What to do. I know not what to do. Still. Day 3 in the Trenches and I'm moving in circles. It's dizzying.
Tough love. Soft love. No love. Every kind of love.
Russian Roulette. The boy plays Russian Roulette.
Recreational drug use kills.
One kid dies from a drug overdose every 19 minutes.
I fixate. My breathing is shallow.
Is his breathing shallow as well? Too shallow? Oh my God. Is he breathing at all?
My hands shake. These thoughts cause too much adrenaline to shoot through my veins.
How are his veins?
I must Fight, take Flight, or Freeze.
I am frozen.
I can't move past the fact that it's 1:41 pm and I don't know if he's awake or alive or in some gutter somewhere.
People in the 12 step program for families of addicts tell me that the real healing begins when I can completely let go and accept the fact that my boy might die. Then, I will achieve serenity.
That fact is unacceptable. Serenity nowhere in sight.
So then what.
There are 2 schools of thought that come to mind this rainy morning. 1. Take away everything he has and knows and let him feel the consequences of his actions...that includes all money and food and shelter. 2. Talk to him and love him and help him realize he needs help. The latter definitely feels better. But it's not proven. It's soft and cozy but certain experts in the field tell me it doesn't work. The holy provers haven't proven it.
The proof is in the sour pudding-- we parents are to let our children circle the drain long enough, crashing and bashing and smashing into the walls until they, exhausted and bloodied, suddenly look around themselves and see where they are. If they're not too dizzy. And then they are supposed to say. "Ok I have an addiction problem, and I need help."
Sure, that might happen if they're not already dead.
Where there's life....
April 21, 2016
Day 2 in the Trenches
April 8, 2016
there are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground