July
13
2011
It’s starting again.
The lying.
Horrible attitude.
I want to be in denial.
For his sake, at least. For the precious tiny life that depends on her. I see him smile and I think for a moment “Maybe I’m wrong. She’s been through so much. Even a year later, she might still be dealing with mood swings, right?” I see the red flags and they have the power to throw me into immediate depression. Paralyzing me. I want to crawl into my bed and pretend everything is ok. Great, in fact. That she has her whole life ahead of her and that she’ll make something of it. That her precious little boy will be beside her; inspiring her to stay good. Stay focused. Stay clean.
He smiles at me and I see her in his smile. Feel the joy I felt when she was that small and smiled at me. But they are not the same. This new precious life and the one she left behind. They are separate. And slowly I feel my focus leaning towards the new. And feel guilty.
I want to believe in her. Trust her. More than anything.
More than anything.
–
August
1
2010
I know this territory. I’ve been here before. She called today to say she is leaving inpatient treatment (again). She found a sober house and an outpatient program. This is better for her.
Nevermind that the sober house is on the other side of town requiring hours of bus travel each day to attend the required classes and sobriety meetings.
Nevermind that she will have to compromise her focus on recovery by sharing that focus with additional stress that she was shielded from before.
Nevermind that that the people who love her the most as well as the professionals who walk this road everyday ”strongly advise against” her choice.
Nevermind that she is running straight back into the arms of the one person she needs to avoid.
“He’s the father of my child and there’s nothing you can do to change that.”
“He didn’t “beat” me, I was just upset that day. You weren’t there. You didn’t see it.”
“I didn’t say he was using. I said I thought he was. You don’t know.”
“I don’t let his friends or the things they do around me or my child.”
Laughing again.
I can clearly see the monster standing in the full sunlight laughing with an air of victory on his face. No need to hide in the shadows anymore. She has chosen. She has compromised herself back onto his side of the street. She is believing his lies that she can do this her way. But she is defenseless and vulnerable and doesn’t understand that beating the monster means not compromising. And there is nothing I can do.
Again.
July
21
2010
It didn’t used to bother me when things changed. I was used to it, actually. Growing up in and later marrying into a military family, it was a constant part of my life. Friends, places, everything I cared about was subject to change at any given moment and there was nothing I could do about it. It was completely normal to me. It was all I knew.
It is ironic that I would eventually find myself in a place where stability and familiarity were something I took for granted.
Something that I fell into so naturally that I didn’t even notice it.
Something that I didn’t even realize had become a treasure to me until it was threatened.
The other day I went to Walmart. I love Walmart. I love it’s simplicity and ability to meet my needs. And I love that MY Walmart; the one where I had faithfully shopped for almost 14 years was a place that I was so familiar with that I could literally shop with my eyes closed and find everything I needed. Yup, no matter what, I could always count on my Walmart. Until the other day.
I walked in after several busy weeks and it was clear that a huge renovation/reorganization had taken place. Walls existed where none had been before. All the previously horizontal aisles were now vertical and whole departments were located on opposite sides of the store. I was utterly and completely lost. It took me an hour to find everything on my list when before I could have been in and out under 30 minutes. I was really annoyed. In fact, I could literally feel my stress levels rising by the minute as I turned down one wrong aisle after another.
Just like living with the monster.
My life was completely in order before the monster arrived. I knew where I was going and could also be pretty sure about where the rest of the family was headed. I was comfortable and secure in the knowledge that if we did everything the “right” way (barring some natural disaster or extreme emergency) we would be just fine. And even if we were to face a sudden calamity–I was confident that we could ride it out and quickly return to that place of peace and rest again that I treasured so much.
Not any more. The resulting consequences of my daughter’s choices continue to fall on us like rain through a leaky roof that can never be fixed.
Another failed rehab attempt. (“I TOLD you that this wasn’t what I needed. I only came here because of you. Why won’t you listen to me?”)
An addicted, physically and emotionally abusive boyfriend. (“I wouldn’t HAVE to live with him if you would just let me come home!”)
An innocent new life with an uncertain future. (“It doesn’t matter what I’ve done. I know you’ll learn to love and accept my son when he is born!”)
A realization that the daughter I once knew is gone forever; however strong my faith may be that her “new self” will be a blessing and inspiration to others……..some day.
I know that my Walmart will feel familiar again. Already, I don’t think so much about where things “used to be”. I am even beginning to see that the changes were a good idea.
I have to do the same thing with my life. I have to find a way to live in peace. To stop dreading the unknown. To trust that the “big picture” will supersede my expectations, explain all my questions and conquer all my doubts.
I am slowly getting there.
May
13
2010
Sometimes understanding comes after long, hard efforts of seeking it. Sometimes it surprises us when we aren’t looking at all. And sometimes it was there all along.
Another support group meeting has left me with much more than I could possibly give. Again, I sat in awe as I listened to the stories. I found myself hanging on the words of other family members in our group as they freely shared their horror, their despair and their hope. As always, I tried to see if their experiences could shed some light on my own. I took careful note of the steps they were taking in their fight against the monster to see if my own should be altered. I looked for a glimmer of extra understanding that I could use to strengthen and fortify my own resolve.
My own ability to keep moving forward.
I found it.
It came as a memory that suddenly flashed into my mind from my own childhood.
I was four years old and I was helping my Dad load the car for a roadtrip. I grabbed the handle of a bag nearly as big as I was right behind his hand and lifted with all my strength. With patience and wisdom he slowed his steps and allowed me to “help” him. By lessening his hold just enough so that I could feel the weight of the bag, I was forced to grip the handle as tightly as I could. He smiled as I grunted and strained and gave my very best effort towards moving that bag to it’s destination five feet away. I didn’t want to admit I couldn’t carry the load so I “gave” it back to him.
“Here, Daddy, you can do it now.”
Then I stood back and watched as he quickly walked the remaining steps and swung the bag up into the car easily and effortlessly.
My Dad knew that there was no way I could possibly carry a bag that size by myself but rather than shoo me away, which would have probably been much easier for him, he let me try. Really try.
The consequences of the choices my daughter has made as a result of inviting the monster into her life are formidable. So much so that I am constantly struggling to wrap my mind around them as I try to think of possible solutions and scenarios that could somehow make the nightmare go away. I know that there is truly nothing I can do. I know that the efforts I may make to “lessen” her load are actually forcing her to carry it longer.
Yet still I am tightly gripping that handle. Barely budging a load that I can’t possibly carry, I am straining and pushing. All the while, God is slowly walking beside me with great love and patience. Waiting for me to say the words.
“Here, Daddy. You can do it now.”
And let go.
April
10
2010
Understanding.
There is nothing quite like the feeling that comes from knowing someone else understands.
When I first saw this performed on television, I was completely unprepared for how it affected me. I remember we were watching with great expectancy because Pono, one of the dancers, was also my daughter’s friend. He had worked closely with her as a mentor and teacher for stage direction and dance moves. He was kind, supportive and offered her tremendous encouragement as she worked hard to achieve her goals.
But when I saw him dance, I knew. He had been there, too. His interpretation onstage of the monster wasn’t just a performance. It was a testimony to real pain.
I was brought to tears as I watched and felt his understanding of this pain reach right into my heart. I didn’t learn until much later how closely he was affected. But it didn’t matter.
His gift to me – of knowing exactly how I felt. How much I hurt – was something I’ll never forget. Thank you, Pono!
April
1
2010
Yesterday was her birthday. I woke up in the morning with the reality of the dread I had been facing all week staring me in the face.
It had loomed ahead of me for the past six days. It was bad enough to have her call and tell me she had acted on her threat to sign herself out of rehab. But I was unprepared for how quickly I felt the bottom drop out of the temporary peace I had been enjoying. Especially since I had already told myself not to be surprised if she couldn’t make it. Told myself to expect to get this phone call. Assured myself that I would still be ok when it came.
“Do you hate me, Mom?”
It wasn’t about that at all. It was about lost dreams of new beginnings. It was about knowing that she would have to wait 30 days to reapply, if she decided to return. It was about precious time that could never be recovered. It was about feeling like I was watching her very life slip right through my fingers and there was nothing I could do.
All day long I had flashback visions of past birthdays. She was always the joyful child. Not a sign of colic as a baby like her sister, in fact nothing seemed to upset her. We used to jokingly call her our “trick baby”. The one that’s so easy that you decide to do it again. In this sense, her brother owes his life to her!
I used to put tremendous effort into birthday preparations. Everything had to be perfect. Even learned how to decorate custom cakes so that I could create something that looked as amazing in photos as it tasted. And she was the one who enjoyed it all the most. She was all about joy. Many times she made me wonder what I had possibly done to deserve such a child.
Until she took the path that led her to the monster. Then everything changed.
I wanted, more than anything, to go back in time this year. To shower her with gifts and spend hours making the perfect cake. To hear her laughter and feel her hugs as she thanked us for such a “perfect day”.
We met her today. We didn’t forget her birthday. Couldn’t possibly. A card and a Walmart gift card were all we could justify. We couldn’t give her money. No way to really know where it would go. Who we might be ultimately supporting. She seemed appreciative. Gave us both hugs and handed her Dad a candy bar she had recently tried. “You’ll like this, Dad.”
We drove away and left her there. Back on the streets again. She promised to return to rehab. Said she had made a big mistake leaving. I wished her words could give me hope again. I closed my eyes and tried to feel, again, her hug. Tried to remember, again, her smile–before the monster. Was surprised to feel a sudden rush of joy at that memory.
And gratefully; asked myself, again, what I could have possibly done to deserve such a child.
March
15
2010
Long day spent washing lines of cars at a fundraiser for Meth Awareness. Most of the volunteers had left already and just a few of us remained to take down the table and shade awning. Wet towels were gathered and trash was bagged and tossed. I was focused on collecting the last of the supplies and heading home to dinner and almost didn’t notice when he approached my husband.
Young. Easily less than eighteen. Too clean to be homeless. Both hesitant and determined as he asked “Have any money?” It was the word “money” that caused me to look up. Before my husband could answer he added “Even a dollar would really help.”
I knew immediately; even before I saw his eyes darting back and forth. I noticed his clear skin and thought to myself, “Maybe it’s not Meth.” But I knew better.
How ironic that we would be approached by someone probably bound by the very monster we were fighting. I pictured my daughter doing the same. She had readily admitted that she was a “master” at pan-handing. I wondered how many people she had approached in the same way. The thought made me uncomfortable as I replaced the face of the young man I had just seen with hers in my mind and was instantly appalled.
Even after so much time has passed, I am never very far beyond being incredulous and amazed. Even after long ago coming to terms with the reality of her choices, I am still easily shocked and taken aback.
Like the survivor of a devastating earthquake, I will never be able to fully accept the magnitude of the destruction in my life.
February
26
2010
She has decided to stay. For now. One day at a time. I will celebrate every day as a blessed victory.
Two years of hell and finally a sign of a turnaround. I was not prepared for the incredible feeling of lightness I felt as the realization sunk in. I really was expecting the worst. Prepared for it. Was ready for that sudden drop that I’ve felt so many times during this ride. For the first time since the monster announced itself to us in our lives, I can’t easily hear it sneering at me. Whispering threats to take my daughter away forever. Can’t see it glaring at me. The very personification of evil.
I know it’s still there. Just around the corner. Waiting.
I take nothing for granted.
I will continue to fight in the only way I know.
With all my heart. With all my might.
With prayer.
February
25
2010
Patience. Really not my forte. I don’t like waiting around. I am not a one-day-at-a-time person. I live by organized plans and goals set. Not anymore.
She finally checked into rehab. Huge step. She did it by herself. I knew how hard it was for her. She lasted two days. She called to say she couldn’t stay and it was my fault. No surprise there. I knew why she was calling. I let the phone ring for five minutes thinking it was better to avoid a confrontation than agitate her further. She was already threatening to sign herself out. It could wait until morning. At least then if she decided to walk it would be light. I hated the idea of her alone in the darkness. But I couldn’t stand it and picked up on her third try to call.
“I don’t need this.” ”You don’t understand what’s best for me.” ”You don’t care about me.” ”I hate you.”
I had heard this before. Many times. Didn’t matter. It still hurt. Her words cut deeply into the resolve with which I had worked so hard to fortify my foundation. Deep cracks made me wonder how much longer I could remain standing before everything crumbled again. Before I found myself wondering how I could possibly take another step on this journey that I never dreamed I would take.
I stopped breathing last week when she promised me she was ready to change. She told me she didn’t want her life back but rather wanted a new life. A fresh start. A new beginning. She had so much to share. She would write a book.
We talked over a combo at McDonald’s. She told me she understood why she couldn’t come home. She told me she knew she needed to take the steps toward people who could truly help. She told me she understood that we, her family, simply were not equipped to do this. She was so rational. So compassionate. So much like my daughter that I lost. We parted like the past two years never happened. Like the monster never existed.
“I love you, Mom.” ”Call you later!” She hugged me.
Five days later she checked into rehab. I still wasn’t breathing. I knew the probability of her staying where she needed to be was low. I prayed that she could just take it one day at a time. I spoke to her counselor that first night and shared my fears, begging her to use every ounce of her professional training to convince my daughter to do what I couldn’t. I felt stupid when I cried. Another beat down parent who can’t even speak a straight sentence without losing composure. I knew the statistics. The likely fact that it would take many tries before help would be accepted. Before she was ready to change. Before she was ready to live.
Before I can breathe again.
February
3
2010
She made the appointment. The one that would be the beginning of the rest of her life. The beginning of learning how to live without drugs. The beginning of understanding why she fell so hard in the first place. The beginning of being in a place with a bed and food and people who cared about helping her get better.
I was ready to help her get there. Cleared my calendar and was waiting. Finally she called. She just needed a few more hours to “take care of things”. I was confused. What could she possibly need to do? She had nothing. She had no where to go. To be. But still I waited. A few more hours didn’t really matter if she finally got where she needed to go.
“I can’t do it, Mom.” What did she mean? This was her chance. I was incredulous. ”I’ll do it Monday, I promise.” I couldn’t believe it.
Angry.
Hurt.
Let down.
Again.
Surely she would think about it and reconsider. After over a year of being disappointed so many times. Devastated. After so many promises to go to rehab. After so many rides to the top of hope only to plummet down again into the depths of disappointment, one more weekend wouldn’t kill me.
But it wasn’t going to happen. She pushed her appointment to the very last minute and the deadline passed. She really was sorry when she realized there wasn’t going to be another chance. When she realized she would have to wait thirty days for a new appointment. I could feel her honest regret but there was nothing I could do.
No car, no place to sleep, no where to go. She begged me to let her come home. Pleaded with me to let her sleep in her own bed again. Promised to “be good” and enter rehab at the next possible opportunity.
I was left with no other choice but to leave her there on the streets.
And keep praying.
