Category: Arrow

stories of addiction, relapse, recovery

Waiting by the Water

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella, The Chef2 Comments

The only thing tougher than sitting in my own wasteland is watching someone I love sit in theirs. I have wandered the deserts, been stuck in the sand, covered in grit, thirsting for water that was just out of reach. Paralyzed, lost, no longer trusting my instincts, the oasis ahead could be just another mirage. Staying in the desert is sure death, I have been close before. Sweaty, exhausted, unable to wander another step, I stopped, just stopped. This is when the river appeared, the goodness of cool refreshing water washing over me, the force of the stream removing grains of sand from my eyes, from my ears. Carried along by the current, I could rest. Glorious blue water, life sustaining moisture, now I could see life again, feel hope as I bobbed along. Croaking frogs, skittering insects, luscious green grass, surrounded by living, I was no longer searching for my own life. Out of the wasteland, found, rescued, washed free, renewed, I vow to never go again towards those sandy places. Still, I sometimes find myself a bit too far from the river, I can hear the wind howling as it blows the dunes. I know to turn around, danger lurks there. What to do then when my loved ones can’t find their way out?

I hate seeing my family struggle when I can so clearly see the way out. I see the water, call to them from the riverbank. My guidance ignored, unheard, sand is consuming them. Left watching from the shore, a witness to their struggle, I cannot share my water until they reach for it. Frustration mounts, it is so easy, just turn this way, hear me, stop choosing the desert, come to the water. I forget though exactly how hard it is to ignore my own will to wander, to ruminate, to wallow in my nothingness, searching for answers in all the wrong places. I walk until exhaustion forces me to kneel. Why do would it be easier for my family? They can’t learn from my journey any more than I have learned from the 40 years my ancestors spent wandering. How painful it must have been for my Father to watch.

Time in the desert hurts. I don’t want my family to hurt, I want them to feel refreshed, to play in the cool water, listen to giggles as they splashing about. I want to rush ahead to joy, they are still in sorrow, aching in the emptiness of the after, not believing it is really a time of before. Hurry, hurry, over here to the river, I find myself shouting encouragingly. I think it sounds more like impatience, criticism that they can no longer find their own way, to their granule encrusted ears. I kick my feet in the water, splashes demonstrating how rejuvenating it is over here on the river edge. They hear me mocking them, judging their struggle. The desert changes my words, distorts my message. I long for them to come and play, to drink deeply, to know the water is so close. They have to discover for themselves.

Watching, waiting, lonely without them to frolic in the spray, I can’t save them, I also have to be careful not to get too close, pulled back into the desert myself. The distance between us feels likes forever, how long before the crescendo  f waterfalls guides them to me? I yearn for shared joy, laughter filling the air, delight as the sun warms us but doesn’t burn.

Unable to speed the wanderings, the seeking, of those I love, my soul waits, begs the One who guided me home to show the way. “Now, quickly, please, I miss them so, ” I plead. “Look around child, you don’t swim alone. The river is brimming with others.”  Yes, now I see friends also in the river, some seeming to have just arrived, particles of sand still  evident as they emerge from the first immersion, dunking under again, again, drinking in the glory. Others have been here longer, contentedly floating along. I notice also that wives are here without husbands, children are playing without parents. I don’t see whole families playing, parents keep looking over their shoulders, just as I do. I see now we are all waiting for someone to join us.

Water poured out in the heat of the desert quickly evaporates. I realize the truth, each has to accept the offer, has to stop to drink slowly, carefully, give in to the Guide who holds the canteen.  I will  play in the river today, celebrate joys, laugh with the family around me. One day soon we will splash together.

Waiting on the Leaves

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

All of our leaves are still green, I am searching for color. The flowers around the yard are mostly gone, lone sunflower stalks self planted as the seeds slide from bird feeders are our only reminders of summer. Yet fall hasn’t actually arrived with glory either. I look for those reds, bright oranges and yellows. I crave the smell of bonfires and the sound of crunchy leaves under foot. Crisp apples, warm cider in mugs, orange pumpkins on the porch, a new season. We are in the in-between, the waiting. Transition time is rarely beautiful, rarely easy on the eyes.

Mama is carrying a new baby, due in just over 3 months. She calls me several times daily, I make the 5 minute trek to her apartment at least 3 times a week. She asks for help setting up the nursery, organizing clothes. We already set up her kitchen when she first moved in to this new apartment, one much closer to our home. We already set up Plum’s room, organized Lego totes and attached Minecraft posters to the wall. We set up the pantry and the built shelves. Trip after trip taking benches, chairs, metal racks, end tables, from our home to hers, transitioning her and Plum into a home not just an apartment. Long chats throughout our tasking, mama talks and asks and owns her past mistakes. Two years ago I would never have imagined helping her again like this, somehow I knew we always would. It was an ugly transition time. We are on the other side, bright colors of forgiveness and maturity, of grace and love, yes, love. In spite of myself I love this woman-child.

A year ago we picked up our Arrow from prison, full of hope for a fresh start. We brought him home, fed him, clothed him, gave him a job. We gave him access to a car. We didn’t give him adulthood. He had to leave to find that. He is coming back into our lives on his own terms, on our terms too, but as a man, not just as our child. He calls, always some excuse because still he cannot just say he wants to talk to his mom. He visits his son, a lifeline for Arrow. I don’t know his day to day, where he lives, who his friends are. This is good. Arrow and I can get too close, then we get unhealthy. I worry, try to save him, forget he has to save himself. Our horrible transition several months ago was heartbreaking, now he is transitioning back in a way that doesn’t hurt any of us. I am beginning to find patches of light with my Arrow, when he shows me what he works on, when he eats lunch at my table, takes home plastic bowls of left-overs. He is grateful again. I feel touches of pride. Slowly we are making our way back, allowing hurt from the past to fade as the colors of now take over.

I wish I knew what this waiting time means for Chef and I. Dragging on, fear and anger begin to rise again. The mortgage lender doesn’t want to hear that we are trusting in God’s timing. We celebrated having so much time together, now we get on each other’s nerves. Colors are fading, the leaves aren’t turning yet. This transition doesn’t feel like movement, it feels like stuck. Remembering past waiting times reminds me that something incredibly better was coming, something I couldn’t foresee. I just have to keep doing the thing in front of me, the next thing that is right and good. The fog will lift, brilliant colors will explode before my eyes. I will tell a story of waiting and the joy that came after.

Today I see green leaves and long for red and yellow. I long for apple cider and security and bills caught up. I long for brilliant yellow and health insurance. Today I am waiting, tomorrow the leaves may begin to turn.

Half A Pack of Mourning Daily

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

I started smoking as an adult who knew better, at a time of huge stress, when I was locked away from my children. I continued this habit for a couple of years after we were rejoined, even after my kids complained. I knew better but was hooked. My son put Mr. Yuck stickers on my cigarette packs. They told me I smelled. I did. I tried the medicine touted as the best way to quit, I became a raging lunatic. Finally I just stopped. That was over 17 years ago, maybe longer. It was a good run.

Through all the crises of addiction and unplanned pregnancy, watching your child choose homelessness, fighting for security for the baby who didn’t choose any of it, I still didn’t stop at the gas station and buy a pack. I ate M&M’s, reverted to some horrible eating habits, prayed, cried, drank too much wine, managed. But I didn’t smoke. Then came my daughter’s wedding that I was no longer invited to, a day so crushingly painful I was sure I wouldn’t survive. Chef and I had traveled to the “paper wedding” in front of a judge where I was surprised to be a signing witness. The relationship was already incredibly strained at that point. I didn’t know what was ahead, I didn’t know I was truly losing my daughter, that the visit then would be the last time I would see her. Seven months later when the real celebration rolled around, I was too thin, too broken, every moment without reconciliation bringing me closer to madness. I went with a friend and bought a pack, as a lark, to get through the day, not realizing this crutch was going to get me through all the days. For two years.

I actually love and hate smoking. I hate the smell, hate that it pushes me away from everyone who loves me. No one in my circle smokes.  No one joins me on the porch with a nice glass of wine and has deep conversations with me. I sit alone and rush through the fire tipped reminder of all that is wrong. But there is a part that I love and it isn’t the cigarette. It is the very same aloneness. Sometimes I just need a time out. I need to pull away from the chaos and the chatter and get re-centered. I need to be alone with my memories and mourn for 5 minutes and then go back to being present in my day. I know why I smoke and I know why I shouldn’t. I tell myself with each purchase of a pack that is the last one but then myself laughs mockingly. I don’t believe me. I haven’t yet committed to letting go of my mourning period.

I never imagined I would lose my daughter. I have fought so many times to keep my son alive, the only way being to give him up to other authorities. My girl, though, always my closest person on earth, always the one who could make me really laugh out loud, I never ever imagined her not in my every days. My heart had no room for such a notion. Coping skills completely broke down, nothing worked on this heart ache. While I have tried extensively to bridge this gap, I haven’t tried to stop smoking. I realize I cannot control when she will come back into my life, if ever, but I can control when I will stop mourning with a lighter and an ashtray. That time is coming. My Chef is so stressed right now I worry that he can’t handle the definite crazy moody swings and nastiness that will result in my withdrawal. I worry that I won’t get my time away from everyone, no excuse for them all not to follow me. I worry that I can’t do it, just like I worry that I can’t really go on another day without a phone call, text, email from my Stella. But I do go on. So maybe I really can quit.

This might just be my last pack.

Cautionary Cake

On By LisaIn Arrow, MomLeave a comment

Every August 15th I bake a German Chocolate cake even though no one in this house eats it. Well I do but I can’t eat the whole thing myself. I have taken to only putting the coconut icing on half so that my Chef will eat some of the cake, his aversion to all things coconut winning out over his love of pecans. I make the cake anyway, once a year and have since 1998. I make it for my older brother on his birthday, it was his favorite.

I’m not one for visiting gravesite, my sister-in-law is so faithful at this. She ensures my mother always has flowers and a grave blanket in winter, something that was really important to mom. She and my little brother go to all the graves and then send me pictures of their work. I went right after mom died, right after Joe died, but then rarely go back. They aren’t there.  So I bake a cake and remember my older brother, focus on the good times and try not to beat the eggs too roughly as my anger rises again.

Everything good in my little brother was missing in my older brother. I can explain it away by the high fevers he had as a toddler, the extra time he spent with our abusive father, the addiction that grabbed him as he hit his tweens. He was just a shit. He stole from us, mom’s keepsakes from her mother, my babysitting money. He introduced both his younger siblings to drugs and alcohol and then told mom on us, reaping the rewards of the confiscated goods and gaining points with her. He was a shit but God was he charming. Four years older than me, with a group of rowdy friends, always ready to party, always laughing. My friends thought he was gorgeous, wanted to be around him. I tried to escape him, his bullying and late night parties when mom went away. I loved him because he was my brother and hated that he was my brother, that I couldn’t turn my back all the way on him.

My mother learned to enable as a child with her own father, she hid his bottles from her own mother, told lies to protect him. She did no less for her son. Fresh starts broken promises money slid across the table. Leftovers always packaged for him to grab, no need for him to spend his money on food. This boy never had to grow up even when he fathered a child. We all stepped in and began to provide for this beautiful boy because my brother would rather buy beer than baby bottles. My sister-in-law raised this boy into man who has his own family and provides for them. A man to be proud of, a man my brother never got to know.

My brother killed himself in 1997. He finally gave up, stopped fighting his desire to use drugs and to drink. He wanted more and had no idea how to ever get there, at 37 years of age and most of his life high. Friends had gone on to college, gotten married, were raising their kids instead of hell. He gave up after dozens of times calling me threatening to do so, me talking him down. He didn’t call me this time. His life has been a cautionary tale for the nieces and nephews he barely knew. We can’t play with substances like other families. We have bad genes. His life was not wasted even though he mostly always was. I grew strength, resolve, to stand strong in the face of my own son’s use. I left him in rehabs while he begged to come home. When he made promises and pledges that I knew were lies and out of his control to keep, I walked away and into a parents group. I testified to judges about addiction and the need for help and not just incarceration. I have fought with and for my son.  I have fought the urge to enable with every breath. I have seen the outcome. I don’t want to see pictures of a gravesite my sister-in-law has decorated for me. I don’t want to bake a cake for him that no one will eat.

Every August 15th I bake a cake. By August 20th it is in the trash.   Wasted, no more candles ever. A cautionary German Chocolate cake. And I remember my brother.

Becoming Just Gran

On By LisaIn Arrow, Plum1 Comment

My Plum started kindergarten last week and left me home to look at cars and transformers and Lego and potential mud piles all by myself. He stepped right onto the bus and didn’t have the decency to look back and cry for me. He told me that I could play with his toys while he is gone, little comfort. His scooter sits idle, the dogs mope about. Dishes are always done, laundry is caught up, I wander about the house, annoyed at the quiet. Then my phone rings and his mama is asking another question about school lunches. She is terrified he won’t eat there, what if he forgets the ridiculous 5 digit number he has been assigned to access his account. Will they really send him each day to the nurse to get his dairy pill? I am more concerned about him going to the bathroom, this boy who freely pees outside my home behind a bush, delighting in how far his stream goes. Will he actually raise his hand in front of everyone and ask to go into the little room in the same classroom? What about all those other savages, have they been taught to wash their hands? I get the irony, don’t judge. Mama and I commiserate on the unjustness of taking our little prince away to an environment neither of us can control. This is good.

Mama came to us about 6 weeks into her pregnancy, leaving behind my Arrow and the world of addiction and chaos to live with people she hardly knew. She had nothing including weight on her body. We fed her, we loved her, we got her into school. Plum was born into our household and has been in and out all of his just shy of 6 years.When mama was struggling, she came back. Her room was put back together, his never taken apart. Tumultuous days hours minutes during these years finally resulted in trips through the legal system to establish permanency for our boy. Through it all, mama has grown from the unsure teenager to a young woman who fully fits into her role. I have slowly been eased out of granMother and back into just gran. This is good.

Second week of school now and some of the newness is starting to fade. I voluntarily gave up our weekday overnights to keep Plum in a nightly routine, just for the first month. We agreed that coming for a whole family dinner one evening a week could replace this and we would keep our weekends. It all made sense to us, adults with thoughts of bedtimes and consistency. It made sense until my Plum threw a tantrum last night like I haven’t seen since I had to let him go years ago and he tried to climb back through the windows on the front porch to avoid returning to his mama’s. I knew it was wrong then but was helpless to stop it. I know it is right now but hate the look that he gave me, the soul shattering look as he drove away, tears rolling, sobs echoing, restrained by a carseat that was carrying him away from his granMother. He wanted me and I wanted him but I used my most firm voice and stated we would absolutely not have this behavior and besides I would see him tomorrow. He rode away with his mama and I know it was good.

Mama called me after he went to sleep, about ten minutes later, to see if he needed $.50 for milk if he took his lunch or would they take off of his account. Mama called me because she needs me also, maybe because she wanted to make sure I was okay after letting go of our boy. Transitioning to being just a gran is hard, as hard as putting this child on a bus. I am trusting teachers and lunch ladies and bus drivers all to see that smile, those eyes, to see his heart and just know he is one incredible kid. I want them to know his story and to not know it, for him to have a fresh start. He is a regular kindergartner with a mama and a step-daddy, a new sibling on the way. I know mama is with me on all this, finally we are together. I will always be his number two and need to let mama be number one. Even when he looks at me like that. I look back with eyes that tell him it is okay, we trust mama also. Gran will see him tomorrow and we will play cars.

 

Finding a New Way

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

One of the bridges that connect our two communities was deemed unsafe. I have traveled that bridge for over 30 years, crossing from our side of town to the bigger city section for real shopping, dining, employment and most importantly, usually to collect my Plum. Our side holds the university and ethnic dining, a true bedroom community, relying on the larger city for most of our needs.  Of course the university is one of the major employers in the area so just as many on the other side travel the bridges to come this way. Three bridges unite us, hold us without complaint, as we travel back and forth carrying groceries, families, pets to the vet. Until one was no longer safe.

Our state department of transportation took over the task of fixing this bridge. We learned it had already been fixed before but was sinking into the river, the supports weren’t holding. The bridge was closed, work began. Watching this effort from afar, the slow progress fascinating if not a bit unnerving. I remember stories of bridges that have collapsed, terrible events where lives were lost just in the traveling of a road always trusted. I had always counted on this bridge, the one they were dismantling. The one now left with pieces of concrete, no barriers.  Without thought I drove those I love most daily onto this span, trusting we would never fall, believing that someone who knows more than me would surely keep us safe. I am guessing the good people in Minneapolis believed the same until that horrible day in 2007 when 13 were killed, another 145 injured when their trust collapsed. Work began, our bridge was taken apart, piece by piece. Finally there was little left to do but explode what was left, completely destroy any remnants. We saw footage of this history-making event, I was sickened by the loss even as I knew it was necessary. Clouds of dust filled the air, particles of our past. Clearing out the old was complete, the true rebuilding could begin.

For months traffic has been a nightmare, groaning and anger fill conversations and letters to the editor. Appointments are missed, being late is almost expected. I wonder once the bridge is reopened, how long before it is taken for granted again. How short will our memories of this season of suffering, of inconvenience be? Have we stopped to pray for the men and women creating our new roadway, our new path? Our impatience to get where we want clouds our memories of all who have helped pave our way.

The thing about not using this bridge though is that I have discovered some new routes. I drive alternate roads, trickier less direct streets only to find areas of town I had forgotten existed or never seen. Beautiful neighborhoods, a donut shop, street art. I am seeing the other side of town, forced into a new perspective. Shaken out of my routine, exploring my city with fresh, attentive eyes.

We have had some bridges explode in our life these last couple of years. Bridges that we kept patching and adding supports but really were deemed unsafe. We cannot continue to travel over the same roads, ignoring the realities of addiction, of emotional abuse, of the conflict between faith and work.  We have grown weary with the blasting of our bridges. Even though we knew the dangers, these were our bridges, we kept taking the risks. Explode they have, though, dust clouds of our lives covering us, choking us, until it settles at our feet. Some days we sit in the ashes like Job, as Pastor Chris reminded us, other days I get out the hose and wash it all away. I am most impatient often for the rebuilding, I seek out alternative routes that lead me not to my expected destination but somewhere new. During our rebuilding we are blessed to be discovering some new routes, new communities of friends who are supporting us as surely as the trusses going up across the river. The phone calls, emails, texts build us up each day as we construct our new lives. We stop often and pray for those who are building these bridges for us, bridges that may lead us to different places, with new perspectives. Once a new donut shop is discovered, it really cannot be dismissed just because a faster route is completed, our deepened faith cannot be shrugged off once all the pieces are realigned. We are changed, we understand the risks, the dangers of relying on just one path. We recognize it is foolish to forget the bridge isn’t really what holds us up, ever.

One incredible blessing when we received our great shock two weeks ago (has it been three now?) has been the texts and phone calls from our son. This young man, filled with anger and alcohol, who left our home to establish his own, setting fire to all behind him. The thing about love between mothers and sons is, at least my Arrow and I, when life hits us hard, we come back together. He was horrified at the news, his indignation at the unjustness once again joined with ours rather than against us. Over these weeks he has reached out, shown concern, offered assistance. I volunteered his totes full of household goods, he accepted. We are constructing our bridge, maybe a suspension one, but we are both willing to cross it with hearts ready for gentle steps toward a new relationship. It will never be the old one, that is good. It wasn’t safe for any of us to travel.

I keep waiting for the same reaching out from my daughter, the silence all the more painful in this time of family crisis. I have extended every invitation I know to make that connection again, I can’t find a way to her. My impatience to reach her must sound to the heavens like all the commuters groans during rush hour, for all these months of reconstruction. I have been groaning for too long now. God is in charge of this bridge, like all of them. I am not meant to cross just yet, it is still unsafe.  I imagine He thinks much work remains on my side, even after the explosion. Surely the work on her side is great as well. In the meantime, I mourn the loss of that easy route but celebrate our discoveries.  We are blessed, we found a new donut shop, we have friends to help us cross the waters. We will travel safely, slowly, securely again one day. Today we have some rebuilding to do.

Goodbye She-Me

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

Hovering, watching, separate, I floated above as my father touched the body of she-me.  I didn’t feel it.  I didn’t understand then that if God couldn’t stop him, He gave me safety in my mind to fly away.  That gift of dissociating served me well throughout the years of abuse but became a habit when dealing with anything disturbing.  She-me felt all the pain, I floated and witnessed.

In graduate school a med resident needed practice using hypnosis technics, I guess I must have volunteered.  He was amazed at how quickly I went under.  I was not.  I had been leaving my body all of my life.  Coming back to it is the hard part.

I no longer float away but I still don’t know how to stay fully present, how to feel like I imagine others do. I stay apart, participating on the surface, feeling later.   Great in a crisis, my feelings don’t interfere until much later.  But daily I have begun to ask myself what is holding me back from responding in the moment.  Not only protected from harm, I am cheated of deep joy, shared joy, only allowing  feelings to surface when alone. What does it take to unlearn even more, to trust that the danger is gone?  I know the answer lies in God, the One who gave me the gift initially, Who now wants it back.

I wonder if I can’t use some of the other gifts He has shared with me, gifts of a husband and friends, gifts of the Spirit. I don’t have to protect she-me anymore.  I am an adult with choices of what to let in, who to let in, accepting grace and love and hope.  Remembering to stay low and not float away, low where real life happens. Where kids get dirty, knees get skinned, wet dogs want to cuddle, cats bring dead moles, a daughter stops calling, a son starts drinking, but also where a sweet voice calls for nanny, a husband keeps reaching out, friends see deeper.

God is asking for His gift back, I can see that now.  The courage to trust the One who loved me first will open me up to all those who love me now.  I need His help in letting go of this old habit, I do know He was only waiting for me to ask.  Today I am asking.  Goodbye She-me.

 

Meet Me in the Better

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

It has been a hard weekend, my Plum spent more days than usual with his mama, removing our buffer. The joy and lightness he brings also means there is little time for deep talk or uninterrupted arguments.  Important words go unsaid, feelings never expressed.  He wasn’t here, words were spoken, feelings were hurt, a marriage teetered.

I came into this marriage emotionally strong but poor, two children already dividing up my time and love. Always trying to atone for the time I was away, I gave more to them than him, expecting him to understand. He did and didn’t. Waiting for his turn, for my time and attention, has taken a toll. My habit of putting him last hard to break.

As the children grew older, Arrow’s addictions and my dismissals from employment from strangers complaints regarding my history created crises under which my Chef and I could unite.  With each new onslaught, we got better at leaning on each other, communicating, focusing on the goal together.  My neediness was evident.

With an addict son, an unexpected pregnancy, taking in the mama, raising the child until she was able, custody battles, Arrow’s imprisonment, and now the estrangement from our daughter after she married, the crisis meter was always ticking.  But what happens when I opt out?  When I stop seeing everything as a mess that needs my fixing and just start moving forward?  My marriage becomes the next crisis.

I want to change the pattern, to help my Chef see that I need him without being needy.  I want him to become aware of how we communicate when the goal is not finding a rehab but just celebrating the day. We need to find a new way, that doesn’t involve just hurts and sorrow.  Old habits are pushing us, I am pushing back.  He has waited a long time for my time and attention, can no longer see that he has it.  He thinks he still needs to fight for it, can’t figure out who to fight. I am here, waiting for him now.

Almost 16 years ago, I married this man.  I came into it poor with two children.  I still am poor, I have a grandson now.  The vows I took on that day have not been broken, for better or for worse, I am here.  Waiting for him to meet me in the better.

Perspective from Aug 2013, Still True

On By LisaIn Arrow, FaithLeave a comment

Written Aug 2013

I hate going to church.  The people there are too real, too ready to go just a bit deeper, if you say, “ no, really, how are you?”  and they expect real answers as well.  And the music, always that damn music.  It may not be studio perfect but the pureness of the praise, the surety of the seeking, the clear crying out to the Lord to just hear us. It breaks through every defense I erect.  I may as well be laid bare each week as I sit in that place and list my joys and my concerns and wipe my eyes and feel the pats on my shoulder.  Yet I find that others are in various states of undress as well.  Some are buttoned up tight, never baring their soul to those of us in the chairs each week.  But many others are coming undone too, as the Holy Spirit ministers to us in our chaos and our pain.  All this is to say, yesterday at church broke my heart.  I couldn’t stop looking for my grandson, who just wasn’t there.  He didn’t come running in for the music, he didn’t dance in front of the praise band.  I knew he wasn’t going to be there, but for some reason, I could not stop turning and looking for him.  I just couldn’t stop.  So the disappointment grew greater and greater as the music played on and I tried ever harder to focus, just focus damnit.   My head would turn until the ache became so overpowering that the tears I had been holding back for a month gushed forth and I had to leave the sanctuary, to find it in an empty classroom close by.  I sobbed with no control as the music played on.  Catharsis.  Empty finally, as the children were leaving the service to go to their own, I returned to my seat.  Better, freer, lighter.

After the service I stopped a friend to really ask how she was, how the little community was doing after the recent loss of two young men in a car accident.  She shared the following story: one of the young men had gotten a big tattoo across his chest earlier in the summer with his name and the words “est 1993” which resulted in a big mom and son fight.  Mom is now getting the same tattoo on her foot to honor her lost son.       Perspective.  It reminded me of  a huge fight that Arrow and I got into when he had been sober for 90 days and then got a tattoo on his wrist.  “He had no money to pay for it, it was going to keep him from ever getting a job, he was hanging around the wrong people.”    He left the house and stayed with friends and his sobriety was over.  Not because of the fight but it is a symbol we both point to, a turning point.  When he called yesterday, from prison, I shared the story of the mom and her tattoo.  Arrow said, “I bet his mom wishes her son was calling from prison.”    Perspective.

We talked about another mom I know who has a tattoo on her arm, commemorating her lost son, a young man gone too son from a life mixed up in drugs.  We made it a goal for me to never get one of those tattoos.

I think the Holy Spirit kept turning my head to see there is much suffering and much joy outside of mine.  I have to let mine out sometimes to make room to see and feel that of others.  Today I am deeply in prayer for the moms who will never see a grandson, never see their sons again.  We still have chances.  My heart was broken wide open for them yesterday.  Church really does hurt, when done right.

Turning off Nurse Jackie

On By LisaIn Arrow, The ChefLeave a comment

Many years ago, Chef and I watched the A&E program “Intervention” religiously, even contacted them about taking on our son.  (They were in until he caught on and denied any use.) The hope at the end of each episode as the addict is shown after 90 days of rehab kept us going.  Netflix has been suggesting I watch Nurse Jackie for almost a year.  I resisted until a month ago.  Having spent 90% of my life living among addicts, I couldn’t find the entertainment value. I can’t speak for the veracity of a nurse who uses drugs but the series has now captivated me.  I initially was captured by Jackie’s charisma, her deep compassion for patients and her incredible wealth of knowledge.  The fact that her personal life was a train wreck was secondary.  She was still likable.  I didn’t understand her use or why she was compromising her marriage or job but it seemed to be working for her.  Until it wasn’t.

Watching her life unravel, watching those around her fight for her, harder than she was fighting, brought things too close to home and I took a break from my binge watching.  Imagining successful rehab for her, I picked the remote back up only to be so disappointed, so angry.  I get that it is tv but it is also real life for me.  The lies, the constant lies.  The manipulation of those closest to her, so ugly.  She was no longer likable.  The educated people in her life who gave her chances and opportunities that she discarded like the gloves after each patient reminded me of all that we have done for Arrow.  The courage of some to draw strict  boundaries, firing her, divorcing her.  People who had loved her and were just used up by the continued choice of drugs over everything else.  I was watching our life. When she began to hurt patients, to risk even that part of her life that she had cherished, her identity, I saw a true addict, because she didn’t stop.  I hated her.

I understand that great tv needs conflict so there is little chance she will get clean, put her children first, regain her life.  I pray our real life doesn’t need so many episodes to find resolution.  I would be okay with our show being canceled.  I don’t currently like our addict.  I understand the disease but hate it and the behavior that comes with it.  I hate the strict boundaries when I only want to draw him closer.  Parenting an addict is contrary to everything a heart desires.

I think it is time for a new Netflix suggestion.  This one is not entertaining.