Spotlight On

SPOTLIGHT ON…FAMILIES and FRIENDS

Not My Job
By Julie W.

 
I learned to try and control the addicts and alcoholics in our family from my mother. She screamed, spied, plotted, worried, and obsessed. After I married and had children, I figured if I became a Perfect Mother my children wouldn’t have trouble with drugs or alcohol. I spoke softly, made cookies, and tucked cheery notes inside their lunch boxes. We rarely missed church. Until my oldest daughter Allison (name changed) was a college sophomore, I felt smug.

            It seemed my hard work had paid off.

            At age 20, Allison came home for the weekend. She opened the door, didn’t speak, and dropped her duffel bag. Clothes and make-up spilled out. Smudges of mascara circled her eyes. I whispered a God-please-no prayer.

            “Come tell me about your classes,” I patted the sofa and tried to keep my voice carefree.

            “Gotta take a shower.”

             As she clomped upstairs, I analyzed the recent changes in her: complaints of not having any money, rarely answers the phone, weight loss, pinpoint pupils, and a “who gives a rip (can I say damn?)” persona. Then I searched her purse. The evidence lay under her wallet. A leopard-colored pipe. I sniffed it. The unmistakable sweet odor of pot.

            No way. I did everything right. I opened her checkbook. Nothing made sense. Just scribbles without a balance. My heart fluttered like a bird stuck inside my chest.

            She plodded down the stairs, hair in a towel, wearing the same wrinkled clothes. I took tiny breaths of air. I dared move an inch—be still and talk in a sweet voice—must convince her to stop. 

            “We need to talk, honey.”

            “Not now. I’m tired.”

            “I found your pipe.”

            Her death row eyes stared at me.

            “Chill, it’s not that big of a deal.” The tightness in the den suffocated me. I needed air.

            “Want to walk?” I said brightly. “Like we used to.”

            “Whatever.” She dropped the towel to the floor. So many pushy thoughts clamored at once.

            “Pot is the gateway drug. Have you tried anything else?”

            “Cocaine and ecstasy,” she said and waved to our friends. I knew I could talk some sense into her. Just had d to find the right words. Be friendly.

            “Honey, please. You’ve gotta stop.” I grabbed her hand.

            “Mom!” She jerked away. “People are watching.”

            “We have a strong family history. You don’t want to…”

            Allison stormed back to college as I stood in the driveway wiping tears. I knew what I had to do—abandon everything in my life and worry/fix/control full-time. My mind clicked to RED ALERT MODE. I began spending most days at home by the phone. I never rested—not when I was away from Allison, and for sure, not when we were together. I evaluated her reactions, gestures, and comments. Thoughts circled my mind like buzzards over prey.

            What if she never stops?

            What if I never see her again?

            What if she overdoses? Or goes to jail? Or becomes homeless?

            I lured Allison into therapy by promising we’d go to an Italian restaurant before visits. Her first appointment day arrived.  She played with her spaghetti and I couldn’t eat.

             “So, what do you plan to say to the counselor?”

            “How should I know?”

            When they called her name at the office I hurried in to make sure the counselor understood. Allison refused to sign for me to have any information. I considered eavesdropping in the hall, but too many people were around. An hour later, she walked past me as I paid.

            “Wait! What’d you talk about?”

            “Just stuff.” Our therapy/lunch charade continued for a few weeks. Then Allison’s sister informed me she was still using. She denied it, refused to see the counselor, dropped out of college, and stopped answering my phone calls.

            Convinced if I forgot about Allison, even for a second, or enjoyed anything in life, something bad might happen. Several months later, after another night of little sleep I glanced in the bathroom mirror. I could have passed for the addict. Dark circles under hopeless eyes. I rubbed my knotted shoulder muscles and slipped on my too-big jeans.

            I called my friend Linda (name changed). Her son, also an addict, had been sentenced to state prison. “You can’t imagine all that’s going on here.” I said.

            “Whoa, come over for coffee.” I wanted to stand guard at home, but I knew she’d listen and understand.

             “Hey, girlfriend,” Linda hugged me. I noticed her sweet perfume. Who can remember perfume at a time like this? The sound of her coffee pot greeted me in her kitchen. A cinnamon candle burned, and soft music played. Her Bible lay open on her kitchen counter.

            Linda’s hands didn’t tremble as she poured our coffee. She wore pretty russet-colored nail polish. A manicure with your son in prison?    

            I didn’t touch my coffee and blurted out the saga. Linda didn’t sweet-talk. She cut me off mid-sentence.

            “You need help,” she said.

             “You haven’t heard the whole story. I’m fine—my daughter, she needs help.”

            “Look at me.” Linda’s green eyes wouldn’t let go and seemed to penetrate straight to my soul. “You’re addicted to worry and control. I’ve been where you are.” She stretched out on the sofa. “The only one you can control is yourself.”

            The possibility that she might be right terrified me.

              “Took me years to realize, I’m not in charge. God is. By worrying, you’re telling God He can’t handle things. Go to Al-Anon with me. Tomorrow.”

            I’d heard of Al-Anon but didn’t see how it applied to me. Taking two days in a row away from the phone seemed risky. But I agreed because I was in awe of Linda. I didn’t open my mouth during the meeting. Every word spoken sounded like my own thoughts:

            “I worried myself sick about my alcoholic husband.”

            “My peace comes only when I let go and let God.”

            “I’m powerless over my mother’s behavior.”

            People surrounded me in all stages of recovery. The speaker shared about the three C’s. “You didn’t cause alcoholism, you can’t control it, and you can’t cure it.”    My attempt at being a perfect mother had been a backdoor attempt to control. Being sweet to manipulate others is a form of control. This new Letting Go chatter captivated me as like an intriguing yet foreign language. Then the speaker said, “To change you’ll have to leave behind some familiar lifelong habits.”

            But how? This is who I am—what I do.

            “An alcoholic can’t drink, and those of us in this room can’t allow an ounce of worry. For us, It’s every bit as dangerous and addictive. It robs our serenity.”

             Oh how I wanted her to be wrong. I didn’t think change was possible. Not for me. But I knew one thing for sure—I was destroying my life.

            That night at home I got real. “Help me, God. I can’t do this without You.” I began to start by asking God for help. I began to whisper, “Not my job,” as worry, fear, or control tried to needle back in.

            I returned to that same safe Al-Anon room week after week. I found a sponsor—someone with enthusiasm and faith in recovery—my recovery. When Allison began to call again, I refused to get caught up in her world, and trusted God to take care of her. I focused on one thing; me getting better. Two years after that first Al-Anon meeting, Allison and I met for an impromptu lunch. She’d gone back to the same therapist. On her own. When she was ready.

            “You can’t imagine how easy it is to study when you’re not high,” she said and laughed.

            “Nope, I guess not.” I blinked back happy tears.

            “Thanks, Mom.”

            “For what?”

            She twirled her blonde hair. Her blue eyes pooled. “When you didn’t fix my problems, it scared me. A few times I had to dig change out of the seat of my car for gas money. Some days,” she paused “I didn’t have food.” My throat felt warm with pride. She’d done it on her own. “I’m making A’s. And look,” she handed me her checkbook. “I have money again.” That impeccable grammar school handwriting had returned.

            Just like Allison.

            Recovery defies logic. It means doing the opposite of what feels natural. When I began to take care of myself and my addictions, Allison did the same thing.