An Open Letter to Families Where Addiction Is Present, by Alicia Cook, blogger

Can’t seem to get my “link” feature to cooperate. No doubt, it’s user error. This article was published through the Huffington Post. The author hits the emotional nail on the head.
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Last night someone said to me, “For someone who writes about addiction, you are being judgmental!” Now, without going into specifics, I can tell you I was a lot of things last night: Mad. Hurt. Sad. Confused. Frustrated. At a loss — but judgmental? No. No way.

I wish it wasn’t me who was writing this blog. I really wish it wasn’t. I wish I wasn’t “qualified” to speak on the heroin epidemic from the perspective of the loved ones. I wish I wasn’t gaining notoriety for having one of the “best handles” on this subject. I wish I wasn’t a member of a community no one really wants to be a part of. No one ever says to themselves while reading articles like mine, “I wish I could relate to this.”

But I am. I am the non-addict who knows all too well what it’s like to love a person who suffers from addiction.

I know what it’s like to worry yourself sick. To cry yourself to sleep.

I know to watch out for pinhole pupils and subtle changes in behavior. To listen to them talk and make excuses and pile on lie after lie. I know what it’s like to pretend to believe them because you are just too mentally exhausted for an argument.

I know what it’s like to be confused all of the damn time; to see their potential, to know what they are throwing away. I know what it’s like to want their recovery more than they do. To be the one doing research on rehabs and other outlets for recovery.

I know what it’s like to miss someone who is still standing right in front of you.

I know what it’s like to wonder if each unexpected phone call is “the” phone call. I know what it’s like to be hurt so bad and be made so sick a part of you wishes you would just get “the” phone call if nothing is going to change. You want that finality. You need the cycle to end. I know what it’s like to hate yourself for even allowing yourself to find relief in that horrible thought.

I know what it’s like to get the worst news of your life, and still walk into the grocery store and run your errands and smile at the cashier.

I know what it’s like to become a part-time detective. You know you are going to find something, and you look until you do just so you feel less crazy. So you can say to yourself, “I am not paranoid. This is happening again.”

I know what it’s like to have your mind clouded; to turn into a functioning zombie. I know what it’s like to be physically present at board meetings and dinner dates, but mentally gone.

I know what it’s like to be really mad. Like, REALLY pissed off. Between the sadness there is a lot of anger. I know what it’s like to feel guilty for being so mad, even knowing all you know about addiction. You are allowed to be angry. This is not the life you signed up for.

I know what it’s like to scour a bookshelf and not find what you are looking for because this illness is still so hard to talk about, let alone write about.

I know what it’s like to hear someone argue that addiction is not an illness, but a choice or social disorder. I know all too well that feeling of heat rising in your face as they go on and on about something they know nothing about.

I know what it’s like to stop being angry with these people. They do not understand. They are lucky to not understand. I know what it is like to catch yourself wishing that you didn’t understand either.

I know the difference between enabling and empowering. I know there is a fine line between the two and the difference can mean life or death. I know what it’s like to the feel the weight of each day on your shoulders trying to balance the two.

I know what it’s like to have “good days” and “bad days” but never “normal days.” I have been through enough to know that things don’t just change for the worse overnight; they can change in a millisecond. In a blink of an eye. As quick as it takes two people to make a $4 exchange.

I know what it’s like to feel stigmatized. To be the “cousin of a drug addict,” a “friend of a drug addict,” a “sibling of a drug addict,” “a parent of a drug addict,” “a neighbor of a drug addict.” I know what it feels like to be handled with kid-gloves because no one outside of your toxic bubble knows what to say to help.

I don’t know what the future holds for anyone who loves a substance abuser today. One thing I know for sure is I am not alone. I write often on addiction from the family’s perspective. My last article, Lessons I Learned from Loving a Drug Addict, was picked up by numerous news outlets. My new essay series, The Other Side of Addiction, aims to help non-addicts and addicts alike share their story in a place free of, you guessed it…judgement. They often feel voiceless, so I wanted to give them a voice.

I write on addiction for a lot of reasons. I want to let you know you are not alone. I write on addiction because for far too long many have felt isolated, hopeless and stigmatized by this illness.

Today I am writing on addiction to let loved ones know you are allowed to feel angry without feeling guilty. You are allowed to feel sad, mad, or frustrated without feeling guilty. You are allowed to take a step back if you need a breather without feeling guilty.

With so many variables being out of your power, the one thing you are in control of is your well-being. Feeling any of this at any point does not mean you are suddenly a judgmental person who does not understand addiction. All of this does not mean you do not love this person unconditionally.

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Codename:The Book Club

In a fresh take on the addiction narrative, my book tracks the emotional arc of the parent, from secrecy and shame to surrender. The following excerpt is from the first Book Club chapter, where the reader is introduced to a concept of “community”. The statistics within our group are staggering.
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We took our places around Suzanne’s kitchen table. We were the invisible casualties of addiction, five women drawn into a circle of light. Celeste’s daughter had been kicked out of school for pot. Ruthie’s son had almost died of alcohol poisoning. Each of us mourned the child who might have been, the child who was desperately lost. We could not have known, not then, where these children were headed. In the upcoming decade we’d find ourselves attending the funerals of six young people within our children’s world, two car accidents, three overdoses, one suicide.

The stats wouldn’t tally for years. But that night, among the five of us, were eleven children, five of whom were addicts. They’d experimented with alcohol, Xanax, Ecstacy, pot and heroin. They’d struggled through eating disorders, been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and endured sexual abuse.

Collectively, we’d seen thirty-two counselors, attended AA, Narcotics Anonymous, Al-Anon, Families Anonymous, consulted with educational specialists, interventionists, psychologists, psychiatrists, tutors, an acupuncturist–even an energy healer. Our children had matriculated through wilderness programs, courtrooms, prison pods and halfway houses. They’d earned four DUIs, two and a half years of jail time, three years probation, five felonies, three high school expulsions, and three near overdoses.

Together, our families had spent over $350,000 on addiction. And not one of us was out of the woods yet.

“What can I get for you, Lynda?” Suzanne called over her shoulder as she reached into a cabinet for a glass. Here was the tribe I’d never dreamed existed, their understanding a salve. I sank into their acceptance like a warm bubble bath. “Not a thing, Suzanne.” I answered. “Not a single thing.”

“Open your books, now,” Celeste guided. “Let’s read the first step out loud.” We are powerless in the face of addiction. It might seem like a simple concept, but we stayed on this chapter for months.

The mothering instinct is to fix, smooth over, repair, cover up, bandage, or, if all else fails, beat the crap out of anything that hurts our children. We think we can control what they eat, what they wear, their school, their friends. Then addiction lumbers in, sniffs the air for signs of weakness, licks its chops, sharpens its claws, and terrorizes us before knocking us flat and ripping our hearts out.

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Rewiring

Below is an excerpt from the chapter after “The Christmas Shark” (11/5/14 Post). Looks like a year has passed since I mentioned that we were close to a finished manuscript. Oh well. You know what they say about time ….
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I’m not sure what it truly feels like to be suicidal, by definition. There’s a huge leap between stop this ferris wheel so I can get off and I’m going to ride it to the tippy-top and jump. But for months after my Christmas in Tuckers, the idea of checking out crossed my mind a time or two-hundred.

Dr. Buxton calls these passive thoughts of suicide. It’s junior level. Brownies to Girl Scouts. I didn’t want to miss the rest of my life. Not really. I just wanted to skip the sucky parts. And right then, it was all sucky.

Pat speaks of rage. I wince at first. Who me? But the shattered career; Charlotte’s innocent angst, the terror, the defiance, the helplessness all come to a rolling boil and I sit with it. Searing, angry, hateful, I am pissed. I know that anger solves nothing, but I am enraged at the damage inflicted. Tearful, furious, I look for something to punch. As if it would help. The tears purify, sweeping a hidden corner of my soul.

The undefined dread that shrouded my days and nights before Tuckers, became more opaque in the months to come, a gray fog that swirled into a ghostlike form, taunting me for no particular reason. It trailed clammy fingers down my spine, dotted my skin with goosebumps, sabotaged my sleep, reduced my breath to small desperate sips, and deadened my senses, determined to take me down.

Whenever I fantasized about ending my pain—which was hourly—my rational self repeated a silent prayer, reminding my overwhelmed self to get a grip: It would be tragic for Robert and Charlotte, if you took your life. Not to mention, Sam. Your parents and your brother would be crushed. Your friends would never let you hear the end of it. And might I add? Suicide would be a bummer for you, too, Lynda.

I’d meet Dr. Buxton in his office each week, presenting a brave face. My wiring needed to be reset, so I’d no longer be a stranger to myself. “This takes time,” he explained. “You must be vigilant about taking your meds, precisely as I prescribe. And continue your work with Pat.”

As the pendulum swung from anxious twinges to full-blown panic attacks, my mind spun into worst-case-scenario mode: Was Dr. Buxton even shooting straight with me, I wondered? What if I’ve hopelessly, irretrievably lost it? What if he just can’t bear to report the full extent of the damage?

I desperately wanted to get better, right on schedule. Put all this behind me. Check the box. Be a good patient. Make Dr. Buxton proud. I was determined to stay off of locked wards and keep my knitting needles, along with all my marbles. Still, it took an ocean of energy and a mountain of courage to make it to the end of each day.

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Wake Up and Get Real

To interrupt a pattern that’s not working, you have to be conscious and awake. We’re all human; all flawed. Still, we are tasked with our own awakening. The process requires us to peel back the layers.

We might possess a strength in physics and a weakness for cheeseburgers. The shy gentle nature that earned us gold stars in grade school might mask a hair-trigger temper in adulthood. We must work to smooth our own rough edges. And when we can acknowledge our failings while recognizing our worth, we slip into our own skin and inhabit it comfortably.

If we’re fully awake though, we learn to accept ourselves as we are, not as we wish to be. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, we become real. We live and love in our truth.

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