Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Waking up one morning to the freshness of early fall, I am energized by the promise of a new season. A sunny warmth still lingers in the air and an aura of positivity surrounds me.
It makes me feel more hopeful in dealing with the struggles of my adult son, who has moved back home to get help with his concurrent addiction issues.
After a year of roller-coaster battles, we are all war-weary from the destructive fallout of relapses and failed recovery efforts.
Reduced to superficial communication to avoid useless confrontation, I am learning through a support group how to detach from the never-ending problems of an addicted loved one.
But today is different.
Perhaps my impulsive wave of optimism will be contagious; perhaps it will infect him with a renewed sense of purpose to commit to the complex process of recovery.
With tousled hair and a grizzly stubble, he emerges earlier than usual without rushing off to work in his typical frantic frenzy. He seems fairly relaxed, his eyes are clear – it looks like he had a good night’s sleep!
After a quick breakfast, I encourage him to come outside as we look for our family dog’s favourite ball to play fetch in the backyard.
We’re chatting more freely than usual, so I ask about his therapy session a few evenings before.
While complete abstinence is required by the therapist for ongoing sessions, my son admits to having no specific plan, but claims vaguely that he knows what he has to do.
I warily remind him that being in recovery is also a condition of living at home.
He nods in tacit agreement of our parental mantra, and we talk some more about replacing bad habits with good ones, and how reading or audio books may help with night cravings – all good, recovering-addict stuff.
Even if he’s not exactly enthusiastic, I sense a spark of motivation. Some progress is being made.
Overhead, a flock of squawking geese fly south in their distinctive V formation.
I sigh as we go inside to get on with the day – it’s getting late.
Just before leaving, my son casually asks for $60 – he’s broke again. Apparently, it’s a loan he owes for a night out with the boys from work.
I refuse to give him cash, so he suggests an e-transfer and offers me the person’s contact info.
Because it sounds plausible, I change my mind and take money from his funds that we hold to pay various debts. I hand it over with a fleeting hesitation.
With rain suddenly starting to threaten, I throw my spaniel in the car for a quick visit to a nearby park.
He runs around happily sniffing doggy smells in the grass, marking his territory on the trees where some leaves are stubbornly hanging on for dear life.
On the short drive home, I spot my son’s work van parked on a neighbourhood street.
I pull alongside – he’s in the driver’s seat – and we both roll down our windows.
Annoyance flashes across his face, as if he’s about to accuse me of following him. He chooses instead to spin his tangled web of deceit.
Of course, he’s just giving a friend a ride somewhere – no big deal. Except, I happen to know that this is the home of a drug user, who is likely a local dealer too.
The cruel slap of reality hits hard. I tell my son it is easy to see why I have trouble trusting him – even when I want to so badly. I drive off as a few rain drops splatter on the windscreen, washing away any faint rays of hope.
Well, at least I have an answer to where he is on this difficult journey to health and wellness – lost and directionless.
For me, it’s back to Step One in The Twelve Steps program on accepting that we are powerless to change the life of an addict, no matter how much we plead, plot, scream, make excuses or try to save them.
Releasing ourselves from the responsibility of another’s actions and behaviour is supposed to lead us to calm serenity.
Right now, a sense of serenity would be really nice.
But trying to detach from a son’s deadly battle with addiction is like surrendering the protective weapons of motherhood and unlearning the “fixing” nature that comes with the role.
It implies an element of giving up, with a loss of hope, yet many claim that it works for them.
I go to look for the Twelve Steps handbook.
Turning to the page on the three Cs, I notice that it’s stopped raining and make a wry connection to the weather as I mutter the words: “We didn’t cause it, we can’t control it, we can’t cure it.” Repeat.
Jane Newman is a pseudonym used to protect the identity of the essay author’s son. The author lives in Ottawa.