There is something that has become increasingly fashionable over the last couple of decades.
We have become obsessed with changing the words.
Not necessarily the problem.
The words.
Somehow, we’ve convinced ourselves that if we soften the language enough, the reality underneath it will become easier to live with.
I’m not buying it.
An umbrella doesn’t make the drink taste any better.
If somebody hands you a cocktail that’s nothing more than vodka-flavored shit, putting a tiny paper umbrella in the glass doesn’t suddenly make it a premium beverage. It just means somebody spent more time decorating the lie than fixing the recipe.
That’s where I find myself with so much of modern language.
We don’t abuse substances anymore.
Now we have “substance use disorders.”
We don’t fail.
We have “negative outcomes.”
We don’t lie.
We “misspoke.”
We don’t make excuses.
We “share our truth.”
Now, before somebody starts typing the angry comment they were already planning before they finished the second paragraph, let me make something very clear.
I understand why some of these terms changed.
Medical professionals aren’t stupid.
Psychologists aren’t stupid.
Researchers aren’t stupid.
Many of those changes came from a genuine desire to reduce unnecessary stigma and encourage people to seek treatment.
That goal is understandable.
But I still ask a simple question.
Has changing the language changed the fight?
Because that’s the part that matters to me.
I have my own problems.
I have my own failures.
I have my own demons.
After three heart attacks, I don’t need anyone reminding me that life is temporary.
I already know.
There are nights I don’t sleep because I feel like there’s still something left to write.
Still another article.
Still another idea.
Still another observation that I haven’t managed to put into words before the lights eventually go out.
That’s not self-pity.
That’s urgency.
Every single day I try to become a better man than I was yesterday.
Not perfect.
Better.
Some days I succeed.
Some days I don’t.
But the fight is against the problem.
Not the vocabulary.
If I have a flaw, I want to call it a flaw.
If I’m making excuses, I want somebody to tell me I’m making excuses.
If something is destroying a person’s life, I don’t feel particularly comforted by discovering we’ve invented a nicer phrase for it.
The fight isn’t against the stigma.
The fight is against the thing that’s killing people.
I’ve watched too many entertainers destroy themselves believing the substance somehow made them special.
It didn’t.
It may have been present while they created extraordinary work.
That doesn’t mean it created the talent.
More often than not, it shortened the career.
It damaged the family.
It stole years from their lives.
The talent survived despite the abuse.
Not because of it.
George Carlin understood something that I think we’ve started to forget.
Humor isn’t supposed to make difficult subjects disappear.
Humor is supposed to make difficult subjects possible to talk about.
People often think comedy exists to avoid seriousness.
The best comedy does exactly the opposite.
It sneaks seriousness past your defenses.
You laugh.
Then, somewhere in the middle of laughing, you realize you’re laughing at yourself.
That’s why satire survives.
It says the thing polite conversation refuses to touch.
And yes, sometimes it offends people.
Good.
Sometimes offense is simply the first stage of thinking.
If you disagree with me, then disagree.
Tell me where the argument falls apart.
Show me something I haven’t considered.
Offer another interpretation.
That’s how conversations work.
What doesn’t impress me is pretending that being offended automatically proves somebody else is wrong.
It doesn’t.
Neither does profanity prove somebody right.
What matters is whether the argument survives inspection.
I don’t expect everybody to agree with me.
Frankly, I’d be suspicious if they did.
Some of what I write is deliberately uncomfortable.
Not because I’m trying to make enemies.
Because comfort has become far too valuable in public conversation.
We’ve become experts at finding echo chambers where everybody already agrees with us.
Everybody gets a participation trophy for having the correct opinion.
Everybody leaves convinced they’re standing on higher moral ground.
Meanwhile, the pile underneath them hasn’t changed.
It’s still a pile of shit.
The only difference is that now everybody points at somebody else’s pile instead of noticing the smell coming from their own shoes.
That’s one of the reasons I write the way I do.
I’m not trying to win popularity contests.
Three heart attacks have a funny way of changing your priorities.
They make you realize your time isn’t unlimited.
At some point, all that’s left of any of us are the things we built, the words we wrote, the people we helped, the mistakes we admitted, and whatever honesty we managed to leave behind.
For me, that’s these articles.
The books.
The videos.
The conversations.
That’s the legacy.
If you don’t like my conclusions, fine.
Tell me why.
Have the conversation.
Challenge the ideas.
But don’t pretend changing the label changes the reality.
Because an umbrella doesn’t make the drink taste any better.
It just distracts you for a moment before you take the first sip.