Friends for Life
By Julie W.
They say all you really need in life is one good friend. I’m
lucky that way. I have Rachel. Rachel’s a recovering alcoholic. I’m a
recovering codependent. She makes me laugh. And cry. And think. All of which I
needed recently.
Another crisis had hit in my family. I saw my mother’s name
flash on my caller ID and had a suspicion it wasn’t good news.
“Jake showed up demanding a gun,” she whispered. As she
described the current drama I held my breath and felt my insides pinch in. My
brothers are forty-year-old twins, alcoholics/addicts, and one was living with
her. The other one had come for an unexpected visit.
As a faithful codependent, I experienced my mother’s anxiety
as if I were standing right beside her in the kitchen, not miles away in my own
home.
For over twenty years, I’d been her sidekick—the one who got
in the thick of it with her. I’d been the child who listened, the one who
cared, the one who accompanied her and my brothers to court, to jail, to rehab.
The one who tried to make sense of it all.
It took my mother a while to work her way through the
details, but I got the gist of it pretty quickly. Another family crisis.
After I hung up, I felt whipped from the adrenalin rush. I
looked around at my own family as they watched TV, ate popcorn, and laughed. I
couldn’t get into it with them, didn’t want to involve them in the crazy
scenarios that ran through my mind. Before the sun came up the next day, Mom
called again.
“Do you want to know the latest?”
“No, Mom,” I said, my voice wobbly, as 98 percent of me
itched, craved for the update. But I hung on to that brutally honest 2 percent.
“I really don’t. I can’t keep doing this. It’s wearing me out,” I said. She
hung up in a hurry.
It felt strange to say no to my mother in this way, to
resist the old urge to fix, to appease, to control. Suddenly, I wanted nothing
more than to stay home, sit by the phone, or call Mom back and try to explain.
Instead, I called Rachel.
As soon as we met she pulled up the back of her shirt.
“Lookey! I got a tattoo,” she said. “I told the tat artist I wanted one to help
me stay sober.”
“Ouch,” I said and ran my hand over the colorful design. The
artwork was simple: two hearts joined together in a circle. Rachel said it meant
that her heart and God’s are connected. That He understands her and will never
leave her. And He’s always there, no matter what, to help her.
“Didn’t it hurt?” I asked.
“Like the devil, but I don’t want to forget the pain
drinking has caused me.”
The pain drinking has caused stuck somewhere in my soul. I
thought back over the pain my own addictions had caused—addictions to pleasing,
fixing, and control. I wondered if her God could possibly be big enough to help
me too.
“Let’s go shopping. For you,” she said and grabbed my arm.
“It’ll be fun.”
“Fun?” That word had always unnerved me. Fun is torture. For
a codependent, it feels like cheating. Codependents focus on others. Our
formula is simple: deny self.
Rachel pulled me into a clothes store and found some dark
jeans and a sparkly gold tank top. I glanced into the mirror. Putting on
something new changed my countenance. I stood taller. Smiled at myself. I had a
twinge of guilt, but dang, that outfit looked pretty good.
That day I began to accept more truth about myself. I can
pass up a beer without thinking twice. But obsessive worry or getting involved
in trying to change my family? The things that tempt me don’t reside in a
frosty mug or a shot glass. But the consequences are just as destructive.
Since then, Rachel has been helping me learn boundaries. Now
I call her and we role play. She has me say things like, “I’m sure you’ll work
it out. Gotta run.” Or, “Gee, Mom, I don’t know what to tell you.”
Yesterday, my mother called from the District Attorney’s
office as I was driving home. I listened to part of the saga and then held my
cell phone toward the window for a few seconds. As I did this I thought, look
at those fall leaves, aren’t they gorgeous. Mom said, “Did you hear what I
said?” I told her yes and changed the subject. Rachel gave me an A+ when I told
her about it later.
I’m beginning to really recognize that when I give my power
away to anyone or anything, here’s what happens: I lose myself. The things that
make me smile disappear. I begin to dread each day.
Rachel and I go way back. But it took a new tattoo to make
me aware of the lifetime of pain I’d allowed through my addictions. She hasn’t
slipped since she got the tattoo and I’m getting stronger myself as I leave
behind what felt so right for so long.