ELIZABETH EVERSON BLOG, PEOPLE FACING ADDICTION
I am lucky. My son is alive.
It is important for me to say that first, so you know that there is hope. There is always hope. And hope is so important. It will get you through some of the darkest times.
As a parent of an addicted child, you learn so many things so quickly. You learn how to hide, how to justify, how to ignore and how to deny. You learn these things without meaning to. You excel at these things in spite of yourself. You learn to hide the fear that lives in you every time you get a call on your cell phone from your child. You learn how to justify their odd behavior with phrases like, “she’s just tired,” or “he is stressed.” You learn to ignore the constant itching and the dark circles under their eyes. You deny the severity of the problem to your friends and family. But underneath it all, you know. You just don’t know how bad it is—the addiction.
The first time my son told me he was addicted to heroin, somehow hearing the words was worse than seeing it all over his body. I had told myself that it was Xanax, or pot, or a combination of the two. I knew about Oxy and knew he had been doing it, but somehow heroin was worse. Dirtier. Deadlier. But it made sense. I didn’t know he was using heroin until we were sitting in the intake office at a rehab center. I gasped and began to cry. He looked so ashamed. I felt like such a failure as a mother. He was 22. But he looked so tired and old and defeated.
In rehab, as a loved one, you learn that the substance use disorder isn’t about you. None of the terrible things your loved one did were personal attacks on you, or a reflection of the love they have for you. Every single time my son lied to me or stole from me, or broke promises, it was a reminder that he might die.
The fear I carried around with me was palpable. The thirty days he spent in rehab provided me with my first good night’s sleep in over two years. I knew where he was, I knew he was safe, and I knew he didn’t have drugs. Some of my fear began to diminish. The anger took longer. I’m still hoping to get my sense of trust back one day.
My son was destined, in a way, for substance abuse disorder. His father abandoned him when he was just a baby. And his father was addicted. I tried to get my son help when he was young, but it wasn’t the right thing. In the end, it was all on his shoulders to figure out.
My point is, I wasn’t surprised by my son’s illness. But I was in the minority in the rehab’s family counseling circles on visiting day. I saw how the other parents were in shock. Even though they had been dealing with their child’s addiction for years, they were still in denial. They kept looking for someone or something they could point to and blame for causing the problem.
My son shone during rehab. He was committed, he opened up, he felt good, he gained weight. He became a leader in rehab. I was so proud of him. The day he decided to go to sober living after rehab was a great day. And he had so many great days after that. Eventually, though, as it does, life throws curveballs and his sobriety was tested. My son’s relapsed, but only briefly. Then he relapsed again, and fell harder and faster than I could have imagined. He did some horrible things. Because I had learned about boundaries, I did not shield him. Soon, he was homeless and alone. His rehab friends had begun to die. He was on the edge of complete disaster. But he held on.
I don’t know what saved him. Maybe just the desire to live. But whatever it was allowed him to figure out a way off the streets, and into a healthier and more stable life.
Now, almost three years after his big relapse, he is abstinent, employed, in a relationship, and taking good care of himself. He struggles a lot with patterns of behavior, but he has learned to recognize them and take steps to avoid relapse. He has learned to talk out stresses and problems and recognizes that is the single most important thing he can do. He surrounds himself with good people. I am proud of him.
In three years, my son has lost 14 friends. Some to overdose, some to suicide, and some to violent crime. But, as he put it, all of them died because they had substance use disorder. These were good young men from good families. They were like the kids that hang out in your kitchen after school. They were like the kids from soccer or theater or swim club. Almost all of them were white and from middle to upper class upbringings. They were educated. Some had issues that are linked to addiction. But many were just bored when they started using. Most got Oxy from their parents’ medicine cabinets.
I can’t imagine the pain that the parents of those 14 boys feel every day. Except I can, I think. When my son was in his addiction, I played out his death in my head as a way to prepare myself for that call.
Recently, I told my son that I was sure he was going to die. He just said, “Yeah, me too.”
I am lucky. My son is alive. And I am so grateful.
SOURCE: https://www.facingaddiction.org/news/2018/03/15/the-light-of-hope