State of Mind..

I've been thinking a lot lately. I have this student, the one I busted over the summer. During the summer, he proved he was smart and didn't really pose a behavior issue (other than bringing pot to school of course). He was able to sit, to focus, to do work, take tests, etc. I now have had him all this year and he is a different person. He cannot sit still or stop talking; he has real ADHD. When he takes his medication (which is rarely) he is sleepy all day and doesn't do anything. I asked him the other day why he was so different during summer school. You know his response? Because he was stoned all summer. But then of course I busted him and now he has to stay clean because he's on probation.
I have always taken a harsh stance against the usage of pot because of my own experiences growing up. My dad was a pot head. He would spend hours in his private room smoking. Sometimes he would come in to yell at us. My mother lived in constant fear that he would be busted and that she would go down with him because although not using, she was his wife and living with it. This is why I have never wanted to even try it, not even a little.
But when I was in college I dated this lawyer who had adult onset ADD. True ADD. I'd watch him try and read over a brief or other legal documents for hours and not be able to do it. The way he combated it was that he got stoned. And when he was stoned, he could do his work. I knew that that relationship would go no where because I knew I could never be a with someone who smokes dope. But I honestly believed it helped him to focus. I saw him transform.
So when I asked my student that question, and heard his answer I knew it was not an excuse. I knew that it was the truth because I had seen it for my own eyes.
Which got me thinking about black and white. Drugs are bad, but maybe they can help a few. Maybe things aren't right or wrong, black or white, crystal clear.
Which got me thinking about Jessica and death. When I was early on in the grief process she was gone. She was dead. Death was final. But you cannot tell me now that death is final because I feel and sense her in everything I do. Not as some ghost or memory, but how I respond to situations, how I empathize, how I have become stronger. She is no longer, but she has made me the person I am. You cannot tell me death is final, how can it be when she is woven into every aspect of myself?
Things may not be black and white. I embrace the grayness because it makes me whole.
I am stronger because of the gray. I see what I have to live for. Death has shown me how to live. Although I still have my moments when those tiny holes in my heart start to bleed, overall, I am living my life to the fullest because they are there. We all have a death sentence, I have to make the most of it, however long or however short. I know she did. She must have.