From Anxiety to Grief

Yesterday was one of my hardest days. My collage of grief consists of panic, fear, dread, disbelief, gratitude, regret, profound sadness, and a relentless and futile desire to rewrite the book of Sam's life. I have lots of flashbacks. If couldas, wouldas, and shouldas could be monetized, I'd be really rich. I keep coming back to this idea that I can't seem to get over. Sam is gone. How is it even possible that I won't see him again? It absolutely can't possibly be true and yet it is. There is not a manual on how to transition from anxiety into grief and yet this is what so many loved ones are facing when we lose our loved ones to addiction.

The years between Sam's first overdose in 2017 and his death in 2022 were the most anxious of my life. Each time he seemed to be taking hold of sobriety, I would feel like we were on top of a beautiful mountain with stunning views in every direction, symbolic of life's many possibilities. Then each time Sam relapsed, overdosed, or disappeared brought such deep and dark helplessness.

From the moment I received the phone call of Sam's first heroin overdose on March 31, 2017, I knew that this would be the toughest journey of my life too. I never doubted that Sam could get sober but as the years went by, it was clear that the miracle we were asking for was growing exponentially in size. As time went on, Sam grew more and more steadfast: He did not want to be sober. He lost hope so rather than keep trying and disappointing himself, he quit trying. No one could convince him that he should keep trying.

As I watched Sam's gifts expand through those years, (his music, writing, drawing, tattoos, communication skills, sense of humor, and intelligence), I also watched his addiction grow stronger. Everyone wants to believe that drugs can't get into prison and that halfway houses aren't a dealers haven but nothing could be further from the truth. Prison created so much anxiety in Sam, he was most likely using every chance he got.

There was nothing inspiring, kind, or bright about prison. They were bored senseless with no training for their future other than a GED. Put a bunch of bored guys in a room, things are going to happen. I heard a lot of things that I didn't talk about.

They gambled. Sam reached out to his little brother countless times to Venmo various outside accounts. He did exactly what I would have done for a sibling in prison, he transferred the money. He knew that if he didn't, Sam would face severe consequences. I also knew they were using the gross little hollow chicken bones to shoot up in prison but the system was bigger than me. I was not going to do anything that may jeopardize his safety in prison. I knew that the minute I start squawking to the officials or blogging about it, Sam's life could be at risk.

I wrote him lots of letters, although not nearly enough I now think, about life, ideas, and his family. I saw a Sam that desperately wanted to feel connection but wasn't able to grasp it for more than short periods of time. He told me how much he enjoyed those letters and the ones he received from others. I don't think it is a coincidence that the most vulnerable I ever saw him was just a few short months before he died. It's like he was racing for the light as the dark was gaining on him.

I don't think Sam would have left us if he could have felt how strongly he was loved but meth changed everything and his sense of reasoning left him. He didn't know he would pack a church to say goodbye to him as well as many people on Zoom. He didn't understand the spot we all held for him in our hearts. We never asked him to be perfect but he expected that of himself. I can't imagine he knew how much Scott, Terrance, Spencer, Lauryn, and I would cry and regret and miss him.

A few months before he died, Sam told an uncle that he didn't want to keep hurting his parents. This is one of the saddest things I have ever heard. The hurt of his living and fear of him dying was a drop in the ocean compared losing him forever. I had learned to live with it as a constant in the back of my mind. I had found joy in spite of it. I cannot stand the idea of being without him for the rest of my life but I have to.

If Sam could not walk this earth comfortably and he needed to leave us, I understand. If he has been released from his pain, I will accept mine. Sam woke up every day in despair and shame. Sometimes he felt it, sometimes he didn't. That is what so many people don't get about addiction. It is not a bunch of people out there hoo-hollering their troubles away, it is escape from loneliness and shame. It is feeling like you are not enough for who you are. Like you don't fit in. It's not going from normal to happy, it is going from despondence and desperation to nothingness. The inability to feel good or bad. A flat line with a heart that is still beating.

I told him that we all have shame, regrets, secrets, and disappointments. We all get embarrassed and make stupid mistakes. We have all hurt others and been hurt by others. We are all scared and uncomfortable to try new things, some are just better at faking it. The only way to get confident is by moving forward into discomfort first. Sam had stopped building the foundation blocks of his life. He didn't have his drivers license or a consistent job. These things could have all been accomplished easily with sobriety but often the farther we see ourselves behind society, the harder it is to see our way back.

Sam didn't want to get sober. He could not see beyond his addiction to a life that could be better. Heroin, meth, and fentanyl are drugs that change people. So many have lost their lives but it should be noted that so many have also recovered. Many of Sam's Cornerstone friends and counselors have walked away from drugs and/or alcohol and are living happy and fulfilling lives. Some are married now, some are parents. I feel really happy to see them thriving.

Scott and I will support each other through this journey. We will hold each other up since we usually don't cry in unison. We will call each other in the middle of the night when we need to and spend lots of time together trying to heal. We are both adults and have lived through many pains, although none as significant as this. However, it is our other children that we are concerned for the most.

How will this change their lives? Do they understand that grief comes in many sizes, shapes, and colors? Do they know that more of this grief can be brought on by additional loss, such as a pet or relationship? Do they understand that the earth beneath their feet will tremor for a long time? That confusion, tiredness, forgetfulness, and profound sadness are signs of grief but can also mean clinical depression? That different ages will bring on different thoughts and feelings about their brother? That they will think of Sam in times of joy, wishing he could experience it, and in times of deep sorrow, wishing he could support them? Do they understand that anger is a part of the healing process, even the intense and deep seated stuff? Do they realize that the separation he created between him and them was a reflection of the drugs and not his love for them?

There is so much to process for all of us. Every day I wake up and have to remember he is gone. The first cry always comes but I never know when it will happen. Some days, the crying is mellow throughout the day and at random times. Some days consist of long bouts of sobbing, regardless of where I am. The grief losing my son wraps me up so tight it is suffocating. It fills every nook and cranny of every part of my being.

Everyone who loses a loved one to addiction experiences this walk out of anxiety and into grief. There is a sense of relief in knowing that the call you have dreaded for days, weeks, months, and even years will never come again. We don't actually want the relief, we are stuck with it. The gut wrenching "what ifs" are replaced by never ending "Whys?" Did I make plenty of mistakes raising Sam? Yes, I did. Countless. Did I make plenty of mistakes raising Terrance, Spencer, and Lauryn? Yes I did. Countless.

I never had shame of Sam or his addiction, I only had hope. I will always be grateful for this, even though I lost the war.