The Holy Trinity of Connection
Mental Health and Addiction Awareness
I Am Here
He is so small. “As light as a baby bird with hollow bones,” she thinks as she lifts her little boy over the back fender of her bicycle and into the child’s seat. Balancing the bike against her hip, she snaps him snuggly into the harness like a puzzle piece. She places the oversized styrofoam helmet on his head, his upturned face searching hers as she smiles down at him. She clips the chin strap, careful not to catch any skin, and gives him a playful thump-thump on the top of his foam-encased head. He does not smile back. His pale blonde brows are furrowed over concerned blue eyes. His face seems touched with a slight melancholy beyond his years. But the divorce has been hard on everyone, she reasons with herself as she leans in to kiss him on his cheek. Of course he’s sad and confused. Aren’t we all?
She turns and grabs the handlebars, bends her right knee and raises her leg over the center bar like a hurdler. Her foot finds the high pedal on the opposite side and she pushes down and off into the warm summer evening. The freshly tarred and graveled suburban street kicks up small gray pebbles behind her tires. She settles into her bike seat, legs pumping at a slow, steady rhythm. Her son leans forward, putting his arms around her waist as far as he can reach, his helmet pressed against her back. In response she reaches down and covers his small hand with hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m here. I love you. Everything will be okay,” she says softly, trying to reassure herself as much as him.”
I Love You
She is running after her teenage boy, trying to reach him before his demons do. Despite the long stride of his nearly-six-foot frame and the advantage of youth, she is gaining on him. It is three a.m. and he believes someone has been trying to break in through his bedroom window. He hears them whispering, he sees their shadows moving and he is running from them now. But they are always close behind. They have already broken into his mind.
As she chases after him everything feels like it’s happening in slow motion. She sees with razor clarity the darkened windows of her neighbors’ homes as she runs by. She is ashamed of her concern over what they might hear, what they might see, what they might know. She is aware of the velvety September night air flowing into in her lungs, the green grass cool and damp beneath her bare feet. Looking ahead, she is anticipating his trajectory like a cyborg with a digital eye—calculating speed, distance, curve. “Will he make it as far as the church on the corner before she catches up to him,” she wonders?
The night is so still and silent it feels almost holy. She sees herself as if she is watching the scene from above, God-like. She catches a glimpse of him ahead as he is briefly illuminated by the halo of a street light. She is passing under the same circle of light now. There is the top of her head, wild hair flying. One outstretched leg follows the other in frantic rhythm before the darkness swallows her too.
She reaches for him, just grazing his elbow with her hand. He turns at her touch, first in fear, then relief before mercifully slowing to a stop. She is winded but struggles to make her voice calm as she speaks his name, gently holds his hand. She makes her face soft, her smile reassuring. She tilts her head and says, “It’s me. It’s mom. I’m here. I love you. Everything will be okay.”
Everything Will Be Okay
It is a crisp, brilliantly blue March morning as winter grudgingly concedes ground to spring. She is sitting at the kitchen table with her cup of coffee, listening to her son talking to the old family dog upstairs—listening to this beautiful blue-eyed boy of hers who is not a boy anymore, but a young man. A man wounded in battle. A battle with mental illness. An enemy he has fought for years with weapons of self-medication, self-destruction and self-loathing. A battle he is finally, courageously winning with the help of life-saving medication, self-determination and an ever-emerging self-love.
She can hear him speaking now in that unguarded, sing-songy way we reserve for addressing our beloved pets, “How are you boy?” His voice is cooing now, “Are you tired? Are you still tired buddy? You are such a good boy, such a good boy.” She can tell by the jingle of the dog collar that he is petting the dog as he speaks. She imagines his face is soft, his smile reassuring and his heart open.
As he pads down the stairs she looks up and says, “Good morning, hon.” He stops when he reaches the kitchen, pausing to stretch backwards, his hands tucked in the back pockets of his jeans, his blonde hair sticking up in all directions—liberated by sleep. He nods his greeting. He is better now, she knows this. He has been well for a while but she remains vigilant. She can’t seem to turn it off, her worry—especially now that he is moving back into his own place. “Hey,” she asks him; “have you ever listened to the way you talk to the dog? There is so much unconditional love and kindness in your voice. I hope that’s the way you can talk to yourself when you’re struggling. You deserve that so much.” “No,” he replies thoughtfully while crossing to the fridge and pulling a frozen waffle out of the freezer, “it’s not. But you’re right, it should be.” He must have noticed her worried look, her furrowed brow, because he stops on his way to the toaster and places his hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I love you mom, don’t worry,” he says as if reassuring himself as much as her, “everything will be okay.”
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Mammaste~there is so much divinity in the everyday.
Lori Anne Yang
This story shared with permission.
Mental illness is a disease, not a moral weakness or failure of character. The same compassion we have for people with any life-threatening disease should be afforded to those struggling with mental illness and its often-present companion, substance use disorder. They should feel they are not alone, that they are loved and that things can get better. Compassionate connection is something we practice instinctively with young children and it is just as important to engage in when those children become adults.
If you need immediate emotional or mental health support, or are worried about someone else, please call or text 988 or visit https://988lifeline.org/, the National Mental Health Crisis hotline.
Human connection is beneficial to mental wellness and a material factor in recovery from addiction.*
There is hope. From an **NPR article: “A separate study published by the CDC and the National Institute on Drug Abuse in 2020 found 3 out of 4 people who experience addiction eventually recover.”
**https://www.npr.org/2022/01/15/1071282194/addiction-substance-recovery-treatment
mammaste ~ divinity in the everyday 
Thank you, Lori. I’m happy to see you in this space again!