Letter to Mr. D. L. Witherspoon

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Angel

Spend all your time waiting
for that second chance
for a break that would make it okay
there's always one reason
to feel not good enough
and it's hard at the end of the day
I need some distraction
oh beautiful release
memory seeps from my veins
let me be empty
and weightless and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight

in the arms of an angel
fly away from here
from this dark cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear
you are pulled from the wreckage
of your silent reverie
you're in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort there

so tired of the straight line
and everywhere you turn
there's vultures and thieves at your back
and the storm keeps on twisting
you keep on building the lie
that you make up for all that you lack
it don't make no difference
escaping one last time
it's easier to believe in this sweet madness oh
this glorious sadness that brings me to my knees

in the arms of an angel
fly away from here
from this dark cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear
you are pulled from the wreckage
of your silent reverie
you're in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort there
you're in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort here
........................---Sarah McLachlan


Dear Mr. Witherspoon,

I just read your story called "Choice" on your website at http://www.skeeter63.org/~tvlit101/choice.htm .

I see that it's seven and a half years old. I haven't quite figured out what you're about, though I did go to your home page. I just felt compelled to write to you.

My son Adam is a heroin addict. He refers to his "wife", "Angel". One of his cellmates once said, "Hey, I didn't know you were married, man!" I didn't know there were prison inmates more naive than I am.

Adam was first hospitalized at age seven. He was suicidal and having auditory hallucinations. Once the crap was sorted out, and the clearly bogus diagnoses discarded, he was left with labels of Tourette Syndrome (the famous tic disorder), Pervasive Developmental Disorder (an autism spectrum disorder), and dysthymia (how they decided a seven-year-old who puts a knife to his throat was dysthymic, I'll never know). He's gathered quite a few more since then, some probably close to the mark and some not, but none more devastating than the diagnosis of heroin addiction.

I wish he had the ability, or the strength, to choose. What he has going for him (or not) are high intelligence, acute ability to sniff out bullshit, and an almost incalculable sensitivity. What he has working against him, besides the stubborn unwillingness of the culture to accept addiction as an illness, is the feeling that only heroin can give him, that he really belongs in his skin and in this world. He calls it his "full body orgasm".

After leaving the rehab he was paroled to several months ago, he is back to shooting up--how frequently, I don't know. This beautiful and bright boy, just 26 years old, is in danger of losing any chance he had to a satisfying life. Mr. Rogers said, "You can never go down the drain." I guess he never met Angel.

Seven years ago, you wrote about a choice. Do you still see it the same way?

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