The Greedy Hands of Addiction, RIP Ted Cicci

Aleathia:

Addiction is a cruel habit. It is a millstone around an individuals neck and around the necks of everyone who cares for that person. Inside, the addicted person knows right from wrong. There are choices they wish to make, but are unable. Sometimes the places we escape to are more powerful than reality and this is a certain truth.

Sadly this week I lost my Uncle Ted to a drug overdose. He was nearly 70 and it gripped him for most of his life. It kept him from his family, from experiencing the world he loved so much, from a first person point of view. My heart goes out to what little family I have left. We have all suffered so much loss, anger, and grief.

But today, I want to share my memories of Ted as he was intelligent, funny, creative, and such a bright light. We all go through life a bit lost hoping to be found. We are not all so lucky.

Ted was my step-father's oldest brother. He was a clown. One of the funniest people I have ever met. I became included into this large Italian family at the age of 6 and spent a good amount of my youth at family gatherings and playing with cousins. I was the oldest and watching my young cousins often fell on me. Ted's children, Josh and Jerica, are two of my favorite beings. Josh funny and talented, Jerica sweet and loving. In our days in the desert, we were all inseparable. My brother was about 1-2 years old then and they all followed me around like ducklings. I loved them all as if they were my own children.

In those days, we were lonely children as all of our parents were addicted to something. We had each other. We had collective pain and joy. We had each other. I cannot speak of Ted without thinking of these two great humans. In all their trials and tribulations with Ted, they have managed to lead productive lives. They are survivors. They are champions.

Ted was incarcerated several times for his addiction. I remember the first time he was released, he came home to Upstate NY. Much of the family was here and it was our hope to look after him as he re-entered the world. I remember at 15 years old, instead of hanging out with my friends, I would go to AA meetings with him because no one else would. I wanted him to be successful. I had missed how he treated me like I had my own opinions in the world, opinions that mattered. But one drink leads to another and as the barrier of caring got lower, drugs got closer. He stayed awhile longer in NY before moving out with other family in Arizona. Here, he was incarcerated for the same thing as before.

Over the years of his last incarceration we became good friends. I wrote him letters, he wrote me back. We talked of politics and literature and poetry. I sent him books by James Baldwin. We talked about family. I shared my life with him. In my days of publishing in the small press, I even published an article by him. I would send him books. He read every issue of Durable Goods and passed them along in prison. We had a nice friendship.

In 2009, my daughter and I went to Arizona to visit Josh and Jerica and other family. While we were there, I made arrangements to visit Ted in prison. I brought my 8 year old there with me. I got a lot of flack from family and friends for exposing her to such a place, but despite those people's crimes, do you think they don't want to be loved? I brought her there for many reasons. I wanted her to see what crime gets you both physically and emotionally. I wanted her to see that despite Ted's crime, he was a warm and loving man with so much to say. I remember on the shuttle bus from the entrance to the visiting area, as we left the bus, my child looked at the driver (an inmate) and said "thank you sir and have a nice day". The driver's eyes got misty. When was the last time someone recognized him as a man, as a human being? These things would tell me much of her character later in life.

As I write this, it dawns on me that the time my daughter met Ted in prison was the only time she ever saw him in her life. She remembers that visit with fondness and any time after if I spoke of him, her face would light up. They had a small time together and he talked to her like he had always talked to me. This was important to a small girl as it is to everyone. We all want to be seen.

After Ted's current release, he got his own place for the first time in 18 years. He had started to build his relationships back with his children and grandchild. He was learning the world of Facebook and reconnecting with long lost school mates and friends. Before his death, he had a new job working with plants which he loved and things seemed to be moving forward. But addiction is hard. You are never really cured of it whether you are addicted to drugs, alcohol, food, sex, or doing something the same way every time. It takes a tremendous strength to win. You have to want it more than anything.

My heart goes out to Josh and Jerica and their family. I know this loss. It is painful. Love each other fully everyday. The cliche that is time is fleeting isn't untrue. Ask yourself what really matters to you. Do the things you always dreamed of before it's too late.

If you know someone with addiction let them know there is someone always ready to listen:

Addiction and Alcohol Hotline 1-844-244-3171

Thanks for reading.

Aleathia

Quills and Frills-6/28/2014 Aleathia Drehmer, fiction

Aleathia says:

This story I am going to share was one that was written with a specific prompt in mind for a flash fiction website called Doorknobs & Bodypaint.  This story never made the cut, but I enjoyed writing it.

Love is Never Black and White

Barnabus stands there with his hands covered in moist soil.  He can feel it gather beneath his fingernails; feel the mass of it building pressure there. The smell of it is musty and cloying having been fertilized by the flesh of his dead cat, Iago, for nearly a decade.  Barnabus has stood here at Iago’s grave every morning with his black coffee thinking of their time together.  Sometimes he would tell Iago the contents of the upcoming day, not today. He isn’t quite sure why he has risen so early this morning nor why his fingers are gripping the sod and dirt in apprehension.

The dorsum of his right hand is littered with lines of red.  Tiny beads of blood form like a row of men along the wall at the Inquisition.  They lay there oozing from the bite of thorns on the old Abraham Lincoln rose bush.  Barnabus looks down into the earth where he had dug a hole years ago that was once covered and now reopened.  The terra is devastated by deep scars ravaged from the different plates of his life colliding at high rates of speed with great force.  A certain perplexity swirls about his face like the smoke from the cigarettes he quit smoking several years ago.

He kneels down, jeans soaking up the morning dew from the grass, and pries at the golden blanket containing the remains of Iago—his once true friend.  He pauses. The bones feel disconnected in his hands; they feel limp like a sleeping infant and he is unsure now of what he has done.  Barnabus is afraid to peel back the silken edges frayed with time and filled with insect holes; he’s afraid of what he might find. He questions his needs.  He questions his motives for being in this particular time-space continuum.

The bones gleam against the blanket like burning stars.  He has to squint his eyes against their beauty lying delicate in his hands. The succulent soil in mounds at his feet dives into the hole, a progressively angry time warp.  Iago’s body is curled like a bass clef in his hands.  A simple song constructed of bones. They are Barnabus’ remnants of a friend and a sad reminder of a love he lost the ability to feel.  His fingers touch the skull gently.  He will do unmentionable things.

Aleathia Drehmer