“If I should die this very day, don’t cry, ’cause on Earth we wasn’t meant to stay…” -Whitney Houston (Your Love is My Love)

Forgive me for being blunt, but my grandmother died exactly the same way Whitney Houston did, alone in a hotel bathtub. Only, Grandma left a note. She was tired of feeling bad.

Though I was not yet born when Grandma Rita died, I can tell you that the trauma of such an event is like a tidal wave, leaving those directly in it’s path drowning in pain (and seeking an escape from that pain), and those of us further down the line wading through the ripples of the pain-induced choices made by the ones who only metaphorically drowned.

The toxicology results in Whitney’s death are not expected for weeks, but those closest to her are already discussing a combination of Xanex and alcohol as the probable cause.

In my grandmother’s day it was “tranquilizers” the doctors suggested to cure “melancholy” and “nerves”. Today, the pharmaceutical companies are pushing pushing pushing “mood stabilizers” and pain killers on the public like they are TicTacs.

I’d wager that while Bobbi Kristina was in the hospital for “extreme hysteria” (mourning) she was being “calmed down” with a drug similar to the one that likely killed her mom.

I realize medication is often a life-saver, but what has happened to our society that makes “popping a xanax or two” before or during a stressful situation “the cure?”

When will our alcohol-guzzling, pill-popping culture find healthier, non-chemical relief for the broken-hearted? Isn’t that really what depression and anxiety are? A desire to feel happy and fulfilled, with no idea what the steps are to get there, or even where the journey to bliss begins?

When my fiance died, a few people lovingly offered me anti-depressants, telling me I shouldn’t be ashamed of needing it. I wasn’t ashamed. I just figured the pain would still be there when the drug wore off and I would be looking for more drug instead of diving into the pain and dealing with it. The pain was so intense, there were days I wished I were dead, and though I’d never experienced pain like it, my intuition told me that if I could hang in there, with time my heart would heal (which, thank God, it did).

Perhaps there’s a place in me that knows the havoc wreaked by my grandmother’s substance addiction–and it kept me from ever stepping on that path to disaster.

I get that people are frightened for her, but it seems to me the last thing Bobbi Kristina needs is for someone to take her hand and lead her down the same path her mother struggled a lifetime to escape from.

I don’t mean to sound judgmental. And I’ll say it again–I realize medication is often a life-saver. I’m just angry and hurt at all these people dropping dead from LEGAL drugs and alcohol (while the war on illegal drugs rages on.) Prescription drugs kill 300% more people each year than ALL of the ILLEGAL ones (heroin, cocaine, meth, etc.) combined.

Really. Enough already.

“The cure for the pain is in the pain.” -Rumi