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 their child will see the light and recover from his addiction.
I was surprised to find that Mothers wrote the same words that I do. Exact same words. My words. Our words. They described the same terrors and sleepless nights that I have. Some children died and their mother's grief was burning, cutting, like a knife piercing my skin. Other children survived and their mother's constant debilitating fear of a relapse is the same that awakens me in the night.
I read words of mothers on the edge, over the edge, approaching the edge .... All reaching into the void for connection, to wail, to scream, to cry into the common well of pain that is out there for all to see.