Months ago, I pulled up to the parking garage where the car was left behind. I walked to every business in the vicinity, asking if anyone saw my daughter. I begged to look at outdoor cameras. Being denied without a warrant was frustrating. Finally, the police reviewed one camera, and from what they saw, began a missing person report.
Now parents are planning their kid's funerals. I have not physically done it, but I can confirm the thoughts have haunted me. As the tears fell from my eyes, my heart broke for her children. How would I tell them their mother was gone? I ran through an entire scenario that hadn't happened yet.
If you have not parented through substance use, you can't understand. However, you might get it if you experience strongholds, anger, doubt, fear, and loneliness. If you ever spent time trying to outdo God in a life meant for surrender, then you can understand a piece of the trauma in addiction.
begin to make plans for their future, I wonder why my kids never believed they should do the same. We are told not to ask, but I can't let go of the questions, "What did I do wrong?.. Could I have done more to help them?.. Didn't I teach them confidence?" I could go on. What happened here?
The overwhelming source of 'sin' being laid on me by Satan himself was a sham. He used my compassion, empathy, and sorrow against me. The devil wanted me to soak in the loss of His game. He was happy watching me suffer for something I did not do. Even my anger became his play toy. Justifying it just as he did depression, sadness, remorse, and every other emotion and feeling I used to batter my soul.
Letting go was forfeiting my need to be some part of their savior.
An addict's mother crying, as the day begins. Endless prayers are rising, her hope speaks to win. But battles are not owned by mothers on the side. And gloves may be on, but never touch the fight.
I thought ‘who I am’ was wrapped up in titles and what I do, but I am very wrong. My identity is lovingly written on the palm of God’s hand. (Isaiah 49: 15-16).
In all the mothering I did, speaking encouragement into the broken lives of my children, and lifting up unceasing prayer, I found peace in the truth of letting go. It does not only apply to addicted kids, it applies to all kids.
I know the doubt, fear, and frustration in managing the symptoms of bipolar. If I prayed long and hard enough, I thought I would be healed, cured, and labeled a miracle. So far, that has not happened. I am still balancing bipolar, but with a new understanding of my mind.