Unresolved Childhood Experiences
Last month I talked about patching holes by numbing. Now I invite us to look at how the holes originated, knowing that each moment of self-discovery serves as a scoop of sand filling the empty space inside us. Unresolved childhood experiences often create the holes we explore in this issue.
After twenty-seven years trying to make sense of my brother’s overdose death—consulting psychology professionals, studying, researching, and interviewing people from his life—I believe Brad used illicit drugs to fill his holes, until they accidentally caused his death.
I recently heard the difference between someone dabbling in drugs versus becoming an addict is that they were not told no as a child. That might be true in my brother’s case—he never learned how to handle disappointment.
In middle school after Brad wasn’t picked for the Sam Brannan Junior High baseball team, he began drifting away from his baseball buddies. He wandered around our house lost, his mind drifting away like a sandcastle in a rising tide. His baseball passion shrank, leading him instead into an obsession with watching professional sports.
It’s not uncommon for sensitive kids to lose their identity in middle school. If not an athlete, who am I? Who are my people? With disastrous timing, a new neighbor moved in across the street from us and offered Brad a just-add-water identity. Thirty-something Drex collected small airplanes, flashy sports cars and racy women at his house, and—we later discovered—freely shared drugs and drinks with my brother, along with women from the across-town brothel he owned with his mother.
Soon Brad identified as an addict. Downers squelched his high energy and the lofty expectations he and Dad placed on him. He gained fewer affirmations from academic successes (he dropped out of high school) and more from people-pleasing (everyone loved him).
Compared to his advancing peers, his stagnant life zigzagged as he poured more drugs into his holes. Behind the haze he could forget his “less-than” moments, deaden the pain of disappointment, and deny the losses that stacked up like piles of garbage in the city dump.
Brad wanted to be clean, but despite several stints in rehab and more in prison, he didn’t live enough sober years to uncover his truth, heal his core, and fill his holes with scoops of sand. Before he died at thirty-six, I believe he was primed for “doing the work,” and had begun to forge the path that would lead to harmony.
Until he overdosed on a hot-shot of heroin.
Brad had teetered off the pedestal his childhood elevated him to, his holes hollowed out by not meeting parental expectations, unidentified people-pleasing and wounds left by an unsavory person who trampled on his sensitivity.
We still have time to explore where our holes originated. Alcoholics had holes before their first drink. The same is true with a drug addiction or any other addiction that consumes us. Maybe some of us teetered off a pedestal? Didn’t live up to expectations? Or got stuck in a cycle of less-than moments? Consider a support group—I include a Resources for Recovery list on my website—and possibly time with therapy, God or simply journaling about your past.
It's not to late to heal.