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