Last night I poured my hurting heart out in here. I laid it all out for the release I deserved. Being so candid and honest gave me strength to verbalise my truth today. It was not easy, but it was necessary. To watch another day or night of drunk or high was beyond me.
My message was not received well. My daughter has left to the treatment facility, again. Her ticket is unlimited, and includes revolving doors. I lost count of her visits, more than anyone should have to go, not to say it wasn’t necessary. There is nothing wrong with detox or mental health assessment and treatment. It is a crucial aide for many people. But what do you do when it doesn’t work? How do we cope with the person who doesn’t choose sobriety and improving mental health?
Tonight, my heart is less tense. When I woke up today, I knew it would be a rough day. The anger I woke with was palpable. The comprehension that I am being used and taken advantage of was overwhelming. Disecting the fragments of selfishness seemed almost unfair. As we move through addiction, we face small pieces of reality, one at a time.
I do not matter in addiction. I will be lied to, laughed at, humiliated, beaten, cursed out, and exhausted by the day to day drama. My feelings mean nothing, my pain is laughable, and there exists no respect for me. It is just the way it is. Addicts have no boundaries within their severe addiction. It is all about being a victim. They just don’t recognize they victimize themself.
They may not make it out alive. I already found my daughter unresponsive in a suicide attempt, so I am numb to the scenario, yet in fear. As a parent, you never want to accept your child might die, but I acknowledge this painful truth. We were close in February, and when she woke up, her only words were, “why didn’t you let me die?”
They released her after she was coherent that day. They believe she needs alcohol counseling, not mental health counseling. They may be correct, but it seems both are warranted. Her multiple visits for detox red marked her account, I’m sure. “Oh, it is you, again.”
Sober up. Get out.
I have been here through it all. As everyone else walked away, I stayed. I prayed, hoped, helped, cheered the triumphs, and encouraged through the failures. It is not easy. Today, I relayed the message, “You are killing me.”
As I wrote last night, my spirit is an aging rose-crumpled, black, lifeless. I have no fight left in me, or what remains must be reserved for me. If that is selfish, so be it. I sacrificed my last. Every day I whisper to myself, “Keep going,” is a day I lose a little more.
I shared a quiet night with my two grandchildren, her children. They both said they smelt it last night. They know the smell of alcohol. They see the look, the sound of her voice, and those long ‘naps.’ They know. We all decided to clean up her room as a surprise. They now understand what bottles she buys and how many.
Will she live to watch them grow? Will she be here when my grandson enters middle school, or my granddaughter walks down the aisle? Will she attend sober and remember the hard work she put into being there? Or will we be watching the same nonsense, “an event, so I had to get drunk.”
Anything is an excuse to drink. I learned that, as well.
Life is a dungeon these days, but tonight I have been set free to roam and breathe. It isn’t much, but it is mine.