Today, I had lunch with a family member. It was one of those rare moments where you sit down and realize how deeply connected your journeys are. We both shared a similar path—having raised children who felt abandoned by their fathers, and both of us have fought tirelessly against the labels and stigmas that society has placed on them. Our children, misunderstood and hurting, are not "bad" because of their behavior. Their struggles have always been cries for help, not evidence of failure. Yet, getting the world to see that feels like an impossible battle.
As I listened to their story, I was flooded with memories of my own journey with Dustin. The anxiety and fear that grip you when your child battles addiction and has been labeled by society—it’s a panic only another parent in this position can truly understand. I no longer believe my son has a mental illness. I believe society misdiagnosed and labeled him, creating more battles for him to overcome. He was a little boy without a father, always questioning why his brother had a father sometimes while he was left without one. I tried to explain to him that his father was sick, that he loved him in his own way. But love clouded by addiction and trauma is complicated. His father had his own demons, his own labels that defined his reality.
Dustin's challenges began early. His hearing loss wasn’t treated until he was four, leading to a speech impediment that haunted him through his school years. Despite this, he was fiercely intelligent and independent. He questioned everything—the expectations, the social norms. He saw no reason to follow arbitrary rules unless he understood their purpose. He challenged me to think deeply, to question the very systems I had once trusted to protect him. For a time, I believed in those systems. I thought they would help him, but they didn’t. They made things worse.
I eventually pulled him out of the system. I stopped the medications and the treatments that seemed to do more harm than good. During that period, I started to explore new perspectives—Buddhism, the concept of suffering caused by our attachments and expectations. I realized I had to let go of my vision of who Dustin was supposed to be. I needed to love him for who he truly was—a deeply insightful, kind-hearted person, scarred by the world but still striving to find his place in it.
But even as I learned to let go, I couldn't shield him from society’s judgment. The fear of taking him to the hospital and seeing him locked up haunted me. He didn’t need more abandonment. He needed love and understanding. He needed space to figure out who he wanted to be, without the crushing weight of societal expectations.
I broke down crying during that lunch as they shared their own battles. The memories, the grief, the unresolved pain all resurfaced. My relationship with Dustin has been strained since Dylan’s death. The loss created a chasm between us. He shared a room with his brother; he lost not just a sibling but a part of himself. I carry the weight of both my sons—two halves of me, now incomplete. Dustin doesn’t fully understand my grief, and I struggle to explain that my pain doesn’t diminish my love for him. Both of my children shaped who I am. Now, I’m trying to carry on for Dylan, but healing is slow.
Dustin still fights to stay sober. Sometimes he has stumbled, and society is quick to judge him. But recovery isn’t a straight line. There’s so much residual damage, layers of hurt that take time to heal. He doesn’t want to be labeled as having a disease. He rejects the idea of addiction as a permanent identity. And I understand that. Labels can trap people, suffocating their sense of self-worth. How can anyone heal when they’re told they have a "disease," something dirty and incurable? Dustin knows why he used substances and why he needs to stop. For him, healing begins with self-awareness, not with surrendering to a label.
As we shared these stories, I was struck by how many families face the same revolving door of ineffective treatment. Our mental health system is broken. It doesn’t see our children as whole people. It doesn’t understand their pain. And until someone within the system experiences this firsthand, the cycle continues.
I don’t have all the answers. I only know that love, compassion, and a refusal to accept labels have been my guiding lights. We need a new way forward—one that embraces the complexity of healing, the humanity in each of us, and the power of unconditional love.
Comments