The sun was beating down on my black Nissan ultima as I pulled into the gas station. The temperature was going to reach a balmy 96 degrees in Las Vegas. I stepped out of the car to pump the gas. As the heat hit my body like a wave of lava; I hurriedly took off my button-up shirt to reveal only the tank top I had under it. Suddenly little specks of granola pieces were flying all over the clean back seat of my rental car. I stopped momentarily wondering what the heck. Then I remembered…..Like a chipmunk preparing for winter; I had stuffed that little container into my pocket that morning, at the hotel breakfast. Except I wasn’t preparing for winter, I was hoarding food for my unhoused son. I was in Vegas, again, to “meet him where he’s at”; give him things to reduce harm, and give him a hug, of course. Everytime I meet up with him he scans the seats and my bags for food and yummy treats always saying the same thing, ” I forgot, I haven’t eaten today”.
Years ago, I would have thought, “How do you forget to eat?” But as we head into year 5 of his active chaotic addiction; I know better. Daily survival to him, means: getting from point A to point B; hustling to find some money, maybe some water and whatever else he needs to stay “well” with his condition and trying to keep his dead truck from being towed.
My boy. He is my eldest son and what a man he grew into. He became an entrepreneur and the family hero and rock. He was everyone’s go-to…for a job, a vehicle, tires, or just solving a problem. He was gregarious, funny, and smart. He had an opinion and a comment on everything. Riding in a car with him was always a complete adventure and still is. He sees everything. He notices trucks, trailers, semis, cranes, drills and people. He either has a story about them all or an idea of how they can make their life better. It sounds crass but all my kids and I have the same sense of humor when it comes to seeing someone on a funny bike or with a strangely shaped face or hat. But this boy is the King of sarcasm and wonderment. “I wonder what happened in his life to make him choose that {low-rider, bright yellow El Camino}” would send us into fits of laughter.
Just last time I “visited”, I hit a speed bump so hard that he said I flew over the kid on the scooter and then informed me to take him back to the Motel 6 because he’s safer with the gang bangers”. We laughed… hard. I was so grateful he still had his sense of humor but I wanted to cry at the irony and patheticness of the whole situation. Why was this man who used to run 3 companies and 50 employees living in a Motel 6? And that’s only once every few weeks just to get a shower.
How did Motel 6 become a luxury?
Why did his 55 year old mom have to drive or fly 600 miles just to be able to see or talk to him? Why can’t he keep a phone charged? Why doesn’t he ever have $30 for data- only using Wi-Fi when available?
Honestly, all these questions only drive families crazy and they inflict more shame onto an already shamed, defeated mind when they are mentioned. “Trying to get them to see how far they’ve fallen” is cruel in my opinion.
I didn’t always feel that way. I used to actually send him split screen shots of him as a healthy 260 lb tan buff man next to his 195 lb scarred and pale frame. As if….. As if that would somehow heal him. Or “make him hit rock bottom and want to change”. I didn’t get many pictures after that. The trouble is: whether it’s fat-shaming, sexual- shaming or drug-shaming; you can’t force someone to self-reflect and/or self-correct. You can’t bully or scare a teen out of having sex or tell someone that their form of stress/pain relief isn’t working for you.
Even if it isn’t working for you. Even if it has been the most devastating thing to ever happen to you and everyone else around you.
They know. They know what their life has become. They feel the disappointment. They know how far they’ve fallen–especially when they have no place to call home, no real job, and labeled a criminal by the courts. This trip, I finally met up with my son. Although I didn’t have granola for him, I did have 3 muffins, a cup full of sausages and and a bag of juicy fruit, salad and candy from Whole Foods. I did my usual during the visit: 1) Mention how he could make a change and have a better life. 2) Update him on the fam and what everyone’s doing. 3) Ask him how I can help him today.
I usually leave with tears running down my face. Leaving my boy in that city that is hell bent on destroying him, is always traumatic. It takes me days to recover. But at least I had one more hug, one more shared laugh, one more meal together, and one more chance to hand him a handful of granola. This time I will keep it in my purse instead of my pocket.
As a Mom, going through this tumultuous journey of loving someone with substance use disorder; I often find myself in a quandary of confusion.
It’s as if I’m in some suspended cloud of anger and sadness, relieved when a ray of hope trickles through the misty light only to be followed by dark thunderstorms of disappointment again.
The steps seemed pretty straight forward at first. After the initial gut-wrenching shock of discovering the drug use of my son; the comfort (and naivety) that he’s an adult and can handle it, left me with a slightly aloof neutrality that it wasn’t my deal.
I mean how serious could a few extra pills be? He worked hard! He was always having back pain. He needed relief, in order to work.
Wow! Was I in for a surprise
When the facts of how serious it was becoming- despite continued denial on his part- I found the strange foreboding “routineness” of being the Mom of a struggling substance user, set in.
And THAT was scary!
I couldn’t ignore the signs of impending doom, swirling around like a storm just waiting to hit.
As the perpetual shoes kept dropping: a job contract lost, another business failure, then the marriage crumbles; I watched in sometimes shell-shocked horror at the devastation such a thing could cause.
The rehab failures, mixed with moments of clarity and hope, leave me exhausted.
“Walk away and you’ll feel better”.
“Go to a meeting, do self-care, live your life “.
Right.
It doesn’t seem to matter what mode of recovery my personal journey is at; I seem to be suspended in this cloud of perpetual uncertainty. It takes me back to elementary school when we played tug-of-war.
Will I be the cheering group with scuffed hands but happy smiles? Or dragging myself out of the mud in the middle trying to wash the heartache away?
Will I be professing the “cure” as my son happily recovers? Or will I be in the mourning Mothers club of pain & heartache?
Which team was I on anyway? Am I with the tough love crowd? Especially on those days when I’m being pressured for money from my son?
Or am I in the loving well- connection- above- all- group? In the middle, are the harm reduction lobbyists who are adamant about users’ rights & safety.
I’m running back and forth, I want to be on the winning team! And by winning, I mean I want my child to survive!
Above all, isn’t that goal?
My heart sinks every time I read ‘that post”. A mom who got “the call”.
I want to scream! No! I don’t want to be in this club! I want to show the gut-wrenching pain to all those people on Narcan posts who despise giving addicts more than one chance or ANY chance. I want to advocate for more help, for understanding. I want to break the stigma. I want to gracefully educate and come out feeling proud that we are making progress. One life might be saved.
I want to be that ONE. The one who finally found "the key" & pulled everyone together. I want results or at least palpable progress.
Just when I think I’ve gained some sort of empathy for my son’s and all substance users’ struggles, I’m hit with the accusations. Sometimes a stranger on Instagram, sometimes family and friends. That I’m the reason he still uses. That every time I use “defensive language” regarding him then I’m enabling. Every time I arrange rehab instead of jail, I’m enabling. (Which happened twice in 4 years).
It’s inferred that I’m wasting my time because he will never change & that I should spend my energy elsewhere. More than once I was cut off from family for how I handled the addiction.
This hits hard.
Rejected-not due to effort but to the failure of my efforts?
As if addiction wasn’t painful or complicated enough, it gets to perpetuate it’s lies and havoc not only onto the addict but onto loved ones and how they “should” react or fulfill their roles.
I felt like my role was to give him one support person like everyone needs. I needed to be able to give him hope in the midst of all the darkness.
As my friend Johanna Richards states so eloquently:
“I enable my love and truth. I enable my love. I enable a safe place for him to have a better chance of feeling loved and being treated like a human being with worth and dignity.”
This is my goal.
Everyone gets to choose their response and I choose to love without regrets.
Even “tough love” when done with anger and spite stalls any progress. I read it all the time in the Mom’s groups. Unhealed pain manifests as bitterness and sometimes when they share screenshots of texts with their person, I can’t tell who the addict is!
Addiction loves to do that. Get its slimy hands between families, friends, bosses, even organizations. Divide and conquer is how it survives.
The underlying theme in all these interactions is:
If only he would quit using.
But I have come to realize that quitting is actually a tiny step in achieving actual recovery.
It’s a necessary step, but only part of the process.
Treatment is the ultimate goal , We have an idea that if we can just get them there-then the magic will happen.
All is well right?
Recovery is not linear and usually takes several tries. I would soon learn that it takes personal responsibility from everyone past that point also.
The day after his 2nd rehab stay, he moved into an old clapboard & brick sober-living house in the worst area of downtown.
We were standing in line at the grocery store. He was so thrilled at all the new cereal flavors that had come out in the year or two of him being basically homeless or in jail.
He quietly said, with that far away, introspective look he gets in his eyes, “I wish ‘certain people’ would fight for me. They act like I don’t deserve to have a job or even talk to my loved ones.”
My mother- heart sank.
As I watched this 36-year-old man trying to make sense of this un-make-sensible disease; I was sad. How could I explain to this newly detoxed brain, with raw emotion scourging back to life into places that he wasn't ready to handle - that no one trusted him? That people hate putting their reputation on the line when statistically, responsible behavior in recovery, is a non-linear maze of disappointment.
In his mind, he had done so much for others, for many years and now felt abandoned, in a sense.
I felt for him. To have so much hope and the momentum of getting back to center but then constantly be told you might fail, like a certain recovery model preaches; must be daunting.
Rehab is a huge deal to him. He’s NOT a revolving rehab-ber, so this was a giant accomplishment to his independent, resourceful lifestyle.
So now he had done the thing…
Get off the drugs, ✔go to jail,✔ go to rehab. ✔
“You’re still not good enough” basically, as one text inferred
I sigh. This was his journey.
I can’t hold his pain or drive his recovery.
I can’t dwell in the negative, I just can’t. We’ve come so far.
I have to take care of me.
I need relief. I need feedback.
I go back to the support groups for comfort. When I hear the echoes of those same attitudes from hurt wives and mothers who can’t contain their pain and disdain for what they’ve been through; I quickly exit out of that group.
I need a more moderate group who understands the Mom side with compassion and hope.
Now, All is well until someone mentions: “All drug dealers should get life without parole or death”.
I freeze. I wonder…..
If my son is only worthy of help when he’s ‘clean’ or not crossing a certain line in the jagged destructive course of addiction; then the other 50% of the time, it’s a toss-up as to his worth?
Is he surviving the best he can, day by day- or asking family for money? It seems, either way, he’s the villain.
According to some, if I’m not doing ANY thing for him then he has a chance -(to hit rock bottom) – even though – unrecovered, he has zero chance of keeping a regular job or getting money legally.
What happens in that gap?
If he can’t support himself, he certainly can’t support his kids. But that must be my fault too. I must have given him too many hamburgers when he was starving.
Ughh. The uncertainty and mixed messages that Mommas feel!
My goal was ALWAYS to get him back to his kids. In whatever way he could get healed and treated in order for that to happen. I never ever justified or supported him staying in his lifestyle. To do that I had to maintain a connection.
If I even so much as hint that connection works better than shame and punishment, then I’m supporting his lifestyle, like his lawyer told me.
I don’t know what the answer is. I don’t know how to help my son anymore, but I certainly can’t make everyone else happy either.
At times I want to scream.
What is a life worth?
Every single life in this convoluted mess of evil entanglement is of value. Each person is caught in their own version of the hell that it causes.
OTHER people in PAIN are not the enemy!
I want to have that blasted on every Billboard right next to:
NARCAN to overdoses is like AED paddles to a heart attack!"
It’s not a “get out of jail free card!”.
What I do know is that my son never ever wanted it to be like this. The man who used to send his little girl flowers every time he worked out of town is now considered a dead-beat dad and it tears my heart out. Years of substance use and conflict has isolated him further. In the short window when he is detoxed and willing, he can’t seem to conform fast enough to recovery expectations with a complete rebuilding of his life.
He has nothing-unhoused, unemployed and yet expected to manage and fix ALL his relationships AND fulfil the court obligations.
When I hear of some other thing he needs to do in his recovery, I sigh. I have to step back and accept the limits of my role. I also have to review my own expectations of his recovery.
If the determining factor for a relationship of an unhealed, skewed-thinking brain versus a healthy brain is for the unhealed brain to lead the way to healthy interactions with everyone, there’s going to be problems.
There’s a dynamic at work in ALL relationships that was there before the drugs, and now those issues need more attention than even before.
But the pressure seems to be placed on them, to fulfil all our hopes and dreams for their lives as it relates to ours.
That’s a lot for one person.
The progressive nature of unhealed addiction mixed with the correctional system almost always leads to more crime.
Relapse: A draw towards people and places who fill that empty hole that substances, or any addictive behavior fill.
For me, the justification for spending more money on a much-needed intervention at this point, is a hard sell. He’s facing charges that could be years in prison. Prison is expensive too, but so are funerals.
I think he feels like he’s stuck in a system that never lets them breathe freely without looking over their shoulder.
I see what that system has done to him. He’s hardened. Day by day, little by little which that saddens my aching Mama heart.
Pain & trauma damage a soul. It causes cognitive dissonanceto maintain a core belief such as “I can’t function without drugs”.
Sometimes, I understand why people stay in deep dark places. Although to us, it looks and feels scary, to them, it's safety. It's home. It's acceptance.
No, I’m not justifying drug use. I’m justifying human beings in severe turmoil and trauma. If they didn’t have trauma before the addiction, they certainly do after it.
So, this journey of a thousand miles is truly just one step at a time.
There are days I have to literally force myself to breathe and count each step to get through the day. Some days each step is filled with angst, trepidation, & fear. But other days, I project hope into every deliberate movement and breath.
I envision the day when my hopes and dreams mesh perfectly with my sons.
When all things good and right come together in some kind of radical entanglement with the universe and God’s plan for him. To see little kids happy smiles beaming joy into faces of love is my ultimate wish. To have the love and understanding of family with everyone’s pain in the journey acknowledged, seen & heard with hope, moving forward in love.
When I was about 10 or 11 years old, I had a neighbor lady who sold Avon & also worked at the post office. I used to babysit her kids once in a while.
One day on my usual route after school, I went to the post office to pick up the mail from Box 169. As soon as I pulled the heavy door open, I could feel a chill in the air. I opened my mailbox & found the familiar yellow card that meant there was a bigger package behind the counter. As I put the yellow card on the counter the lady said to me, “Samantha! I need to talk to you”. I could feel the icy-ness dripping from her words in an accusatory tone. As I swallowed the scared lump rising into my throat; I said, timidly, “Okayyy”.
She then proceeded to tell me that she had a large bag of Avon makeup in her living room closet that was now gone and there had only been 3 people in her house that week and I was one of them.
I felt the blood drain from my body and my knees grew weak. I felt a dark tight tunnel closing in around me. I stood there completely aghast & speechless.
What I now know, is that I was experiencing the flight or fight syndrome, as I talked about in my previous post The Addicts Plea.
So here I am, an 11-year-old girl, alone with a significant adult in the community who had a certain power (to gossip) trying to defend myself with zero communication skills. And even less conflict resolution skills (I still lack).
So what did I do? I chose the only thing I knew – escape!
I ran! I ran the two blocks home in utter terror.
I got home, ran up to my room and fell into my bed in tears. I was caught completely off guard & thoroughly embarrassed that I was thought of as a thief and of course the whole town would know.
In her eyes of course, my fleeing meant guilt. I think I kind of remember a phone call after that but I don’t remember anyone ever talking to me about it. If there ever was a phone call, I’m sure my mother told her right where she could go & how to get there.
All I know Is that, of course, I never babysat again and I avoided the post office when she was in there.
This event was so traumatic to me that I found myself questioning if maybe I had taken it! Surely an adult as powerful as her wouldn’t accuse me if she didn’t have good reason. My un-experienced brain just couldn’t process that without some guidance, which I didn’t get. But what my brain DID process was:
People can & will turn on you- no matter what (trust issues)
I must be over vigilant in proving that I’m doing nothing wrong (paranoia/ over compensate)
When someone does turn on you, there’s no going back. Sorry isn’t good enough because you will never be believed (avoidance/shame / unforgivable)
Not to trust myself
Call this unresolved issues, and baggage -40 year old white Avon baggage! It wouldn’t be the last time I flee-ed an uncomfortable situation. As a result, I have tread lightly with people and relationships. Of course every negative experience adds to this internal map we all have and the stories we tell ourselves about that map.
With me, the overwhelming fear of not knowing what I’ve done wrong mixed with the confusion of wondering if maybe I am a bad person and I just don’t realize it! Otherwise, why would this nice (or powerful or beautiful- insert any word you want) person be accusing ME of it?
The lasting residual of events such as this, with most relationships; is to gain control BEFORE they turn on me- lash out- even subconsciously- before they have a chance to. Going cold is another defense mechanism.
People wouldn’t really call my experience a trauma in the context of traumas, but it is to me.
So if I meet a woman in a position of power; and I am standoffish, or I feel unequal to her- so why even try- this may be a reason. And I absolutely despise getting in trouble. Even with strangers. Because I know my intent was never to do what they are accusing me of.
We just don’t know why people choose the things they do.
We don’t know why people act insecure or boastful or scared. I’m starting to see that what we see as poor choices or weird is maybe what kept them alive in the moment! Maybe it was self preservation!
In the case of choosing substances, of course, they never, ever anticipated the consequences to be so bad. But the choice at the time was what helped them through whatever they were dealing with.
My fav Instagram recovery & homeless advocate explains it wonderfully.
If you’ve known me for a while now, you’ll have heard me talk about how my drug use played a huge part in saving me from dying by suicide as a teen and a young woman. In a perfect world I would’ve had different tools, different support systems, and hell… I would’ve had a different life entirely. But we don’t live in a perfect world and so all responses, even imperfect ones are valid. Sometimes self destruction and self preservation can look almost identical from the outside. Chaotic drug use can also serve as the only inner calm that a person who’s consumed with trauma or existing in traumatic circumstances may be able to access at the time. Don’t assume that you know what internal battles a person is fighting. Sometimes what you see as “the problem” is actually “the solution” for that moment. Sometimes what you view as disordered is actually the very behavior that is helping them maintain order as they navigate pain that you know nothing about.
I have come to believe that is why my son stays stuck. Avoidance is his trauma response. The trauma of losing his dream business, his family, his livelihood- everything that humans hold dear-has created an avoidance response. In order to protect himself, he has cut himself off from caring.
Once in a while it will peak out, like a child grounded to his room for throwing a fit; to see if its safe to come out. Is everyone still mad at me? If it doesn’t feel safe, back in he goes, like a turtle hiding under his shell. My sons shell is drugs. He’s isolated himself to that world and the people who do love him are stuck in their own trauma & pain of the situation.
This is why family recovery is so important. To place all the work on the person with the damaged brain & zero resources or coping skills seems ridiculous. But that’s what most families do. “Don’t contact me until your sober”, is the mantra.
My son is very ill. Yes, recovery has to be his choice, no one can make it for him. But the environment to recover in, can’t be overlooked either. Jail really isn’t ideal, & on the street in the chaos of trying to fill basic needs doesn’t seem to work either. I pray for all suffering that we can find our own safe place in which to heal.
I should be at the bottom of a 300 ft cliff right now. Lying in the cold snow in a mangled Ford Escape. Ironically. Because I wanted to escape. Escape the grim outlook of an ever-darkening world. Escape my aging body and mind that can’t seem to get a handle on life. Escape the fear of not having reasonable retirement plans in the works.
But mostly I wanted to escape the pain of being misunderstand. Escape having to explain, again, my thoughts and feelings. Escape having to try to elicit sympathy for not only my efforts but for the mental vulnerability of my youngest daughter who suffers from severe anxiety and depression.
In fact, right now I’m not even sure she’s ok.
It’s the same with my addicted son who lives 600 miles away in the dingy streets and parking garages beyond the facade of neon lights of Vegas. I usually get confirmation that he’s ok after a day or two of no communication. But its been 5 days now. I hold onto my heart and live in my own world with the mantra of “no news is good news”. My boy is alive in my heart constantly.
But am I?
I’m usually on top of taking care of everyone. Trying to keep them safe and fed. Trying to keep the peace. Oh sure, I sent lunches, said my I love you’s. But I knew that today was different. Today I was gonna go to the top of that slick Icy road with my bare treaded tires. I was going to unbuckle my seal belt and close my eyes as I rammed through the steel bumper guard. I already planned to keep them shut tightly as I felt the tire leave the dirt. I was going to grip the steering wheel with a literal death grip as I felt my stomach drop like it does in airplanes when you hit turbulence.
This turbulence was self inflicted though. There was no wind or storm to blame. No engine failure.
The only failure was me.
Failure to keep relationships going. Failure show love when I was hurting. Failure to adequately explain that I was trying to fix things. Failure to express my needs when I was feeling overwhelmed. Or sad. Or disappointed. Because if I did express those feelings there were sure to be taken wrong.
They always have been. From that little girl to this supposedly grown women, I have failed to use my voice effectively. Many nights were spent in my sheet-less wobbly cot crying as a child.
I can still hear the voices. Listening to my parents fight. Crying over my dead brother who succeeded in suicide. Sobbing and hiding over a careless comment made by a peer.
Here I was again, hiding. Sobbing. Nothing much has changed except 4 or 5 decades. And many people who have had to deal with me between now and then.
I had left that mountain top after spending three hours trying to find the best spot. Analyzing which direction to drive from. Crying. Screaming. Not praying. I was done praying. God had been silent on what direction to help my son. I couldn’t get confirmation that he would live or die. I had given him back to God many times only to beg to have him back. So after an ongoing argument with my spouse about a small furry animal, in which I THOUGHT I HAD ALREADY RESOLVED THE ISSUE; and the resulting ice cold shoulder and sudden missing Good Morning Text after 5.75 years; I decided it was THE DAY.
Yet here I was, back home, writhing in my bed with despair and agony. I had left the mountain because I had a terrible fear that I wouldn’t die. As a nurse, the reality that I might live in a vegetative state cured me from that mode of unaliving myself.
The New Year showed promise of renewed relationships with other family members. I thought the year might be great.
But today I knew.
I knew I would never ever succeed at maintaining the level of happiness and assurance that certain people need. Even having ARRANGED an animal adoption and set boundaries, I was still being held in contempt.
My empath soul can’t do this. I can’t feel all these feelings of others and still survive.
I’ve tried so many things.
Counseling. Books. Tapes. Classes. silence, yelling. Emails. Family “discussions.”
Nothing works.
People might say that my failed attempt at un-aliving means that I didn’t really want it. Akin to an addicted person who fails at sobriety. “They didn’t want it bad enough.” It’s just not true.
I wanted it. I was just too exhausted and underconfident that it would work I headed home with the snow covered windshield and tear covered eyes. I was hungry and tired.
Exhausted. Completely exhausted.
I never thought I would feel so completely dejected and sad at this age of my life.
I will succeed. Sometime. Somewhere. Just not today.
I should be on a plane right now. Headed to Branson with my family on vacation. Instead I am matching the raindrops on my window with my own tears as they fall. I am driving in the middle of the bustling city wondering how I got here.
Not here physically. I know exactly where I am. And it’s not pretty.
It's not the vacation I'm mourning. It's the feeling that going on vacation brings. The temporary reprieve from life. The anticipation of new adventures. The guilt of spending money is washed away with the knowledge of bonds being strengthened and memories being made.
Instead of all those feelings, I’m facing the stark reality of my life in real time. I’m facing a divorce after 5 years together. I’m facing how to manage $2100+ more in monthly bills that I’m now responsible for.
I’m facing how to maneuver what was an already stressed life to an even more stressful life.
There will be no more trips to see and save my son. No more weekend adventures camping or 4 wheeling with my husband. No more phone calls when I’m broke down in traffic and need rescuing.
I can already hear the whispered voices: “She did it to herself. She should have known…….she should have done this or that…..” Some of the same things these same people have said about my addicted son and his life.
Is it true? Pretty much. Is it helpful? 💯 NO🚫🙅♀️
Whether it’s my fault or not, I’m still faced with the same issues plus a hundred more now. I’m faced daily with the sickening and stark reality that in just 2 weeks my son is facing prison. He will either comply or he will make things extremely more difficult for himself.
I still battle the everyday realization that he is stuck in some kind of time warp right now where he lives in survival mode instead of what he could be doing to prepare for court.
It’s mind-boggling and extremely hard to understand.
My stomach cringes in agony that he lives in such struggle and hardship. A groundhog day of broken down cars, dead batteries, moving and hiding them so they don’t get towed. Finding food, money and whatever else it takes to survive on the street. Cars are a great relief from the wind and snow but in 100+ degree heat they are just ovens. Especially with no gas.
But none of that should be my concern.
I’m supposed to live my life and forget about his problems. I tried. Obviously failed.
Now I’m losing ground myself. Addiction can be blamed for a lot of things, but mostly it takes the energy and souls of those trying to fight it. I found out that the scattered remnants of addiction’s consequences ( debt, relapses, criminal record, fines, fees, housing problems, abandonment of responsibilities ) all bring out the worst in others. Especially if they take a tough love approach and / or remain bitter and resentful. Luckily my husband was my number 1 supporter in trying to help my son. But it still takes a toll. Other issues are more bound to come up too.
Would this have happened without the addiction to bring it out?
Would other marriages survive if addiction didn’t come into it? Who knows? Maybe.
Life is one complete unknown. We just have to do the best we can with what tools we have at the time.
I still have other healthy, happy kids. I have beautiful grandkids. I have a home- Thank GOD🙏‼️🙏 I have a job. Today I was able to talk to my boy and for that I am grateful. He could tell I was sad and I felt his concern. He feels some responsibility and it adds to his shame of loss and pain. Unfortunately, the tools seem so out of reach for him. I have to rely on myself. I have to find a way to get stronger. I have no one to fall back on. No parents or siblings. I have to formulate a plan of action.
But first, I’m going to lean my head against this cold, rainy window and let the tears flow. Because I know the sun will shine again.
I don’t care what party you’re for or what president you hate or don’t hate; or if you think addiction is a choice or a disease.
What I care about is the innocent victims in THIS COUNTRY who have their lives shattered over a widening epidemic that continues to spread throughout our society. We still have the Judge Judys turning their heads saying “Not my family- We’re too talented, rich, smart, etc. This doesn’t affect me. I taught them better”
Then we continue to have Big Pharma promoting new drugs to fight the old ones, ATF & drug cartels “likely” bribing each other. Police forces possibly funding their own drug problem for “job security.” Not to mention the many money and drug launderers who seemingly run businesses and are the pillars of their communities but are benefiting from this epidemic.
If you don’t believe this is happening you will soon. Recovery.org states that 1 in 3 Americans have been harmed by others’ addictions. Recent exposure has shown a light into the darkness of trafficking and addiction.
Meanwhile, a thousand tears are being cried, people living in broken down trucks or in trap houses because they’re too ashamed to get help. Kids on father’s day wondering why they aren’t important enough to win over a demon enslaved brain who’s been hijacked to think it only needs that evil drug to survive. (Which it does to a point).
I care about people wanting help and being told that the treatment is 15- 30 k a month with the recommended time being 3-6 months. Only movie stars can afford that. The others have to scrimmage around getting any morsel of help for their shattered lives that they can all while being pressured and legally bullied to pay fines etc immediately.
No money for lawyers, to fight for basic human needs, for the layman to understand his rights. No money to give to a little child to tell them it’s not their fault but it IS in their genes and also “Hey by the way, you are going to need years of self-awareness to make sure the illness doesn’t repeat.”
Meanwhile, we all suffer as a society. We wonder why people steal, why the mentally ill are hanging around our neighborhoods, why families are dysfunctional and hurting in deep deep pain, often silent pain.
There seems to be only room in this world for the wealthy, the devious, or endless useless political arguments that we usually have no say in.
I deeply respect freedom. I respect those who fought for our rights and those who lost their lives for their country. I even respect that my son and others did have the freedom to choose a stress and pain relief those first times of using. I have come to understand that their choice was quickly taken away once they became addicted and caught in the snares of all that addiction to entails.
I hope we can try to remember the ones who didn’t traditionally celebrate the 4th of July.
Likely because they didn’t have the typical freedom most of us do. Being enslaved in a disorder that offers no winners is not freedom. Being stuck in this same loop of feeding the monkey on your back like any other day of the year yet having just enough mental illness not to believe they have other options.
I hope today we can decide to not argue and spread hate and vitriol in the genre of the political climate. I hope we can turn anger into enlightenment and compassion. This can’t be done by attacking and creating more strife.
I hope today we can remember the one who didn’t get a red, white and blue snowcone or have a roasted hot dog. They didn’t watch the fireworks with a cozy blanket around them surrounded by their family.
Yes, it may be “their own fault” but how cruel is that? How does that help solve a huge problem? Telling them they need to figure it out didn’t stop the 8-14 thousand homeless who live on the streets with my son.
Today on this after-holiday, let’s help not hurt. Call someone affected by addiction and tell them you are thinking of them. Call someone struggling and ask them if you can buy them lunch.
My teeth cringe when I even read the word. Tooth pain or earache pain are my worst sources of pain. Physical anyway. Physical pain has an advantage over emotional pain because with physical pain there appears to be an end to the discomfort. Of course the times I’ve been writhing in sweat and curled up in a ball; I never thought there would be an end. In fact very soon after I met my current husband I had an infected tooth which was so bad he had to take me in the night to an emergency dentist. It sort of cemented my endearment of his kindness.
Of course if we had our choice in life we would choose door number 2: no pain. But as the saying goes: no pain no gain.
Some might say that pain represents something that needs healing. Otherwise we would be a robot right? After years of wondering why does someone choose drugs despite so many negative consequences; I finally came to the realization that substance use and alcohol are coping skills for stress and pain.
I’ve learned on my healing journey that emotions don’t disappear when we ignore them—they get stored in the body.
I spent years running from how I felt. Pushing it down. Numbing out. Pretending I was fine. But the truth is that pain doesn’t go away — it just goes deeper. It gets trapped in the nervous system, in the body, in our energy. And over time, it shows up as stress, illness, disconnection, and reactive outbursts we can’t explain. And addiction is one way to deal with this pain. But I also had many other ways, like emotional eating, lying to others about how I was doing, and many other ways that I thought were clever.
Every time I got triggered, it wasn’t because something was wrong with me — it was my body trying to say: There’s something here that needs to be felt. Something that needs to be released.
I used to believe that feeling my pain would destroy me. But I’ve discovered this: the real damage came from not feeling it.
Something shifts when we allow ourselves to feel—even when it’s hard or even when it hurts. We stop carrying the past in our muscles, we stop reacting to old wounds, and we create space for peace, clarity, and real power.
So here’s the choice I try to make every day: to feel it instead of fleeing it, to face it instead of fake it. Because I know now what we feel, we can heal.
I think this is so telling of the mindset of those struggling. This is why I always preach about shaming.
Shaming and addict does nothing but elicit defensiveness and distance
This is a Post I wrote a few years ago about how words matter. Of course it takes us awhile to get past our own pain and disappointment to be able to not react to all the behaviors that come with addiction. It takes a lot of intention and practice to have meaningful non- harmful conversations with people who push all our buttons. If we can develop a heart of compassion it makes that process easier.
As always, I appreciate any support for my new and first book!
Motherhood is about raising and celebrating the child you have, not the child you thought you’d have. It’s about understanding he is exactly she person he’s supposed to be. And if you’re lucky he might be the teacher who turns you into the person you’re supposed to-be.” – The Water Giver
Motherhood has its ups and downs for sure. Those of us who wonder if we did the right things in equipping our children with the strength, courage and character to “make it” in the world, should feel comfortable that we did what we could with what we had.
Age, genes, and life experience matter. A 20 year mother isn’t going to have the life wisdom of a 30 year old mother but age doesn’t necessarily give maternal instinct either. Some people have it and some don’t yet and may never.
At the same time, well educated parents don’t necessarily produce the “best” kids either.
Then you have the discussion is what is a “good” kid. Because I’ve seen enough performative kids and adults behave well for years and climb the ladder in church or career only to fall and fall big. Not just lose their job big but go crazy and/or commit crimes big. Was it a midlife crisis or did they finally crack from the weight of always living for someone else?
As a parent, it’s easy to feel ineffective when you or your kids have suffered big losses.
In retrospection of my life, I’ve found that going down those negative thought spirals does nothing for my self worth or my mental health and quality of life.
What DOES help my mental health is appreciating what I have and giving myself tons of self compassion. This means giving myself the love and appreciation that I crave and need from others but most likely will feel disappointment of it doesn’t come.
Finishing my book of the story of raising my kids was therapeutic for myself but also swings open the door for criticism and acceptance.
Will it be relatable? Is it too long? Is it to subject specific? (Drug use). Only time will tell.
Meanwhile I continue to try to not be dependent on others’ opinion or at least be appreciative of it but then let it go.
Here’s the link to my book if you would like to read more or support me in my efforts.
samantha-waters.medium.com/365-chances-to-start-over-0aa2ffa57d8d
