Family Dynamics Die Hard

Aug 16, 2017, 11:10 AM

Sam is 138 days sober today. I am grateful for every single one of those days. After a relative calm of nearly 4 months while he was living in a halfway house in St Paul we are back to navigating life in person again. Our entire immediate family is back to living within a few square miles of each other.

Sam returned from Minnesota almost two weeks ago. He spent his first week with friends and is with me this week while they are on vacation. I want to feel all the things that I think I "should feel" but I just don't. I am so relieved to be able to hug him and talk to him but let's be real, it's not lollipops and dancing around here. Tensions are high for all of us.

I would like to pretend everything is amazing and all is good but heroin does not give me that grace. It is the devil at the door. I would like to aim an UZI at that door and blow the bastard straight to hell. Even from the outside the evil still permeates our home in many ways. I never go long without thinking about heroin in one way or another.

I think about Sam and I want to believe he will beat this. I think about the thousands who have died from it. I think about their families; the parents, spouses, children, and friends they left behind. I think about the probability that every single one of those lost souls would have never started using heroin had they known the grip the drug would have on them.

This opioid epidemic knows no bounds. It doesn't matter where you live, how much money you make, your gender, religion, morals or values. Heroin is on your doorstep too. It is the next step down from pills. More and more of us affected by heroin addiction are starting to talk about it. We are putting it out there in the world so that others can become aware of its power and destruction. None of us ever thought it would happen to us.

As I have said before, the majority of people suffering heroin (and all opioid) addiction come by way of medicine, not street drugs. We all say there is no way in hell we would live on the streets and stick a needle in our arm but what would we do if we were in extreme physical pain and there was only one category of drugs that would touch it?

I don't know what I would do. I may have been willing to take whatever was prescribed at one point but knowing what I do now, I would do everything in my own personal power to stay off all opioids. I have never had long term debilitating pain though so I can not be sure what I would do in all honesty. The problem is much more complex than I ever realized.

I have learned more than I ever really wanted to know about heroin through Sam's addiction. When you live in the shit you have to learn how to swim through it. His current sobriety is amazing but he has a long way to go. There is no instant fix when recovering from heroin (or any) addiction. The fractures it causes in life run very deep and take a long time to heal.

Now that we are together again, I notice the lines of personal boundaries have once again become blurred. It's easy to feel like your kid is an extension of you and when they are self destructing it feels frustrating not to be able to control them. We are so used to being able to fix their problems but we cannot fix this one. When I flew Sam to Minnesota for treatment after his heroin overdose in early April he was 17 years old. Now, just four and a half months later he is legally an adult. There are so many things I want to say to him but I don't. I know he doesn't want to hear what I think should happen.

Frank mimicked me once during one of my lectures to Sam and I realized that to a teenager I sounded just like the teacher in Peanuts. Lesson learned, I say less now. Sam and I are so very different as well. He is really chill and sloth- like. I am high energy and a bit of a freak. Our differences make it easy for me to think he should be "doing more". They also make it easy for him to think I should just "STFU". We are very close in many ways too but I know we don't understand each other right now. He is young and has his own thoughts and priorities. I just so desperately want to believe he will be okay. I want to hold onto him so tightly that the devil cannot possibly take him from me.

I find myself taking pictures of Sam and my other children almost frantically. I want to stop time. Tears are frequent again because I am once again reminded that I have no control over Sam's addiction to heroin, although I also have to embrace that he seems to be doing well for the most part.

I took a yoga class this week in which the theme was to stop wishing time away. Hold on to the beauty of now. Never has that been more true for me. I am that person always excited for the next big (good) thing. Not anymore, I want to slow time down because today things are good. I sat there for 10 minutes after class and sobbed. Thank you K for helping me feel the things I need to.

How many people would give anything to go back in time to hold someone they loved and lost? Every single moment I have with Sam is a gift. I hope I keep receiving this gift for the rest of my life and that he lives an amazing and long life but I know that I have no control over the outcome. All parents face this fact at some point, we really don't have control over our children. Those of us with kids on a self destructive path or dealing with a life-threatening illness face this truth a little more harshly than others.

After four month, now that Sam is back, I have to remember to stay true to my own experience without oversharing of his day to day existence. At times he seems completely on point. Funny as hell and a complete smart-ass. Other times he seems withdrawn and sulky and isolates from us. Sleeping during the day, up a lot at night as if he just doesn't want to deal us or the rest of the world. He is also a teenager. It seems like they are all like that to some degree.

Sam decided to walk down to the store about a mile away yesterday. His younger brother said "if he was my kid I wouldn't let him walk down there alone". I said "He is not my kid, he is my adult son. I have no control over what he chooses to do." His brother understood my point. Sam needs space. I need certainty. It is my job to give him space but there is no way he can give me certainty. It doesn't exist. It's called being the mom of a heroin addict.

As always, I am forever grateful for Sam's sober friends. They are his anchor. They picked him up at the airport in the middle of the night when he arrived back in Denver and took him home. His dad and siblings met him there too but we all knew it was better that he stay with friends.

I happened to be running down a dark road in the middle of nowhere at about the time he landed. The idea of not meeting my kid at the airport after 4 1/2 months seems a bit absurd in theory. I realize now that life as the mom of an addict isn't going to look like the rest of the world might think it should and that is okay.

I hope that the rest of the world never has to walk down this path but I know that many of them will. Here is my advice: At times you feel like you can't breathe but you have to. At times it feels like you can't move forward but you have to. At times it feels like you should not take the time to take care of yourself but you have to. At times you are convinced that you have power over your kid's addiction but you don't.

Today, I am the grateful mom of a recovering heroin addict. I thank you all for your continued support, prayers, and love through our journey. Where there is life, there is hope. #nomoreshame