Addiction Has Us Mourning People Who Are Still Alive

It’s a weird kind of grief—to mourn someone who’s still breathing. I wrote that on Facebook, just a few words on a picture, and people came out of the woodwork. Hundreds of comments, stories, likes from people who’d never “liked” anything I posted before. Because it’s true. Addiction has us mourning the living, carrying a kind of grief that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. But if you know, you know.

I’ve been on all sides of this thing. I’ve been the one people mourned. I’ve been the one mourning. I’ve been the counselor, the criminal, the voice in the back of the squad car, the mom, the wife, the friend, the person fighting tooth and nail just to get another inch of progress. Mile or a millimeter, progress is progress. But this is what it really looks like:

Mourning the Living: The Stories That Don’t Make the News

There’s a mom who sits at the kitchen table every night scrolling through old photos of her son. He’s alive somewhere—at least, that’s what she tells herself. She checks her phone every hour, just to make sure the battery isn’t dead. She can’t sleep in case he calls and needs help, or in case it’s someone telling her he’s gone. She keeps his room the same, just in case he comes back. Most mornings, she finds herself whispering good morning to an empty bed.

There’s a sister who keeps a box of her brother’s things—his favorite hat, a baseball, a note he gave her in third grade. She hasn’t seen him in years, but she can’t bring herself to throw it away. Every time the phone rings, her heart stops. Every time she sees someone who walks like him, she has to look twice.

There’s a grandma raising her grandkids because her daughter “isn’t dead, but she’s gone.” She’s lost her daughter to heroin, to meth, to the system, to the streets. She sets a place at the table anyway, just in case. She tells the grandkids, “Mama loves you, she just can’t be here.” And then she goes in the bathroom and cries into a towel so they don’t hear.

This is what it’s like to mourn the living. It’s a slow, silent heartbreak. It’s holding your breath every day, waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for the worst, and then feeling guilty when it’s a relief not to have to wonder anymore.

The Collateral Damage: No Ladder Out

Addiction doesn’t just take the person using. It takes families, friendships, jobs, homes, hope. When I worked in residential treatment and outpatient, I saw it: people couch surfing, sleeping in cars, old friends avoiding them because they “just can’t do it anymore.” Kids bouncing from one foster home to the next. People with criminal records so long no one will rent to them or hire them. You fall so many times, burn so many bridges, that one day you look up and there’s no way back. No ladder, no rope, nothing. Just the bottom and the dark.

The system is set up to punish, not to catch. If you’re in tribal housing and there’s any illegal activity—drug use, even if it’s just your kid messing up, or a visitor who overdoses—your whole family can lose their home. Imagine working two jobs just to pay rent, keeping your head down, doing everything right, and your teenager makes one mistake, or your cousin comes over and uses in your bathroom, and now you’re all out on the street in winter. That’s not a safety net. That’s a trapdoor.

And what does that do? It just pushes people further out. It makes it harder for families to stay together. Harder for parents to keep jobs. Harder for kids to stay in school. Harder for anyone to believe things can get better.

When the System Makes You an Enemy

I’ve been there. I remember the probation officers, the cops, the system that looked at me like I was already lost. “You’re going to do this or else,” they’d say. The threat was always there. I learned fast not to trust the system—because the system never gave me a reason to. It’s not just punitive, it’s personal. When you’re desperate, when you’ve screwed up so many times, you’re not fighting for your life—you’re just fighting to be seen as human.

And when you finally want out, when you finally want help, sometimes there’s nothing left. No one left. No support. Just the criminal record, the shame, and the certainty that nobody’s coming for you. That’s when people fall through the cracks. That’s when people die.

Hurt People, Hurt People

There’s this story I need you to hear. I was posting about addiction on a local community page, just trying to educate, trying to crack open some real conversations. And there’s this guy—male, claims to be a doctor from Eagle River, Vilas County. He starts posting, says addicts should die, we’re wasting money, they’re not worth it. The kind of stuff that makes you want to scream, but also makes you want to walk away.

I tried to engage, but didn’t want to fight. So I messaged him. I said, “Look, there’s always more to the story. What happened to you? What shaped these feelings?” Turns out, his parent was an addict. Addiction killed them, tore his family apart, left him scarred and angry. That’s his story. That’s why he feels the way he does. Hurt people, hurt people.

But here’s the thing—he’s a doctor. Just like I’m a counselor. We’re both supposed to “do no harm.” But how do you do no harm when you see someone walk in and you already think, “They’re not worth saving”? That’s the damage addiction does—not just to the people using, but to everyone in its orbit. Trauma shapes how we see the world, how we treat others, how we show up. And sometimes, the ones who should be helping are the ones who are most broken by it.

Lac du Flambeau: A Case Study in Crisis

Lac du Flambeau is my neighbor. My family is part of that community. Not long ago, the Tribal Council put out another state of emergency—overdoses everywhere, families gutted, the system straining to keep up. The housing policy? If there’s any illegal activity in your home—drug use, an overdose, even by a visitor or your own kid—your whole family could be out. Homeless. It’s more punitive than proactive, and people are scared. Some say it’s necessary. Some say it’s cruel. I say it’s complicated as hell.

You see the arguments on Facebook, in community meetings. People are angry, scared, desperate. Some want harsher rules. Some want more compassion. But the reality is, with overdose rates in tribal nations nearly three times the state average, the pain is everywhere (Green Bay Press Gazette). There are no easy answers.

The Living Grief: Heartbreak in Slow Motion

We don’t talk enough about how this kind of grief feels. It’s like drowning in slow motion. Every family dinner with an empty chair. Every birthday without a call. Every time you see a stranger with the same walk, the same laugh, and your heart leaps before your brain catches up.

One client once told me, “It’s like there’s a ghost in my house, but they’re still alive somewhere.” That’s what it is—haunted by the living. You mourn every version of the person you used to know, every hope you had for them, every future that’s now impossible. And you keep hoping, because hope is all you’ve got left.

The System Isn’t Working—But Some Things Do

The system is broken, but not everything is hopeless. Some tribal communities are fighting back in ways that actually save lives. Bad River is handing out Narcan, teaching people how to use it, making sure no one dies just because they didn’t have a tool that costs a few bucks (STAT News). Menominee is trying new outreach, bringing culture and community into recovery in ways that make people feel less alone (WPR). Some counties are experimenting with keeping families housed while still getting people into treatment.

There are harm reduction programs, recovery coaches, medication-assisted treatment, trauma-informed care. None of it works for everyone, but every life saved is a win. A mile or a millimeter, progress is progress.

Scrappy Hope: Celebrate Every Win

Here’s the truth about hope—it’s scrappy. It doesn’t look like “miracle recoveries” or Hallmark moments. It looks like a mom getting her kid to school three days in a row. It looks like someone making it to therapy, even if they’re still using. It looks like a family surviving another day together, even if it’s messy as hell.

Celebrate every win, no matter how small. Because in this world, every inch matters.

Tools and Resources That Actually Matter

If you’re reading this and you’re in the fight—whether it’s your own, or someone you love—here are some things that actually help:

• Narcan/Naloxone: Learn how to use it. Carry it. Give it away. You can get it free from local health departments or harm reduction groups.

• Fentanyl Test Strips: Ask your tribal health department or local harm reduction group. These save lives.

• Peer Recovery Coaches: People who’ve been through it and know how to help without judging.

• Tribal Opioid Response Programs: Many Wisconsin tribes have grants for treatment, prevention, and support (SAMHSA).

• Local Support Groups: AA, NA, Wellbriety, and others—sometimes it’s just about not being alone.

• Mental Health Crisis Lines: In Wisconsin, the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline is available 24/7.

• Free or Sliding-Scale Counseling: Some clinics and counselors offer reduced rates or work with you if you’re in crisis.

If you need help finding a resource, reach out. Message me, message a friend, ask at your clinic, your tribe, your church. There’s help, even if you have to dig for it.

This Is an Invitation

This isn’t just a post. It’s an invitation. If you’re mourning someone who’s still alive, share your story. If you’re the one being mourned, you’re not lost. If you’re angry, if you’re scared, if you’re tired—add your voice. Comment, email, message, talk about it in your community, at your kitchen table, with your town board. Keep the conversation going, even when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard.

And if you’re the person who thinks addicts should die, I challenge you—where did that pain come from? What broke you, and how can you start to heal? We’re all shaped by our experiences. Hurt people, hurt people. But we can do better.

Progress Is Progress: Mile or a Millimeter

Addiction, recovery, grief—they’re not black and white. They’re gray areas, full of messy, complicated, heartbreaking beauty. There’s no one way out. But there is a way forward. Progress is progress. Sometimes it’s a mile, sometimes it’s a millimeter.

If you’re still here, still fighting, still hoping—thank you. You matter. Your story matters. Mile or a millimeter, we keep going. That’s all any of us can do.

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If you want to keep this conversation alive, drop a comment. Share this post. Tell your own story—anonymously if you need to. Let’s show the world what real hope, real pain, and real progress look like. Let’s mourn together, and let’s fight for each other, too.

You’re not alone. Not ever.