Strength Wears Thin
I have never been one to feel sorry for myself. My big girl panties stay perfectly in place, and I keep going. I also don’t make comments like ‘I deserve this’ as far as a joyous blessing goes. I give thanks and appreciate rather than believe I deserve anything.
I drove my mother to her new home in Missouri last week. Together, with three dogs, her little Lincoln mkx, mxz, whatever it is, and hauling a trailer (something I’ve never done). We were thrilled to spend this time together, getaway, and relax, if only for a few days.
We didn’t make it to the end of the first night before drama at home infiltrated my retreat.
At home, I left behind two adult ‘recovering’ children, currently living in my house. Other than a slip up the day before, they had both been doing ok, one better than the other. Before I would return home the following Tuesday, one would be in rehab in Florida and the other here in Colorado.
What the hell just happened?
From across the country, I had to endure the worst vacation of my life. While it’s not the first time my daughter has sabotaged a trip for me with her drinking and consequences, I had high hopes those days were behind us. I have serious issues where hope is concerned. Is there room in this chaotic life to push anything aside and take a moment for myself? No.
I deserved that short trip with my mother. I deserved to walk away from the realities of these two adults for a few days. The result of this crap show is I am internally screaming- “I feel sorry for myself!” I despise that more than anything.
As I shared my crazy story with a friend who is new to my world yesterday, she said what I have always thought, “Lisa, you do go through more than most people ever encounter.”
There it is—the truth. When you take tidbits of life from my experience, my journey, and weave them into the epic tale it is, I have confronted and endured much more than your average person. She then commented that living through these trials has made me an inspirational person. I have my doubts.
The Loss of Joy
Friends, there is a place we reach where fatigue kills joy. It fires at every inch of light. My joy is tangling with my desire to be gone, to leave this place of pain, and finally have peace.
I told my son, the last decade sucked.
The decade before sucked.
The decade before sucked.
And, yes, the first one sucked, too.
I am blessed with a few good years; unfortunately, the devastation overshadows them all. My kids were my life; my grandkids are my life (and probably got me through the last ten years).
My life story is peppered with abuse, loss, anger, loneliness, self-hatred, marital separation, single parenthood as a married woman, suicidal ideation, mental illness, health issues, and addiction, and more. I went from raising kids to raising grandkids—adult children in and out of jail and prison over 12 years. I had to defend myself against an intoxicated fireball drinking Fireball. It is endless.
I am tired.
I see no end in sight, no breath. I am entering a place of no hope.
I wake up, get grandkids ready and off to school, go to work, and come home to care for their every need. It is my purpose at the moment. I listen to their valid concerns and anger towards their mother, let them know how much I love each one, and hug and kiss those faces. How is she so blind to these gifts? We will never understand.
When the hospital called about my son, they said a few words that I will never forget, “..if you feel like it..”
No one has ever said that to me before. They encouraged me by showing me I matter. This is their addiction, and to someone on the outside, I am not a puppet on their strings; I am not a void in the space of their reality. I am a human being who deserves more. In that brief second, a single tear fell from my eye. Then, I returned to my frenzied packing of his small bag that would be a carry on for the plane. Deliver no cash, a sandwich, and a few clothes, if I feel like it. So, I did. In that small bag, I found 100 insulin needles. Need I say more…
After dropping off his bag, I drove another half hour to drop off my daughter’s clothes at her rehab facility here in the state. She completed eight months of sober living in work release – within days, she began drinking. Within weeks, binge drinking began, and we found 28 bottles.. Need I say more.
In a few short days, all hell broke loose. When I entered my house after flying home, I felt the heat of flames still present in every room. Now, I cleanse my home, my heart, my mind, my life. One returns Sunday, the other in 35 days.
How do we prepare?