“So…when you imagine, let’s say, the worst case scenario—”
“Right: they die.”
“Yeah, they die. What does that feel like when you imagine that?”
“I try not to feel that. But I imagine … something like … relief.”
This is a conversation I never thought I’d have. But here I am, with my Al-Anon sponsor, discussing how it’s come that our kids have gone so far off the rails. Because I can tell you, when I first held my sweet-smelling, squirmy baby, I knew a ferocious kind of love I’d never before experienced. Nineteen years ago, I couldn’t imagine any circumstance in which I would ever stop loving my kid, or disown him. Indeed that’s still true; but I have found it’s entirely possible not to like him very much. To be fearful and angry like I’ve never before known, nor ever could have predicted.
But. My child, I’ve found, is not a mini-me. He is his own stupid self. His frontal lobe needs some serious development, and fast. And I can’t do a lot about it, nor—I’m learning—is it my path to do so. Coming from someone who is particular about the way the spoons lay in the drawer, whose biggest pet peeve might be the misuse of “your” and “you’re,” who gets incensed (albeit silently) when her family doesn’t take their own trash out of the car … well, letting go of my child’s decisions: that’s kinda huge. And it’s really hard.
It’s not hard because I’m a control freak. It’s hard because I’m impotently watching a slo-mo disaster happening to one of the people I love most in this world.
It’s hard because his shitty decisions affect us, his family, in real-life, concrete terms. Financially: Rehab is far from free, y’all. Medications aren’t free. Counseling isn’t free, and it’s not just for my son, either. Addiction is a family disease, and we all need help coping with it. Physically: I’m not sleeping well, and I’m stress eating. Resist the urge to point out that I’m in control of what I put in my mouth. K? Thx. Because I’m here to tell you: I do not feel in control of my own life. In fact, sometimes, I think I might actually be going crazy. If copious amounts of chips and cheese are what it takes for me to stay with you, so be it. Emotionally: See “Physically.” And add to that, I have another child to parent, who deserves stability and her regular mom. I’ve neglected very loving, dear friends as I try to hold it all together. I have a husband, to whom I’m trying to stay married. The emotional costs are high, though. We’re struggling, and have been for a long time, to find our united front; to have tough, honest discussions about parenting, politics, and expectations; to not blame each other (well, I can only speak for myself here, but I’ve some resentments to eradicate); and to solve our problems, from dealing with our son’s substance abuse issues, to unresolved differences that have simmered for the past 20+ years.
So when my sponsor says, if her son and daughter die from their addictions, she might just get the tiniest sense of relief, my breath catches, and my eyes well up, because I understand her. And I feel terribly, terribly guilty to admit that the thought has crossed my mind, too.
The thing is … the thing is, when my son is on drugs, I don’t know who he is; he certainly is not that sweet-smelling, squirmy baby. In fact, he’s more like an angry, irrational, unpredictable, self-absorbed, asshole stranger possessing my kid’s skin. But he’s definitely not my son: the sweet, sensitive boy who used to delight in making his little sister laugh, who now acts as though she doesn’t exist; who used to beg for me to scratch his back but now barely tolerates my touch; who used to tell me, “Nothing in the world could ever stop me from loving you, Mommy,” but now seems to have so little regard for me or my feelings.
But you know what? Every day—every day—no matter what, I tell him I love him. I may not always say it sweetly; in fact, there have been times when I’ve said it almost spitefully. But I say it. Because it’s important he knows. It’s important he never doubts. Because one day, maybe, hopefully, it’ll mean something to him again.
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Mommanon 