Holiday Blues

This time last year my daughter had just come home from rehab. We were going on walks every night and as we would walk through the neighborhoods fully decked out with Christmas lights we debated over how to properly decorate a Hanukkah house.

I remember how normal it felt, how peaceful – and how much I felt like I finally had my baby back. It was really the first time since her addiction took over her life (and ours) that I started to feel hopeful that everything would be OK.

Tonight, as I drove by all of the fully decked out houses and parked in my bare driveway, I felt so sad. Even after everything we had already been through I think back on those nights and think of how naive I was. Hopeful is a better word, but tonight I find myself thinking that hopeful is just naive dressed up.

It’s hard not to feel robbed and ripped off and angry. My daughters struggle is over, and oddly I sometimes feel grateful for that – for all of the things that she didn't get reduced to, for the fact that she doesn't have to fight her own demons anymore.  But even though she is now at peace, I can’t seem to find any.

I can practically hear people thinking “it’s been six months, when is she going to get her shit together?” I honestly don’t know. Every few weeks I manage to moderately pull myself together, start responding to phone calls and emails and text messages, start to manage my calendar and my bills, and then everything falls apart again and I’m trying to pull everything together at the last minute because my mind won’t manage the finer details anymore. Six months doesn't feel like all that long any more. Time is dragging, but it’s also speeding by – so that occasionally I am shocked that she’s been gone so long.

I keep trying to figure out how she felt, why she made the choices that she made. I can’t get my mind around the lack of caution that causes someone to try those kinds of drugs and the chemical or emotional reaction that makes them keep going back. It’s so confusing and devastating to know that nothing we did mattered in the end and that I can never truly understand. It doesn't matter how many times I comb through her notebooks or talk to her friends or to any expert. I am lost and even though I am traveling through this awful time with my amazing and supportive family, I am somewhat alone.

I imagine what people think about my girl, what I have thought about addicts at various times and I think of who she was - all of the "hers" that existed over the course of her life. She was someone perfect and precious and I am trying so hard to focus on those things that I did understand about her.

I want it to be last December, and to be able to find some way to save her. I want to understand what I did wrong so that I can protect and guide my remaining children. I want to stop having to explain that I had three children, and now I have two. I want to be hopeful again, I want to have faith. I have a feeling it will take awhile.

My baby girl

Every Day Things

Baby Girl,

Every day things have gained the power to completely disarm me.

We go to the movies and I sob through the entire thing.

It used to be our thing, what you and I did together. I know... it doesn't seem so special - but to a mom whose teenage daughters life is in complete turmoil it is unbelievably special.

To a mom who can't communicate with her daughter without constant misunderstandings... having something special that always feels good... that thing becomes sacred.

I miss having you tease me when I tear up.

I miss giggling with you about how good something is going to be.

I miss making plans with you.

I miss sitting next to you and talking.

I miss sitting next to you and not talking.

You are supposed to be here with me. You are supposed to be planning your future. You are supposed to be driving me crazy.

Someday, when we're both old, you're supposed to take care of me. Agonizing over whether you can bring me home to live with you.

Someday you're supposed to bury me.

This is not the way our lives were supposed to go. This is a mistake.

Please come home. We are waiting.

Love, Mommy

6 months

Baby Girl,

It's been six months since we lost you. Technically, at this time six months ago your daddy and grandpa were saying goodbye to you for what would be the last time. You were laughing and joking with them and everything seemed perfect.

I was angry when I got home and realized that you had blown off your AA meeting. I was angry a few hours later when you missed curfew. You were already gone by then, and I was thinking about how irresponsible you were being by not answering your phone.

I was angry when I heard the door open at about 11:00. I was angry because you were late. When I walked into the living room and saw this stranger I knew something was terribly wrong, but I couldn't comprehend. When she told me you were gone I had to ask her to repeat herself over and over again. And then I started screaming. I woke your brother and sister. I can still see their confused faces standing in the hallway as I tried to swallow my screams.

These memories haunt me. I can't get around it. I don't feel better as time passes, the horror isn't fading. But there are other things I remember, too. Moments I wouldn't trade for anything. The moments that not only shaped you, but shaped me as well.

I am grateful for the first time I heard your heartbeat, for the first time I held you in my arms. With your birth I was reborn, into a (very) young adult - into a mother. I crossed into my future, into our lives. I never regretted a moment, I never mourned my "normal" youth. I had you. I didn't need anything else.

I am grateful for our years together, just you and me. I remember how overjoyed I was every day when I finished my classes and I would come pick you up from daycare. Your presence in my life made all of the studying and struggling worthwhile. You took care of me as much as I took care of you - from cuddling with me through my migraines to simply being present and carefree.

My memories of you are a treasure, I spend so much time in them these days. I am grateful for every one of them. You made me laugh, you gave me a reason to be strong, you made my life worthwhile. I'm still angry that you're gone, I would be lying if I tried to say otherwise, but it doesn't stop me from being grateful for every moment of your life.

I love you, Baby Girl. I continue to try to learn from both of our mistakes so that I can be a better mom, wife, friend - a better person in every aspect. I try to remember to be grateful and gracious even when my heart feels like it can't bear it any more and my instinct is to lash out at the world.

It's been especially hard recently with everyone preparing for the holidays. I'm struggling to get into the mood when all I want to do is hide from their good cheer. Today - the day that marks the sixth month since your death - was especially frustrating and sad. I am grateful that your auntie knew, once again, what I needed and brought me to see you. That my friends sent me special notes, so that I knew not only that they remembered me, but that they remembered you.

These are strange things to be grateful for, because they were born from tragedy, but without these things I don't think I would make it. And so, I want to say that I am grateful for our family, for our friends, and for the strength that they lend me on a daily basis.

You are so loved, even in death. We  are not whole without you, but we are grateful for every moment we had with you.

Good night, Baby. Happy Thanksgiving. As always, I hope that you are at peace and somewhere beautiful, with lots of singing.

Love,
Mommy

4 1/2 Months

Baby Girl,

I miss you so much. I think about you every day. I stare at the pictures that surround our home and my desk and I get lost in your face. I would say that the nights are hardest, but I think it just depends on the moment. I think the nights are the most honest. Everyone else is asleep and I am just left alone with you and horribly without you.

Tonight I am awake because the dogs were barking at some noise and in my sleep fogged mind I thought for a moment that it was you coming home. But the reality is that it's just that you are ever present on my psyche and so I think everything is you.

I finally went through the photos and videos on your SD card today. You had 932 of them. The videos of you singing were the hardest. It was a gift in one sense, but these foraging expeditions always leave me with a heightened sense of loss.

The hall closet is full of photos of you, too. I can't make myself look in there and so I know it's turning into chaos even though all of your "aunties" came and helped me sort through the pictures. I was going to scan them and organize them and put them in books so that I could look at you anytime I want. But I remember almost every story that goes with those pictures and it breaks my heart as much as it heals it.

The garage is the same, I can't go in there. I know that it is complete and utter chaos now, but to go in I have to see your boxes and it's too painful of a reminder. I want you home with me, I want to tuck you in at night and wake up and see you in the morning. I want to make up for everything and love you until your pain goes away. And I want you here so that my pain will go away.

I think your absence finally hit your brother. He screamed for you forever on Sunday. He's been saying you are just at work and you'll come home, but I think his little three year old heart just finally realized that it's just not true. I watched it rip your sisters heart out and I was helpless to do more than watch, and pray that she would be able to hold it together long enough for us all to comfort him.

I go to group therapy now. It's the closest I can get to any formal counseling. There is something to be said for being in a room full of people that can share my pain, that really know what it feels like. It's a horrible grace. I was angry at them the first few times that I went. Most of the folks at those first couple of meetings seemed so "ok" and I hated them for it. I didn't want to be alright, I just wanted to be in a room filled with someone elses pain for awhile. I was ashamed of it, but it was true. I don't know what I want anymore. I think I go because I'm supposed to. I wonder if that is how you felt about your meetings?

I remember you every day. I remember my brave daughter, who was the protector of the small. I remember your strength and courage, and I remember your struggles. I remember how good you were and how blessed you made those around you feel. I will never forget, and I will do my best to honor you every moment that I live

You were an angel in life and I know you continue on that path today. I love you so much, Baby Girl. You are still my miracle, and I would not trade one moment of the blessings you gave me by being in my life for relief from this pain.

Love, Mommy

Hard Learned Lessons

A friend shared some difficulties she was having with her children with me the other day, and I tried so hard to think of something helpful to say to her. I felt that after everything that I had been through I should have some wisdom to pass on. That is the whole point of this blog, after all. The hope that in some way my experience can help someone, that my baby girls life will serve as a lesson to someone else – that she will be able to shine brightly even after death has taken her from me.

These hard learned lessons include the following:

• In this logical world we talk ourselves out of what our intuition knows to be true. My intuition told me that my daughter was more troubled than I let myself believe. I will never stop wondering if I could have saved her if I would have fought harder earlier on in her addiction. Trust yourself.
• Don’t sweat the petty shit… I know it’s trite, but it’s so important. I spent so much of my daughter’s life worrying about things that would have come together if I would have just been able to relax… I lost precious time with my baby and it will never be made up for. Sitting at her graveside doesn't do anything for her. Sitting at her bedside would have.
• Be patient and be present. In all of my failings, this is my greatest. I worked far more than I needed to in order to be a good provider, and in doing so I failed to let my baby know that she was among the most important parts of my life. Her belief that there was distance between us was further supported by my often impatient nature – I was so worn out that I wasn't the mother I now wish I was. I can make this up to my two remaining children; I can never not fail her.
• I don’t have to know everything, I just have to listen. Not knowing how to help her sister deal with my babies death makes me realize that sometimes having the answer isn't important. Listening and hugging and sometimes screaming together can be enough. Again, it just requires listening to your heart, and to the people you love who are in pain – your heart can lead you better than your brain.
• It’s OK to be mad. Or sad. And it’s actually OK to be happy. Don’t hide behind your misery.

It doesn't seem like much, when I put it on paper. I will probably add more lessons as time goes on and my pain dulls and I start to recognize the new wisdom that takes seed from this horrible experience. It's hard to think of something good coming out of my daughter’s death. I will accept my lessons, and pray that it will help to save someone else.

3 Long Months

Baby Girl,

I still can't believe you're gone. I have moments when I am convinced it's not true. These moments make me feel a little bit insane. It's been three months. I have accepted that you're not walking through the door, but... it's almost like I trick myself for a split second. When it's over I feel angry and disgusted with myself.  What is making my brain do this?

I want to blame someone for taking  you away from me. I'm not a good enough person not to hate the people that fed your habit and enabled you, especially that last night. As much as I have always believed that everyone deserves a second chance, I find myself wanting someone else to to have a very painful life. And unlike the one that was taken from you, I want it to be long. And at the end, I find myself hoping that they will be alone with no one to fight for them. Abandoned, like they abandoned you. I don't even know if I want to find forgiveness. Of all the things I've learned since I lost you, this is the thing I like the least. This is the deepest and ugliest part of me.

I've learned other things. A bit too late to be of any help to you. But I'm paying better attention to my life these days. That's what you've taught me.

I will never again be too busy to take your brother and sisters calls. I don't go to work until your brother has had a good cuddle and I take your sister to school in the morning, just so that we can spend a few more minutes together. I will never again make a habit of asking daddy to pick up the kids after work, because in a few short years I wont have the chance to see them every evening. There is no promotion I will get that will ever compensate for what I allowed myself to miss. Having a little less for a little longer is worth the trade off.

None of this makes today better, your absence is a constant reminder of every mistake I made. Of how lacking I was. According to your journals you used for three years before I knew about it. What kind of a mother doesn't notice that her daughter is falling apart? How can I be confident that my vigilance will be enough to keep your brother and sister safe when I have already failed so horribly? Maybe it's me that I hate. Maybe I am the one that deserted you. Maybe this is the real reason I can't sleep at night.

I know in the logical part of my mind that your addiction was about you and your choices and your desire to hide from your feelings.  The rest of me, the part that doesn't recognize logic, is a mess.

I miss you so much, Baby Girl. I'm so sorry that I failed you.

Love,
Mommy

Standing Room Only

My beautiful baby girl.

Our lives are often so busy and hectic, even in our childhood, that we don't recognize what we have. We strive for something better, we want to be exceptional, we judge ourselves by what people think of us - or, more accurately, by what we believe people think of us.

My baby girl never understood her value. I've said this before and I cannot seem to get my head around it. She was amazing, sweet and loving, brainy and artistic, beautiful and outrageous. She was an angel, and as far as I was ever concerned, she was my savior.

In her own eyes, my daughter was stained. She was an addict, and in the pursuit of her drug, she hurt people she loved. She couldn't forgive herself for this, and in the end it cost her her sobriety, and her life.

My daughter was sixteen when I found out she was using. I couldn't believe it. She was a dancer, a singer, a student with an almost full time job. How had she done all of this if she was an addict?

I felt betrayed - I had given up my childhood to be her mother, I had done everything I could think of to give her a safe life full of possibilities. How had I failed her? How had we missed it? The guilt will never go away.

It took me years to realize that my daughters addiction had nothing to do with me, except in how it effected me - I had not created it, I had not fed it, I had not introduced it to her. She had made every choice that led her down that road.

After three years of struggling with her - fighting, crying, arguing, searching for the right kind of help, kicking her out, believing she was finally clean only to find out that she had been using for some time - we finally got her into a detox and then a rehab facility. 

Rehab was a reprieve from a nightmare.  We thought she was better, that she was finally whole in her mind and body, and prayed that she would stay on this track. It seemed like the perfect situation, she was even recording music.  Every time we visited her we were inundated with praise - This is your daughter? She's amazing! I wish I could have a daughter like her. I can't believe how sweet/polite/gracious/gifted she is. You're so lucky. She was doing so well and she was entrenched in a loving and constructive environment. 

It was an unbelievable shock to find out that she was collapsing, and after a series of unfortunate events she ended up back in the hospital, and eventually at Casa de las Amigas in Pasadena. Again, she was doing amazingly well once she connected with the program and the other residents. She loved it, they forced structure on her, she was making friends, she was proud of every step forward. Casa gave us the last few months with her, and they gave her the chance to rebuild her relationship with her brother and sister - her greatest wish, and a gift we are eternally grateful for.

In each of these places my daughter left her mark. She was loved. From the moment she was born until the moment she passed from this earth, she was impossible not to adore. If her bubbly personality didn't catch you, her voice did. Her unfailing defense of those she loved, her humor, her  diminutive size and ginormous heart. All of these things added up to one thing - for most of us, to know her was to love her. To forgive her for her failings because, after all, she was just a sweet, beautiful child.

She never believed how loved she was. In the last few years, at least, she never thought she was worthy.  In the past three months I have been obsessed with the thought that if she had realized her value, this nightmare would never have come to pass.

The days following her death were a haze, the worst nightmare a parent could face had come true for us. I couldn't stop reeling, I couldn't follow a conversation, I couldn't sleep. Everyone kept trying to help me but there was nothing they could do, short of bringing my baby back to me.

Facebook became my crutch - her page was full of beautiful posts, declarations of love, videos of her singing and laughing. I started and ended every day watching each video, and it was a painful gift. I think it kept me from losing my mind.

I decided to speak at my daughters funeral. This is uncommon, the pain and grief are so intense for a parent that they are not expected to say anything. It was important to me, however, to pay tribute to my baby, to share her beautiful story, and to celebrate her life.  The place was virtually empty when I arrived and I was a mess leading up to the service, and so it didn't dawn on me how much the room had filled. In fact the pews were all full, including the family section off to the side. The entry way was full to brimming with guests and the usher was desperately trying to find seats for at least a couple of them.

All this to say - At my daughters funeral, there was standing room only. My lost girl was so loved that there wasn't enough room to fit us all. In the desperate grieving that has followed, I cannot forget that over two-hundred and fifty people came to celebrate her life, and to send her off with love. It is no small thing, and the tribute allowed her tragic passing to be a bit more bearable. 

May we all be so blessed. May the love of our friends and family be so great that at the end of our journey and the celebration of our lives, there is standing room only.

2 Months

Baby Girl,

I remember more of my life since you were born than anything that came before. Your life gave fruit to the best part of me, and sometimes I think I lost it when I lost you.

I go to grief counseling, but I resent the people who seem okay. I want them to fall apart like me; I don’t want to hear about how much better their life was this week. I'm not ready to listen to them, even though I long for a time when I can sleep through the night and not wake gasping at the pain of missing you.

I have nightmares all the time. I dream of what is happening to your body now, the waste that is occurring on your beautiful face, down to your bubbly toes. I dream that I am screaming for someone to help you but something is covering my mouth and I can’t tear it off – you stab me at the end of the dream (is that the pain of your loss?). I dream that you turn to smile at me and the skin starts to fall away, starting with your luminous smile. It's the same every night.

I feel like I’m holding my breath, waiting for it to get easier for you to be absent from my life. I’m waiting for the need to scream for you to subside. I’m waiting for something to make sense again. And at the same time, along with this horrible waiting, I am so grateful for every moment of your life; even the most awful ones, because they were part of you and the gift that you were to me.

I cling to your memory like a life preserver. I try to describe the sound of your voice to people who never heard you sing.  I try to paint the picture of your beautiful soul, and the imprint it left on me. 

I know that I borrowed you from heaven and that I had to give you back because it was only a temporary loan. Is that trite? Maybe it’s something some guy would say in a pick-up line.  Is it an excuse for what happened to you?

Sometimes I think believing your addiction was a disease excuses your choices, but the truth is that your addiction did not define you, at least not to me. It hurts me to think of the people that know how you died, but didn’t know you. They don’t understand that it really had nothing to do with you and can’t understand how amazing you were.

I miss you more than I ever thought possible. When I think about life getting easier, I don’t want it if it makes me remember you less.

I miss you, Baby Girl. I love you more than a thousand red M&M’s. Please be at peace, finally. Please be somewhere with music, dancing, and great joy.

Love,

Mommy

Letter to an Addict

(Originally from April 2011. I wrote this after a group meeting that we attended while our daughter was in rehab. I wanted my daughter to read it and understand how I felt about her and about her chance at rehabilitation; that she was precious and valuable and ever-loved. That she could pave her way to a second chance and that to me she would never be too tarnished to make it back (or forward))

Tonight someone said “is there a light at the end of the tunnel, because I feel like a turd? And no matter how much work I do to polish myself, at the end of the day, I’m just a shiny turd.”

There may not be a definitive light at the end of the tunnel, but I think we’re on more equal ground than you imagine. We’re all damaged goods at some point and to some degree and those of us who are recovering from the collateral damage of your addictions need your forgiveness and understanding as much as you need ours. We’re here because we are praying that you’ll drink the Kool-Aid, we want to drink it ourselves. We want to believe, in ourselves and in you. We haven’t lost hope.

We are all the product of our experiences, and if you choose to drink the Kool-Aid, you have a better chance at being whole, self-aware, contributing individuals than those of us who are working it out on our own. Think of your counselors, those in recovery who lead the dozens of meetings that you attend each week, all of these amazing leaders, who struggle each day to master their control over their addiction, who you believe in, who inspire you.

They inspire us, too. They are where we wish to believe you will one day be. They are the ultimate success story, because not only are they accomplishing the unbelievable and difficult task you have ahead of you, they can teach you to do the same.

You may feel like a turd today, but someday you will scrape off that thin layer of grime and realize that there is something valuable underneath. Someday you will stop worrying about what the people who can’t stop judging think, because you will have come through your own judgment day and realized that you are not damaged goods, whether you were in the past won’t matter. The most valuable lesson I’ve learned as the parent of an addict is that there is no room for shame in recovery – it’s the anti-healing agent.

Imagine that your ability to empathize and understand and reason will empower you to emotional success that most people take a life time to achieve. Embrace the idea, succumb to it. It will be the best Kool-Aid you’ve ever tasted.

Black Hole

I feel the scream like the gaping void of a black hole

It’s hungry emptiness clawing up my throat and through my clenched teeth

Dragging a raw and painful gasp of desperation into itself

Filling my lungs only so it can repeat the process until exhaustion takes over

Or the emptiness consumes me.

This moment is like the Nothing

It blots out the light of the sun and casts darkness everywhere

So that I cannot see what is left behind.

I am powerless in this vicious cycle

an observer and an unwilling participant.

I feel myself stretching,

pulling,

clawing for purchase.

But I’m losing ground.

High Speed, Slow Motion

(I wrote this when I learned of my daughters addiction, when it was still a horrible secret and the shock had me reeling)

The atmosphere constricts

You cannot impact this moment

No matter how strongly you yearn to

You can only watch it happen

Like a movie in an unknown language

You understand the gist

But cannot comprehend the words

-

These moments cannot be avoided

You cannot swerve into another lane

You cannot brace yourself

It’s high-speed slow-motion

You can only stand by, horror stricken

While the massacre takes place

-

This is the devils end game

Someone else’s nightmare

Any moment you will wake up

Exhausted

Panic stricken

But awake

-

Only you can’t

This is real life

Not make believe

And you’re standing in the center

Of the twisting and turning plot

Waiting for the crushing weight of the avalanche

That kills everyone but the hero

Which, by the way, isn’t you

-

One Month

Baby Girl,

I can't stop thinking about you. I imagine you walking in the door and everything from the past month washing away. I imagine that I hear your voice, your laugh, your step as you walk through the house. I think I will hear you playing with your brother, helping your sister with her homework, complaining about the dog. But I know I will only ever hear you in recordings.

You defined me, your birth was the beginning of my real life and everything after was all that mattered. Your life was huge, you lived it greater than anyone I'd ever known. Even from the very beginning... you sang and laughed and existed more than anyone around you.

I go for short periods of time thinking I might be OK, but in the end I'm not. I don't even know what I feel most of the time, one moment I'm angry, the next I'm thinking of something beautiful about you. There is so much pressure in my chest, my throat, my eyes. If I let it out I might never stop screaming, this has become a real fear for me.

Your death is breaking me, there is no medicine that will sooth the ache, nothing that will make me forget. I don't know how to do this. I can't understand your choices, I can't understand how I could have been so blind and failed you so completely. I can't understand why you never let me help you, although everyone says there is nothing more I could have done.

I can't sleep at night, I lie awake and remember you. I listen to your sister roam the house, I listen to your dad breathing, trying to let his own demons go long enough to rest. Someone told me it takes years to feel better. I can't imagine years of this, and yet, I can't imagine any semblance of our normal.

I make everyone uncomfortable, I can't help it. I can't think about anything else. When I'm out with your brother or sister, people ask me how many children I have. I tell them three before I can catch myself. They ask for the ages and I say my oldest daughter would have been 20 this month. No one really wants to hear that, but I can't help it, I can't keep myself from acknowledging you. You were part of my everything, how does a universe exist if the sun burns out?

I've always been a high-strung mother. I feared incorrectly installed car seats, unsafe sex, and car crashes. I never imagined burying you. I love you too much to let you go. I don't know how to do this. How can I make it better for your sister? How can I reconcile this with the fact that your brother won't remember you? What will I do now?

I only know that I miss you. I always will.

Love,
Mom