Six Months Later on this Crazy Roller Coaster Ride

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I last posted six months ago, celebrating a full year of recovery for my son and his marriage to “the love of his life” and her young son. So much has happened since then. From this dizzying peak, there was a wild downward swoop as his new bride and son disappeared from his life, and a crazy chaotic climb as he gained custody of his two-year old daughter when her mother went to jail.

His bride took off after they had a big fight, as had been her practice in the past when they were dating–backing away and coming back. But this time, although they stayed in touch by phone, she refused to see him, or come back. Then she moved out of town. Now he seldom hears from her, although he sends her gifts and money occasionally. He’s pretty much accepted the fact that this is the end of their so-called “marriage.” We’ve known for a long time she had mental health issues, and he’d hoped when they married he’d finally be able to get her the help she needed. But that wasn’t to be.

I sometimes wish I’d been more discouraging of the whole “let’s get married” idea from the start. I did try to discourage both of them, but maybe I should have pushed harder. Now I realize that if I had talked him our of it, he’d be thinking, if only I hadn’t listened to my mother, If only I’d married her like I wanted, then maybe she wouldn’t have taken off this time. He’d be full of regrets and resentment, no doubt.

So now at least he knows he did all he could to show how committed he was to her and their relationship. The fact that still wasn’t enough shows it probably never would have worked out between them no matter how hard he, or she, tried.

And maybe it was a blessing, for only a few months later he found out that his daughter’s mother was going to jail, and he would need to become the fulltime caretaker of his two-year old daughter.

They’ve been living with us since June now. In so many ways this has been good for him–strengthening his recovery and giving him someone to love and cherish, who needs him and depends upon him. Having her in his life makes him a better man, gives him purpose and resolve and the determination to provide a safe, stable, and loving home for her.

It’s been wonderful for me too, having them both here under our roof, getting to know this amazing two-year-old, falling in love with her, seeing my son healthy and happy, working two jobs, six days a week. It’s been tough at times, going to court, dealing with visitations with the mother and the other grandmother, babysitting an active toddler when I’m so used to a quiet, contemplative life. But I know I’ll miss them when they move out. And I worry about them, how he will cope as a single father, working full time. How they will make ends meet, how they will manage without me there to care for her.

I worry too about what will happen when the mother is released and tries to regain custody. No one, not even her own mother, wants the child to be in her care again. The circumstances of her incarceration are very troubling, and it’s clear she too needs some serious therapy and mental health care.

The roller coaster ride we’ve been on these last 16 years or so with my son’s addiction and recovery is still going strong, still full of hair-raising curves, and exhilarating heights, and stomach-churning drops. The stable, serene life I’ve been hoping for him is still on the distant horizon.

But right now, right here, is a very good place to be. And I’m thankful for this turn of events. The future–while still full of twists and turns, and many daunting hurdles–has an unmistakable hopeful glow.

Hope Resurrected, What a Difference One Year Can Make

Wood_Anemone "Easter Flowers"_-_Hooke_-_geograph_org_uk_-_1247605 CCA year ago on March 27, 2014, I began this blog in tears. I did not believe my son would survive his heroin addiction. It had been going on for over 15 years and the past six months had been especially hard. One overdose on my bathroom floor. Two more several months later. He was alone and lost on the streets. He’d given up hope and so had I. Almost. This blog was my way to hold onto a slim thread of hope and to work through the rage and despair.

A year later, on March 27, 2015, my son married the love of his life and became the father to her 4-year-old son. The matching dates are coincidental. But how eloquently it underscores the progress he’s made in 12 months and the resurrected hope we share.

The journey toward this day has not been smooth, as recorded in these posts over the past 12 months. And the journey ahead will be just as difficult. Next week he will celebrate 11 months of recovery. The week after he will graduate from the court-appointed program he began a year ago, his probation will end, and he will be a free man. He plans to continue in the Methadone program that has been such a great help to him. Without it, I do not think this would have been possible.

But it wasn’t just the Methadone. It was being–finally, at long last–so sick and tired of being sick and tired that the drug life had no more appeal for him. It was finding a good AA sponsor who got him off to a good start. It was meeting a beautiful woman who fell in love with him, and sticking with each other through the bad days and the good. And it was having a mother who dug in hard and refused to give up on him, even when I thought it was a hopeless effort.

I hope this is a message of hope to all the mothers out there trying to help sons and daughters lost to addiction.

Still, the journey is not over. The way ahead for my son and his new family is almost unbelievably hard. That they have the strength and heart to walk that path together humbles me. Neither have been able to find steady work. He still lives in a shed. She lives in a homeless shelter having been timed-out from a program that helps single moms and kids.. They spend time together in motels and at our home. She’s finally been approved for Section 8 housing and has two months to find a landlord that will accept her. If that falls through there’s a program in the Bay Area that helps struggling families, so they will go there. He’s found out that under a new California law he can get his non-violent, drug-related felonies removed, and that will open up new employment and housing opportunities.

I don’t know how this story will end, but they feel stronger together than they do on their own. She has never had any substance-abuse problems, but her life has been extremely difficult and she has mental health issues that have never been addressed. Still, she is kind and smart and sweet, a wonderful mother and crazy in love with my son. They are determined to build a safe and stable and happy life together.

They married alone at City Hall. But they plan a wedding celebration next year on their first anniversary. We’ll find out then what one year will bring them. If it’s anything like this past year, we will be abounding in blessings.

We have so much to celebrate this Easter–the resurrection of hope, the blooming of love, and the promise of a new life.

Six Months Strong and Bulking Up

body building bicep_curl“You’re getting fat,” I tease my son, pinching the roll that is starting to form around his waistline.

“On purpose, Mom,” he tells me. “I’m bulking up. This will all be muscle. You’ll see.”

I don’t doubt him. Already his biceps bulge like barbells. He can bench press 240 now.

He works out every day at the gym. But he doesn’t have the budget that will support the kind of high quality diet that most body builders use when they are trying to put on muscle. Bread, rice, and beans are his stables. He’s not complaining.

A year ago he was lying unconscious on my bathroom floor from a heroin overdose.

Seven months ago, fresh off the streets, he was so skinny you could count every bone in his body.

But now, after six months clean, he’s starting to look like The Hulk. In a good way.

The thing is, the way it was before never seemed real, always seemed like a bad dream. It wasn’t who he really is.

And now I have my son back.

I feel so blessed. I hope every grieving mother who reads this, knows there’s hope for their sons and daughters too. Six months clean can make a world of difference.

There’s much to celebrate this Thanksgiving.

 

A Step Up, A Step Down – The Wobbly Road to Recovery

Step-ladder_stile_-_geograph.org.uk_-_1208202 by Kate Jewell

Step-ladder stile by Kate Jewell WikiCommons

My son is five and a half months clean, still going strong in recovery, but still struggling to acquire the basics in life, what so many of us take for granted: stable housing, stable income, stable relationships.

He lives in a metal shed, what his friend calls “his guest house.” It has a bed, a chair, a table, a refrigerator, and even a TV that plays two channels. Pretty comfy for a metal shed. But there’s no plumbing. No kitchen. No insulation. No heat or air conditioning.

He showers at a local gym. He cooks on a hot plate and microwave oven. He has a portable heater and fan.

It’s a step up, or a step down, depending on how you look at it. Before he moved here he was living in a motel room for $1350 a month. His shed is free, so he’s able to start saving money again, and get caught up in child support payments. So that’s a step up.

It’s a step down because—well—it’s a shed. And his girlfriend and son are no longer living with him. They’ve moved back to the shelter.

But he’s still working, still going to AA meetings with his sponsor, still going to the counseling required by his Prop 36 program, still taking Methadone, and still dating his new girlfriend. He even has been able to see his daughter a couple of times since I last posted here. He’s talked to a lawyer about getting visiting rights.

Life is good, considering he was at death’s door only seven months ago when I started this blog: having been kicked out of rehab, living on the street, two overdoses within a week of each other, and another on my bathroom floor around this time last year.

So I’m happy and hopeful, and more importantly, so is he.

Life is good on the wobbly road to recovery.

Four Months Clean, and Struggling

Cc photo by Katy Silberger flickr-3503359255-original

Photo by Katy Silberg – Creative Common

I’m so proud of my son. Last night I took him out for dinner and he ordered a beer. When it came, he told the waiter he had changed his mind, and ordered a coke instead. I was so relieved. So was he. We were both relieved that he’d the strength to do that. On such a bad night.

His new girlfriend had just left him.

He came home from work that night and all her stuff was gone. Out of the blue. It was a blow, and he was crushed. They’d been living together with her three-year old son, mostly in motels. But they were looking for an apartment to rent together. She’d sounded so happy the week before when they were visiting us. Her little son, who is such a doll, was calling me “grandma.” I was helping her look for apartments to rent. We had become friends. Then this.

They may be getting back together. He doesn’t know yet, but they are talking.

I hope they don’t. This is the second time she’s left suddenly like that with no explanation, no warning. She doesn’t use drugs or drink, but I think she may have mental issues. She’s very vague about her past. We really know nothing about her. When he met her, she was staying at a homeless shelter. It sounded like she was running away from a bad relationship, someone who had been abusing her. But I think there’s more to it than that. I think she may be someone who is looking for love, and running away from it at the same time.

I feel for her, and for her little son. But I worry about mine. I think he needs to let her go this time. Not try to get her back.

My heart has been aching all day for him.

On top of this, his daughter turns two years old next week and her mother won’t let him see her. She won’t even tell him where they are living. They keep in touch by phone, and he’s trying to stay in her good graces so she won’t sever that contact. But he’s worried. He thinks she using heroin again. She talks crazy sometimes. She berates him for not being in his daughter’s life.

He says, “How can I be, you won’t tell me where you are living!”

She says, “I wouldn’t let that stop me, if I was in your place.” It makes no sense!

He pays child support, but she wants money on the side, and he wires it to her! I tell him he shouldn’t. But he’s afraid if he doesn’t, she’ll disappear for good and he’ll never see his daughter again. At least she sends him photos once in a while.

I tell him he should call Child Supportive Services. But he wants to wait until he has a place to live so if it comes to that he’ll be able to get custody of his daughter. It’s all so complicated.

Just a week ago I was planning this post–how wonderful everything was: four months clean, looking for an apartment with the woman he’s falling in love with, a sweet little boy in his life, being a dad to him. He was happy, hopeful. So much to celebrate, it seemed.

Still, there’s one thing to celebrate: Despite all he’s been struggling with these last few months, he’s stayed clean. That alone is well worth celebrating.

Lighting Candles of Hope

Candles by Andrew Smithson Creative CommonsI created this blog earlier this year at a low point in my life. I’d given up believing my son would survive his addiction. I did not expect him to live much longer. I had lost hope.

When you lose hope, you lose everything.

But in reaching out to others, I found the support I needed to regain that lost hope. I found others struggling just as hard as I was–those who struggled with loved ones still deep in addiction, those whose loved ones had struggled and survived, and those whose loved ones had struggled and lost.

Many I found  here, readers of my blog who left comments and messages of support and understanding, who shared their stories, and their loved ones’ stories. They gave me the strength and encouragement I needed to keep fighting and keep hoping.

Many were recovering and recovered addicts, and they were especially dear to me because I heard my son’s voice in their stories, their struggles, and their triumphs.

Many I found in the movement called “The Addict’s Mom” (TAM), an organization whose members are the mothers of addicts who, like me, are struggling with the terror of addiction and how it tears families apart. I feel such a kinship with these women. They are my sisters-in-arms.

September is National Recovery Month, And TAM is launching a “Lights of Hope” Campaign.  They ask everyone on September 1 to light three candles:

  • One for an addict currently using
  • One for an addict in recovery
  • One for an addict who is gone but forever loved and remembered

I hope you will join me in lighting these candles of hope. For all the moms and their loved ones.

Thank you.

To learn more about TAM and other events planned in September, visit their website at http://addictsmom.com/

On Loving an Addicted Child

Mother and children Lange-MigrantMother02

Migrant Mother (1936) by Dorothea Lang

I found this poem on a Facebook site for mothers of addicted children. It spoke to me and I wanted to share it with you. Many thanks to Jacqui for allowing me to do so.

It Could Be Worse: 74 Years Plus Two Life Sentences

JugendstrafvollzugAddiction has destroyed so many lives and families. Whenever I think of how difficult the road to recovery is for my son, and we start to despair, I remind myself and him:

It could be worse. At least he still has this opportunity. Some don’t.

The son of a family friend whose downfall was drugs is now serving 74 years plus two life sentences in federal prison. He spends most of his time in the SHU (Special Holding Unit). If you know anything about the penal system, or have been watching the series “Orange is the New Black,” you know this is the worse place to be incarcerated, reserved for the most dangerous prisoners, in virtual isolation. It destroys minds and bodies. The fact that he has been living there for years is almost unbelievable.

When I knew him he was just a skinny little boy with big brown eyes and a shy sweet smile, a few years younger than my son. I didn’t know him well, but saw him from time to time until his parents divorced and he went to live with his mother and step-dad.

The next time I saw him he was standing on our doorstep at 3 AM in the morning. He wouldn’t tell us what was wrong, but wanted to know if he could come inside and call his father. We were surprised to see him, but of course let him in.

While we were waiting for his father to arrive, we sat on the couch and I made small talk. He was 18 years old, but looked like 14, still skinny, still with the big eyes and shy smile.  It was obvious he was in trouble, but we didn’t pressure him to give us details. He seemed like a sweet kid, and I hoped that whatever the trouble was, he would be okay.

We learned later that day what had happened. Just before arriving on our doorstep, he had shot his mother and step-dad in a dispute over drugs. Apparently his parents were peddling drugs from their home, supplying their son and using him to distribute the goods. Their son was hopped up on meth and when they had a falling out and wouldn’t give him what they owed him, in an angry fit, he grabbed their gun and shot them.  His mother died, the step-dad was paralyzed and would spend the rest of his days in a wheelchair.

Somehow he remembered that we lived close by and came to our house to hide out and to wait for his father to come help him.

His lawyer didn’t want to defame the victims, so the fact that his mother and step-dad were drug dealers who had encouraged and benefited from their son’s drug use was never revealed to the jury. He was sentenced to 74 years in prison.

Not long after he was sent away, he wrote to me and we began exchanging letters. I’m not sure why he sought me out. We didn’t really know each other. But perhaps our brief conversation on the couch that night, my kindness to him, made an impression.

At first I enjoyed his letters. He was very articulate and intelligent. He was doing a lot of reading in prison and clearly enjoying what he was learning. But then the letters began to change. He had been drafted into Aryan Nation Brotherhood, was reading all their literature, and was being brainwashed by it. Now his letters were full of white supremacist propaganda.

I did my best in my letters to refute all his arguments and encourage him to stay away from this group. But it was no use. He was fired up and enthusiastic, and he was trying just as hard to convert me. When his language about Jews became increasingly hateful, I knew I could not longer write to him. I mailed him a “Dear John” letter and ended our correspondence. Fortunately, his father and sister and other family members still wrote him, so I don’t imagine he missed my letters.

What I did not know then, nor did he, was that the Aryan Nation was recruiting this impressionable young man with nothing to lose, who desperately needed something to believe in, to be their trained assassin. Or their orders, he murdered an inmate and a guard, earning two life sentences on top of the 74 years.

At that point he realized that he had been used by the Brotherhood and denounced them. Now he was friendless. The other prison gangs already hated him, and those “unaffiliated” feared him, so he was left pretty much alone when he was not being targeted by members of one gang or another. Perhaps that’s why they put him in the SHU. Perhaps that’s why he slashed both his wrists and sliced up and down his arms and legs.

Much to his surprise, and everyone elses, he survived that violent attack upon his own body.

Not long after, his life took an odd ironic twist. For the better.

Resigning himself to life in solitary confinement, he sought to make the most of it. Seeing as how the kosher food served to Jewish inmates was superior to his own, he decided to convert to Judaism. But in order to convince the prison officials the conversion was genuine, he found a distant Jewish relative and began learning as much about the faith as he could. He was fascinated by their long history, their persecution and suffering, and he began studying their sacred texts. His conversion became real.

His father tells us he now wears a yarmulke on his head and his beard nearly reaches his waist. It almost covers up the swastika tattooed across his chest.

I don’t know what this young man’s life would have been like if he hadn’t become involved in drugs. Perhaps he still would have created violent acts. Perhaps he still would have gone to prison.

But I remember him as that sad, shy kid sitting next to me on the couch that night, chewing his fingernails, and looking like all he really needed was a big hug and lots of love to make things right.

I wish he had had a chance to turn his life around.

When I despair of my son’s challenges, I remember: At least it’s not too late for him. We still have hope.

It could be worse.

[POSTSCRIPT: It occurs to me after writing this that I have taken one man’s life and a family tragedy and turned it into a life lesson for myself and my son. The lesson I extrapolated from his story was that everything is relative, and that what seems nearly hopeless for addicts trying to recover, comparatively, is not nearly so hopeless as other cases may be. Therefore, we should take heart, we should recognize the opportunities we have to improve our situation, and not be overcome with all that seems to work against our recovery.

That said, this story of this young man, tragic as it is, has its own thread of hope weaving through it. While his life took such a horrible turn and then grew even worse upon entering prison, at some point, he had the clarity of mind to see that he had been used and the courage to denounce those who had used him for evil, and to choose to live a life of loneliness rather than to be part of that group and way of thinking.

Although overcome with the hopelessness that led him to try to end his life, miraculously, he survived. And in an ironic twist of fate he found in the faith and life story of a people he had once reviled a sense of purpose, and a spiritual practice. I don’t know how his story will evolve, but truly his life story has evolved for the good, even in an atmosphere and under conditions that would severely test any of us. And that, in itself, should give us hope.]

A Flash of Insight, or Magical Thinking?

cloud-ground-lightning National GeographicHave you ever had a dream so devastating that you woke with a headache and unshakable sense of doom? Yet so powerful it provoked flashes of insight about life and reality?

The Dream

I woke from such a dream recently. It was my daughter’s wedding day and everything that could go wrong went wrong. We arrived at the church only to discover no one had come to decorate it. The food we’d ordered was half-prepared. My daughter showed up in her beautiful gown, but we’d forgotten to get her hair done or her make-up. It was so horrible, we cancelled the wedding and sent everyone home. The wedding party climbed into a car and was driving away when my daughter said, “Stop! I can’t wait, I just want this over!”

So we stopped at a tiny diner, and that’s where the wedding took place. I tried to talk her into going to someplace nicer, where it wasn’t so shabby and depressing. But she insisted. I had wanted to take photos of the wedding to hang on our walls, but how could I take photos of this? It was too awful.

The beautiful wedding day we both had dreamed about was ruined, and there was nothing I could do to change it. Our worst nightmare had come true and it was all my fault. I shouldn’t have left the wedding planning up to her. I should have taken charge. I should have had a check-off list and made sure everything had turned out as planned. But it was too late. I screwed up. I let this happen. And now there was nothing I could do to change it.

Then I woke up. My head was pounding and I was gripped by sense of failure and doom.

It was crazy! Why was I having this dream? My daughter had already had the most beautiful wedding imaginable just last year. And she had planned it all! I hadn’t had to lift a finger. Why would I be worried about her wedding?

Then I had a sudden flash of insight. A whole series of them. One after the other.

Flash of Insight #1

This wasn’t a dream about my daughter’s wedding! It was a dream about my son’s life. About the terrible drug addiction that had ruined the beautiful life we both had dreamed for him. And I blamed myself. I shouldn’t have left something as important as his life up to him! I should have taken charge. I should have planned better. But now everything was ruined and there was nothing I could do about it.

Flash of Insight #2

My daughter’s ruined wedding had only been a dream! There had never been a reason to be so upset and despondent. I could have changed the dream at any point. I could have decorated the church, fixed her hair. I could have insisted to go to a beautiful restaurant. At any point in the dream I could have taken charge and created the perfect wedding. If only I had known I was just dreaming. If only I had realized I had the power to do so.

Flash of Insight #3

Maybe I’m still dreaming! I remember how real the ruined wedding had seemed in my dream. Like it was really happening. Like this was reality. So much so that even when I woke, I couldn’t shake the sense of sadness and failure. Maybe I will wake up and find out that my son’s ruined life, his addiction, was just a dream too. Maybe in “reality,” he’s living the perfect life I’d always wanted for him, just as my daughter had had her perfect wedding.

Maybe I’d wake to find him in his perfect house with his loving wife, surrounded by his beautiful children, happy and healthy. He’d flash me a big grin and put his arms around me and say, “Silly mama. Why so sad? You were just dreaming!”

Flash of Insight #4

Maybe in this current “dream of reality” we can change things. Maybe we have the power to practice a type of lucid-dreaming. The power to wake up enough to know this isn’t real, and to change the dream into something better. It’s possible, right? Isn’t change possible?

Flash of Insight #5

Maybe this is what they call “magical thinking.” What we do when every other avenue of escape from a reality we cannot tolerate is closed to us.

Maybe. But I’m not convinced.

Spirituality and Science

I keep thinking of some talks by Alan Watts about Christian mysticism and Asian philosophy that I listened to not long ago. He talks about the inter-connectivity of the universe and how it has evolved into human consciousness. How the very cells of our bodies and brains are made of star stuff. How we are in some strange way the universe made conscious. “We are the eternal universe,” he tells us. Each of us, individually, is a pinprick perception of the whole, and altogether we are the whole itself.

The Christian mystics and Zen masters and Hindu gurus all seem to tell us this is so. We are sparks of Divinity.

But the stories of science, of quantum physics, and cosmology also include fantastic tales about the nature of reality that seem “magical,” even “mystical.” And the reality science depicts sounds strangely similar to these spiritual teachings.

Think of it! How strange is this: The story of the Big Bang, how creation exploded spontaneously out of empty space, a void. How an infinite number of galaxies are spinning through space, some being swallowed by gigantic black holes. How our own bodies which seen so solid to us are actually composed mostly of empty space. How an infinite number electrons and neutrons spinning are spinning through our cells like tiny galaxies. What could be more fantastical or magical than reality science teaches us! The reality we accept on “faith” because we believe what science has revealed.

Watts tells us that we each are sparks of the divine Creator, living an infinite number of lives over and over. Sometimes we choose easy paths, sometimes difficult ones. Sometimes we just want to see how much we can take, how far we can push ourselves, how bad it can get before we turn ourselves around.

Did my son choose his path? Did I choose mine? Are our night dreams and waking dreams just various stages in the ever-expanding understanding of who we really are? Will we wake to another understanding of reality and realize this life is just a dream within a dream within a dream . . . and each life is just as “real” or as “magical” as the next one?

We once believed the earth was flat and the distant ocean spilled off into nothingness. Later that the sun circled the earth, and we felt smug and special at the center of the universe. Then we woke up.

What more will we come to understand about reality–the universe and ourselves–as the eons unfold?

Wake up, I tell myself, wake up.

I still don’t know if this is “magical thinking,” the desperate hopes of a mother afraid to let go, to face the fact that there may actually be nothing I can do to help my son, to change his life.

Or a faint faraway flash of insight about reality that is yet too radical to be believed by most.

What do you think?