained, without my mental illness Losing myself to the despair, of mental illness I now have the chance, to be a happier person More secure in my happiness More secure in my peace of mind Than, ever before in my life
My name is Moe Armstrong I am mentally ill
At times, I do need help I have learned to continue on
Welcome to my blog. Please feel free to add comments or entries on any subject you wish, and to ask questions of me directly. I try to answer questions within a couple of days, though my schedule may sometimes extend this time. To learn more about my latest novel, BARBARA, and other works, click on the links under "My Websites."
R. LeBeaux is a pen name. The real person behind the pen is a semi-mature latent hippie, former rock musician, novelist, writer, editor, photographer, artist, marketing consultant, publisher, music producer, and woodworker. His writing has been published in almost every nonfiction genre and he once served as editor/publisher of an international billiard magazine. He has authored nearly 2,000 published articles that have appeared in over 30 national and international publications. His work has also been reprinted in hundreds of newspapers, on the Internet, and in educational materials for journalism and English classes. In addition to his non-fiction work, he has published one novel (with three more in the works), authored several short stories, written/directed numerous videos, TV programs and commercials, and produces fine art in the form of wood sculpture. He currently serves as designer, co-editor and Webmaster for several Web sites, and as VP of Internet Services for MetroDirect Communications, a Web design, hosting and e-commerce business. At the time of this writing, he resides in Elfers, Florida with his anti-social parakeet, Bird.
