Trying to hold onto his boyhood is like trying to hold onto water. Or air. Or clouds. Or weather. It's not possible to hold onto weather. I can't continue referring to my boy as my boy. He's a Young Man and so I must refer to him as such. If ever asked, I'd have to admit that when I think of him, I see the shy scared boy standing at the preschool gate crying and begging me to take him with me. "Don't go mommy. Please don't leave." And so I promised, pinkie swore, that I'
Ebbs and flows. One minute I'm drowning, the next I'm floating. Or swimming. Or dog paddling. Always moving, never still. When my son and mother were in different hospitals the same week, I was filled to my ultimate capacity. I might've turned into a dead weight and sunk to my depths....but instead, I saw my body as my outline, with ebbing and flowing waves of blue ocean sloshing and crashing inside, washing up against my perimeter, filling every inch of my container. I fel
I was running 100 mph in circles over my son's addiction, and these words dropped down in front of me like a concrete wall falling from the sky. They stopped me in my tracks. Head on collision. Tablets of stone. Truth in every word. Oh. No. These words burn my skin. Oh. No. I'm so so sorry, dear beautiful smart light-of-the-world daughter. I'm so so sorry. Life is a series of new beginnings. We will begin again. I see you now.
More mothers suffer from their child's addiction than I'd ever imagined. What I mean is, I thought my suffering was unique. That's why I started writing about it. Ha that's funny. Narcissistic, even. Last night I read blog upon blog of mothers crying out for their addict sons and daughters. Weeping from the pain of grief, shivering from the unknown of where their child will sleep, wishing they'd been closer, regretting things said and not said, hoping hoping hoping that the