I’ve received many emails from moms asking me how I cope with the living death of Annie’s substance use disorder.. She’s neither dead nor alive. Many of my friends here know the hellish limbo I’m living in, without any resolution or closure. But I have found a way to cope well and move on with my life. This is what I wrote back:
“I put my grief in a back drawer and close it. Then I look at what’s in my front drawers every morning. I have so many wonderful things to be grateful for. Instead of focusing on the problem, I try to keep my mind on the solution. This is how I live. It keeps me humble, grateful, and glad to be alive. I honor my daughter’s memory in this way, and I truly believe she would want me to live well and be happy. Blessings to you, Mom.”
I’m a mother. When my kids were little, it was my job to keep them safe from harm. If they ran across the street with a car coming, I might have spanked them a little so they’d remember to look both ways the next time. Yes: pain; yes: consequences. Yes: both good teachers.
But when my daughter was twenty-one and started making terrible choices, I still thought it was my job to protect her from harm, self-inflicted or otherwise. And I still treated her like a two-year-old.
When she first stole from me early on, I went into a long period of denial and guilt, minimizing my feelings and believing her incredible explanations. My inaction only emboldened her, and she went on to steal in other ways. Several times, she stole my identity, with no explanations. So even when it was clear to me that her behavior was sociopathic, I still behaved inappropriately: I did nothing. Even when the credit card company told me to do something—that it would be a lesson for her—I still did nothing.
Where was the smack on the rear she would have gotten from running across the street? Where were the consequences that would have reminded her to be careful? I presented her with no consequences in the beginning of her illness and so she learned nothing. Her progressive illness got much worse. My guilt was crippling me as an effective parent.
Not until I started working my own program of recovery in Al-Anon was I able to release myself from the hold that was strangling us both. I needed to get out of my daughter’s way. She wasn’t two anymore.
I’ve made a lot of progress since those early days. I’ve learned to let go and leave her to the life she has chosen. Four rehabs helped her turn her life around for a while, yet she always slipped back into her substance abuse disorder and the life that goes with it. But staying out of the way has given me the freedom to take back my life and learn to live joyfully by focusing on my blessings. It has also given her the freedom to take responsibility for her own life and hopefully her own recovery. If she reaches for it again, and I pray she will, how much more rewarding it will be for her to find her own way!
“’Alice: Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?’
The Cheshire Cat: ‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.’
Alice: ‘I don’t much care where.’
The Cheshire Cat: ‘Then it doesn’t matter which way you go.’
Alice: …’So long as I get somewhere.’
The Cheshire Cat: ‘Oh, you’re sure to do that, if only you walk long enough.’
It’s worth noting here that of the four rehabs my daughter has been to this one, the one she herself wanted, produced the best results in her. Why? Because she wanted it—as plain and simple as that sounds. She wanted it because for the first time in her disease she felt her life was in danger—not from drugs—but from the life and the people that accompany them. A few years down the road, no longer a stranger to the danger that went with this way of life, three more rehabs would be placed in front of her, like roadblocks: ‘Choose, Angie (Annie), do this or die.‘ And to her credit, I suppose, she chose to go where we wanted to send her. ‘Where we wanted to send her.’ That’s why they didn’t work. She wasn’t ready to make that commitment again. She was just Alice tripping from one place to another, when all of a sudden this bulldozer broke through the ceiling and screeched, ‘Angie, (Annie) come with me. I want to save you!’ And ‘curiouser and curiouser’ she cracked, ‘Oh, what the hell, I need a vacation from all this anyway.’” ~excerpt from my award-winning addiction memoir, A Mother’s Story: Angie Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, by Maggie C. Romero
“‘At fifteen life had taught me undeniably that surrender, in its place, was as honorable as resistance…’ ~Maya Angelou
We had to surrender to a power greater than ourselves to get to where we are today. And each day we have to turn to that power for strength and guidance. For us, resistance means struggle—struggle with others as well as an internal struggle.
Serenity isn’t compatible with struggle. We cannot control forces outside of ourselves…And when we choose to surrender our attempts to control, we will find peace…”
I often write about the pain of resistance. How the very word carries an aura of courage and strength. Those of us who have addicted loved ones would do anything, it seems, to save them from such a miserable life. I spent a number of years trying to save my daughter—resisting—and refusing to allow her the dignity of her own (poor) choices. I felt courageous then, determined. I couldn’t surrender to the power of addiction; I thought it would be cowardly.
But I tried and failed to save my daughter. She’s been in and out of recovery for over twenty years. And though I pray she reaches for recovery again and comes back to her family, I can’t make that choice for her. She can only save herself. And I truly believe that the addicts who recover do so because it is their own desire to get their lives back—not someone else’s.
So I’ve learned that I can only save myself. When I give up the struggle to change things I can’t control, my life is more peaceful. I find the energy to focus on gratitude for what’s good in my life.
Sometimes letting go—not resistance—takes courage.
Last spring when I had raging carpal tunnel syndrome in my hands AND a viral mouth infection so severe I couldn’t eat anything but pablum, I whined that “it never rains, it pours.” Well, those two maladies were a walk in the park compared to falling down the stairs and breaking my humerus three days before my first chemotherapy infusion.
“God,” I said looking up as though that were where He lived, “You are really testing me. Geez, isn’t t-cell lymphoma bad enough without having to cope one-handed with my arm in a sling?”
It’s a good thing I couldn’t see Him because I knew he was smiling, sure that I would meet this challenge just fine. And I would have slugged him, I was so mad.
At myself, of course. I talk about remaining teachable and I think THIS time my self-will has wrought a bad enough consequence to make me stop in my tracks. How did this happen? I failed to turn the night light on, was nearly finished barreling down fourteen steps in slippery socks, missing the last one, and plummeted onto my left side at the base of the stairwell.
My first thought: I will not be defeated by this. I got up and was grateful I could walk without pain. More gratitude: it was my left side and not the dominant right. I went to my phone and called 911.
Camano Island Fire and Rescue was there right away and whisked me off to Skagit Regional Hospital in Mt. Vernon. X-rays were taken, and I waited in the outer area for my friend to come and take me home. Oh, did I mention that Gene had just that evening flown to San Francisco for the memorial of a friend? Timing…
I was quite alone in my house, but not for long. The front door was constantly revolving all weekend with friends coming over to teach me how to wear a sling, cut up vegetables, open bottles for me, perform a myriad of tasks reserved for two-handed people. I’m so grateful for them.
My son took me to my first infusion the following Monday. He held his tongue, but I knew he was furious that I could allow such a disaster to happen at the start of my chemotherapy. When Gene flew back the next day, more dismay and head-shaking that I could have been so careless.
So there you have it. This occurred on October 17, just eight weeks ago. It was fractured badly and the ice cream is nearly off the cone. Still quite painful, it’s not going to heal on its own. So I saw a shoulder surgeon this week and he’ll schedule surgery for as soon as possible, when treatment is over.
The sooner the better, so I can get through rehabilitation therapy and hopefully get back to paddling my kayak this summer. Am I too ambitious? Nah.
“The serenity I am offered in Al-Anon is not an escape from life. Rather it is the power to find peacefulness within life.
Al-Anon does not promise me freedom from pain, sorrow, or difficult situations. It does, however, give me the opportunity to learn from others how to develop the necessary skills for maintaining peace of mind, even when life seems most unbearable…
Serenity is not about the end of pain. It’s about my ability to flourish peacefully no matter what life brings my way.”
In the movie, “The Shack,” Mac has a dream and in it he meets God. Mac had recently lost his young daughter, and in his anger and bitterness he lashed out at God. Who else to blame? God (a woman in the movie) came right back at Mac with Her own defense: She didn’t orchestrate all the misery on earth: Ukraine, The Holocaust, children starving in Nigeria. “Don’t blame me for all that,” She said.” My purpose is to help you rise above it.”
Wow, those are powerful words, and they remind me that I am not alone in my struggle, that God (or any form of a Higher Power) wants to partner with me if I accept him.
Al-Anon has the same purpose in my life. God doesn’t have the power to return my daughter to me. But if I continue my daily practice of gratitude, accept what I don’t have the ability to change, and have faith that God’s plan is unfolding for a greater good than I may ever see, I can live peacefully and even joyfully, savoring all the goodness that is in my life. It’s my choice.
“They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm.” ~Dorothy Parker
Do I see myself here? Somewhat, if I’m honest, as cynical as that quote is. Maybe in the beginning I was addicted to the drama of my daughter’s substance abuse disorder. That—and all the martyrdom I subjected myself to. But this did not bring me happiness. There are a number of ways, I have learned, to stay involved with an addicted child—ways that might have helped us both navigate this illness better. But for a long time I was stuck and didn’t know how to free myself of the downward spiral.
Over time, my obsession broke me down and wore me out. I do enjoy the peace in my life now, though I still experience some PTSD. So many years, it seems, of struggling to help her, and then for both our sakes, letting go of the struggle to save her. Addressing once and for all my own substance use—so that my presence could benefit my other loved ones. Don’t think for a moment that I don’t feel the pain of losing my girl. I do. The trauma of losing a child, to whatever illness, never goes away. But, in my experience, it isn’t so heavy to carry. It feels lighter now. Hang in there, Moms. Many things are resolved with better education and the passage of time. Keep loving yourselves and the world around you. Love is the great healer of all things!
“Loving, like prayer, is a power as well as a process. It’s curative. It is creative.” ~Zona Gale
“…Today my sense of humor is a natural reflection of who I am. I experience the world through smiles and laughter rather than through bitter smirks. I share joy with others rather than seek company for my misery. I help others heal rather than attack them. I allow my sense of humor to unfold naturally, just the way it was meant, and I watch the wonderful results as my Higher Power works through me toward a higher good.”
Finding my sense of humor has been a reflection of how I’ve changed in recovery. I’ve worked through my grief around my daughter and continue to do so every day. But the darkness has receded. Somehow it’s not as heavy to carry as it used to be. It seems lighter. I’ve gained perspective from years of reading and writing, and listening to other peoples’ stories. Being able to laugh, and cease to take myself too seriously, has eased my journey through this frightening tunnel. I can see the light at the end of it.
At times I wondered if I would ever laugh again, but my Higher Power wanted me not only to survive but to do so joyfully. There are many other people in my world, and my recovery spills over onto them in countless ways.
Cultivating a healthy sense of humor keeps me right-sized; I stay small and HP stays big. Then I don’t get in my own way so much!
Ironic, isn’t it, that you have become my teacher and not the other way around—teacher of life, teacher of love, and beacon of surrender.
I’m so grateful that you were born, even though at times I’ve felt otherwise. God works in mysterious ways, doesn’t he? Though you haven’t been in my life long, and not always happily, it’s been your very existence that has propelled me into a serenely spiritual life, even happiness. I never would have done the work necessary to reach this place without your inspiration.
You are my child, my teacher. As I’ve stumbled on this rocky path, my thoughts of you have guided me; they guide me still.
All that I’ve become are gifts from you, my daughter: life lessons, trial by fire. How do I honor you?
