“Regardless of cause, history, or contributing factors, feeling guilty about your past role in the development of a teenager’s problem behavior will risk sabotaging your parenting goals. For a more focused relationship with your teenager,
Recognize guilt as negative self-talk that is normal, but that can be managed and stopped.
Acknowledge that a desire for relief from guilt places you at risk for changing the rules, boundaries, and standards that you want followed.
Seek professional counseling or other support to help you act more consistently and proactively, feel better about tough choices, and be less encumbered by what happened in the past.”
Feeling better about tough choices was always my Waterloo. But now I say over and over again that I did the best I could with what I knew. Now that I know better, I can do better. Repeat this mantra over and over again until you believe it.
“My daughter had been hijacked by a devastating disease, and it was stealing my daughter away from herself. We couldn’t help but be swept up in the tumultuous sea of change in my beautiful daughter. She was morphing into a drug-addled stranger.
A new anxiety was building up in me and I developed insomnia. My doctor prescribed a mild sedative, Ambien, to help me get to sleep at night, but it wasn’t always effective as I tossed and turned in bed. If Gene was with me, he didn’t get enough rest either. We were both red-eyed and fatigued on many mornings, but we went to work anyway. My work ethic rubbed off on my partner.
Somehow Annie managed to graduate from George Mason University in 2004 in spite of the methamphetamine and cocaine abuse. She crashed on the sofa in my basement, on and off, oblivious to my attempts to help and support her. She was perilously hooked on those two drugs.
“Annie, what is this white stuff in a bowl on the dryer?” I asked, suspecting the worst, and furious.
“Oh, fuck off, Mom. And don’t you ever dare to touch my stuff again!” she responded with fire in her eyes. That’s right, offense is the best defense.
Was I just a nuisance to her, or was I now the villain in her eyes? I told her to sleep elsewhere and then started going to recovery meetings for families of substance users. But it was difficult for me to grasp most of the concepts in the program. I was, at that point in my life, incapable of admitting that I was powerless over Annie’s disease. Facing that reality was counterintuitive for me. It seemed like I’d be abandoning any attempts to save my own child. After all, had I not been a poor model for her with my own deceptions regarding substance use disorder? With so much self-blame, how could I decide I was powerless now to help her?
There was much for me to learn about substance use disorder: how to properly treat it; how to survive it.
And in trying to survive one of a parent’s worst nightmares, my gratitude to Gene for dedicating every day to helping me get through it…what can I say?
“Enough is enough when the hurt inflicted is greater than the lesson learned.”
I felt that, because I was the mother of an addicted child, I just had to put up with things. But underneath that martyred attitude was a shaky self-esteem that whispered to me, “This is what you deserve. It’s your fault.”
When I recognized the truth of that, I became willing to take up the yoke and start working on myself. After many years of working the steps and arriving at a place of self-love, I no longer hear those voices. I’ve gotten my life back, and concentrate on what I can control in my life.
I give thanks, multitudes of thanks, for what I’ve been given. I’m finally able to celebrate myself. And I’m grateful to my daughter for getting me into recovery.
God Bless Us, Mamas. We do the best we can! Everyone reading this: buy yourself a rose today!
“I’m so grateful I found a way out of sadness, a way to take care of myself each day, and a relationship with the God of my understanding, who will never abandon me. The pain I’ve felt in the past is equal to the measure of joy I feel now.”
That’s quite a mouthful. Whoever wrote those words in “The Forum” is saying that somewhere between despair and happiness she or he did some work, found some answers. For me, anyway, I entered into a state of grace. I quite deliberately let go of my pain, which served no further purpose in my life. The lessons it taught me have been learned. I’ve put my sadness in a back drawer—and replaced it with positive thoughts that keep me motivated to reclaim my life, my remaining loved ones, and keep my heart ticking.
“Oh I hate to write, Marilea. It’s like pulling teeth. And I’m afraid of what I might find.”
“Bingo, girlfriend, that’s the whole point. Discovery. I’ve been writing my heart out for more than a decade, and what I’ve learned about myself in the process could fill a book. In fact, it did. It filled three books and countless essays.”
“Yeah, but you’re a good writer and I’m just a hack.”
“Whoa! There’s all that judgment we keep heaping on ourselves. It doesn’t matter if you write well or not. The work is putting your words on paper. How they are received is also not important. What you do with those words is not important. Just get them out of you and examine what’s on the page. Maybe you will learn something new.”
So my friend and I went back and forth about the value of writing. She said she’d get back to me.
But I learned many things about myself from reading my early writing. I learned that I was extremely angry and judgmental toward my daughter. How could she be behaving so badly? And then I wrote about my own youth and realized that we were mirror images of each other.
Discovery.
I learned that I needed to be in the rooms as much as my daughter, if not more, because there were two of us who were sick. And that was the beginning of my healing. My words on the page stood out like red flags everywhere. That’s when I stopped being so angry or judgmental. If I could forgive myself for my sick soul and the behavior it reflected, I could certainly forgive my daughter. And that smoothed the way for her to come back to her family when she was ready.
Our lives rarely enjoy Hollywood endings. My story has not ended well for my daughter. But my writing has helped me cope with that too. The two of us might have fallen down the rabbit hole and never returned. But the catharsis I experienced from being honest on the page has freed me to look beyond my daughter and see my life in perspective. I have a wonderful life, surrounded by people I love. And though I miss my daughter and feel the loss of her every day, I can transform my grief into something positive: joy and gratitude for all that’s left in my life. This book, Opening Our Hearts, Transforming our Losses, is a great resource for those who don’t know what to do with their grief. Take a look.
“All my children had finished college and had spread their wings. Caroline lived in San Francisco, and Carter was about to leave for Austin to get his master’s. But Annie was still living in the area, utterly transformed by the disease of substance use disorder. I bore witness, close-up, to unbelievable changes in her character, shocking new behaviors, as I experienced a mother’s bewildering sadness and grief. I felt sometimes, like going to bed and staying there.
Exploding into my living room a year later with a pit bull and an overflowing suitcase, her eyes were blood red as she pleaded with me.
‘Mom, help me. I can’t do this anymore!’
Of course I’ll help you, my darling girl. We’ll arrange for another rehab, and I know it will work this time.
‘Annalise,’ I told her without giving her a choice, ‘I’m taking you to Arlington Hospital. They can help you there. Where is your car? How did you get here?’
‘My car was stolen. I got a ride here,’ she said, looking toward the door, wild-eyed. ‘Please get me out of here. I need help.’
‘Honey, it’ll be okay,’ I offered. ‘I’m sure they’ll give you something to calm you in the hospital.’
Thank God Gene was living with me then and happened to be home.
‘Gene,” I was trembling, ‘you need to take Dante to the animal shelter in Alexandria. I’m sure they’ll find a home for him.’ I wasn’t sure of that at all, but it helped Annie say goodbye to her dog.
I got in the car with her and drove the short distance away, illegally parking right at the entrance. The staff checked her in to the psych ward. As I turned to leave, Annie suddenly approached me, panicked. Of course she was afraid. She was putting herself in a situation where she would have to stop abusing drugs as long as she was there.
‘Annie,’ warmly offering her a hug, ‘Gene and I will visit you every day. And Dad and Paula will come over from Georgetown, too. Just try to get better. We all love and miss you so much.’
She turned away from me and followed the nurse. The door to the psych ward slammed behind her. It only opened in one direction. She was locked in.
And I was locked out. I still couldn’t accept the fact that Annie was a runaway train—and I couldn’t stop the wreckage. It was October, 2007, my favorite time of year. But I was blind to the autumn beauty all around me. The world appeared bleak and colorless.
After I got home, I repeated Psalm 23 over and over again: ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…’
I was praying as hard as I could. But not hard enough.
Total Wine wasn’t far from my condo. I popped in there for an economy-size bottle of Chardonnay, not even waiting for the change. The twist-off cap let me start right there in the parking lot. Once again I felt rattled and sick with worry. Alcohol was how I was finding my courage more and more in those days. The courage to watch my daughter fall into the rabbit hole of substance use disorder and be helpless to stop her.
Mirror, mirror…I was following her down that hole.
By the time Gene returned from taking Annie’s dog to the shelter, I’d finished about half of the bottle, was terribly drunk, dizzy, and sprawled on the sofa, wailing out loud.
‘I’ll never do this again, make me promise! This is the last time!’
I’ll never forget a friend I had years ago. She was the youngest of three girls in her family. The middle sister had suffered from cancer years before and had died. My friend was ten when her sister died at age fourteen. But it wasn’t the death that traumatized Jillian so much. It was the years of care, heartbreak and obsession with saving her dying child that her mother endured—to the exclusion of her other two girls—that turned Jillian into an angry, rebellious teenager. She did not get her share of mother love, she felt, and to this day she has not forgiven her mother. I should have remembered that story while I was obsessing over my daughter.
I have since made amends to my other children and family members for allowing my daughter’s illness to take up so much emotional energy in my life. And they have forgiven me. It’s so easy for a loving mother to become enmeshed in the life of a troubled child. But I need to remember that there are other people in my life, and I will try to keep a healthy perspective and a sense of balance. For them. Because they matter too.
Silver linings are everywhere in our lives. I try to appreciate them when I see them. My family has lived through four generations of alcoholism, but it wasn’t until my daughter was stricken with substance use disorder that I was motivated to go into serious recovery for myself. Losing her all these years to this cruel disease has been heartbreaking, and my serenity has come at a very high price. But though I’ll never get over these lost years with her, I like to think that she would be glad that I’ve survived and am learning to live well. This is how I honor her memory. She’s left a few flowers along the way, and I’m grateful.
I messaged a friend on Facebook: “Oh, God Bless, Maryann, my heart goes out to you and all of us mothers. I often say in my book and on these sites that I’m grieving a living death because my daughter is not the person who’s walking in her shoes. She’s split right down the middle. Anyway, we all have different stories, but some parts are so familiar. My books are all about finding solutions for myself, and I hope they help you too. One thing I’ve learned on this difficult journey is to live in the solution, not in the problem. That’s how I’ve learned to be happy. Hugs to you!”
From a Nar-Anon handout: “People like myself whose problems have brought them to the point of despair have come to Nar-Anon to seek advice and find solutions. As soon as they attend the first meeting they feel like they have come home and feel like they are among people who really understand. And fortunate is the newcomer who finds a group that permits such expression. It gives those who have gone before them a way to give encouragement and hope. The newcomer discovers that it is by giving and receiving in our sharing that we are able to heal ourselves, and slowly we are able to regain control of our lives again.
But still more fortunate is the newcomer who finds a group that does not allow such unburdening to continue meeting after meeting. There is work to be done; Nar-Anon is not a sounding board for continually reviewing our miseries, but a way to learn how to detach ourselves from them.
A Recovery reminder:
I will learn by listening, by reading all the Nar-Anon literature as well as all good books on the subject of substance use disorder by working and trying to live the 12 Steps. The more I read and study the more knowledge I receive. Knowledge is power, and I will be able to help myself as well as others.”
My recovery work over the years has brought me out of isolation and pushed me into the circle of love in this picture. I have learned many things in my recovery program, but the most important has been placing a greater value on my worth, my needs and my wants. Learning to set boundaries is another way to take care of myself, letting others know what is and what isn’t acceptable to me. This tool has made my relationships healthier. Without a daily practice of self-care, what shape am I in to interact with those around me?
“Progress, not perfection,” to be sure, and we all have bad days. But I’m grateful to have found a sound guide for living in my recovery program. It doesn’t take away the pain of struggling with my daughter throughout her substance use disorder. But it does offer coping strategies that encourage me to focus on what I can control in my life. No longer drained from fighting a battle I can’t win, I feel energized to move on and celebrate the blessings God has given me.
It’s all a matter of perspective. Attitude is everything.
