Category: Arrow

stories of addiction, relapse, recovery

Footprints, Forgiveness, Forever a mom

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

I survived the day, one set aside to honor mothers.  Mine is gone and my children are both choosing to pretend I don’t exist.  I survived the day.  A motherless child, a childless mother.  Unable to spread my pain out with friends who would surely help carry the burden as each are thriving in their motherhood.  Each would be getting cards, hugs, flowers, lunch.  I couldn’t share my agony with my husband who was running a restaurant, sure to work 14 hour days, exhausted and excited with the rush at the same time.  A successful weekend.

I am a failed mother, one who no longer gets to know her children.  My daughter has chosen to cut off contact, believing her truth and ignoring the reality of more truths.  Every attempt to seek forgiveness for her perceived wrongs, accepting all responsibility, becoming so deeply honest, have been judged not enough.  My mailbox is empty, no phone calls, no texts.  On good days I remember that God is handling this.  There are few good days.

My son has battled addiction since he was 15.  After almost 4 years in prison, he just came home to us in September.  We bought new clothes, new bedding, new coats, a new phone and even a car for him to use after we took him to get his license. We stocked the house with food he might like, he wasn’t sure anymore.  Four years of taking his calls which we had to pay for, sending money we didn’t have, pictures of his son to always keep him included, visits which meant time off of work and more money for vending machines and gas and lunch as we traveled.  He turned 21 while inside and thought that even though he is a drug addict he could still drink.  He chose to drive while under the influence.  He chose to hide alcohol in our home.   This young man chose to listen to those who tell him lies instead of his mother who tells him the hard truth.  I had to tell him no.

I was a wonderful mother who sang songs every night after bath and books.  I made real dinners from family recipes.  I took my kids to the park and played with them there, no cell phones to distract.  I made crafts pre-pinterest.  We planted things, dabbled in science.  I taught them that they owned their bodies, they never had to hug or kiss anyone if they didn’t want to.  I needed my babies to be safe from the horrors I knew when I was a child.  I wanted little more than to be a mother to my children.

I was a wonderful mother who made terrible mistakes.  I reverted to childhood coping and didn’t seek the help I needed when confronted with sexual overtones from someone who scared me.  I  allowed the little girl in me to take over instead of the adult with choices.  I was raped.  By a 15 year old emotionally unstable adolescent who was in the group home where I worked.  He had been removed from every school and was deemed too aggressive for other settings.  He was.  But because I didn’t report and tried to manage it on my own, after telling my husband at the time, I eventually was charged with the crime.  He was sent away to a boot camp for boys with criminal tendencies.  I was sent to prison.

I was away from my children for 2 1/2 years, the worst time of my life.  I begged God to let me die in those early days of jail when I couldn’t even have visits.  I sat on the steps one day and just pleaded with Him to let me out of this pain.  My mind was flooded with the story of the Footprints.  I tried to push it away, I got images of the beach and the one set of prints in the sand.  I knew I had my answer.  Whatever happened, I wasn’t alone.

I survived.  I used the time to become the woman I wanted to be, not one defined by childhood abuse. I continued counseling, sought truth, accepted my role in becoming a victim when I had resources.  I also forgave myself.  I allowed for the whole picture: a flawed professional in a broken system, red flags ignored, cries unanswered.  I learned to say no.  Loudly.  Fiercely.  To keep saying no until someone listens.  Or to walk, run, away until I find safety.  Sometimes it is an emotional exercise, other times I have to remember the steps and follow through with a safety plan.  Women who have been sexually abused as children are more likely to be raped as adults, women who have been raped are more likely to be so again.  We just don’t know how to protect ourselves.  We communicate victim to a predator.  I work hard to change that message, some days more successful than others.

I accept that I was a wonderful mother while trying to keep the parts of my life separate, keeping my children safe from a young man who tried to steal them from daycare, threatened my husband.  I did the best that I could.  My children were safe.  I was not.

When I returned home, after years away filled with weekly visits, nightly phone calls, daily letters and handmade gifts, I found my children still wanted their mother.  I had realized while away that I could never love a man who didn’t protect me when I came to him with this trauma, thus the marriage was over.  I was without a home but I had my family.  We started over and we laughed, read books, made food, planted things.

I can see the patterns, I know the genetics of addictions passed through our lineage.  I tried desperately to protect my son from this, I failed.  He chose.  I knew one day my children would be ready for adult talks about our past, one I freely discussed with them at each developmental phase.  I didn’t anticipate not getting to talk, not being able to listen.  I learned to say no to my son, I know how to listen to my daughter, she just won’t talk.  I taught them both the value of forgiveness and grace, they saw the destruction of shame in my life.  They know the hurt of grudges yet both are on their own path. They have to walk through anger, hurt, accountability, acceptance, forgiveness.  Until this happens, my mailbox is empty, my phone stays silent.

I am a wonderful mother.  I pray for my children with most breaths I take, my love is unceasing.  I bake cookies and always have fruit for my grandson.  I say no to him and teach him to own his body.  I make mistakes, I try again.  I have survived this weekend and the intrusive thoughts of driving the car into a pole, drinking myself into oblivion, walking until I just couldn’t.  I survived by   remembering that I am still a mom.  I will always be a mom.  I am a wonderful flawed mom who loves her children and knows that their hearts still include love for me.  One day God will show them how to tell me.  Until then, I have to trust those footprints on the beach.

Olive Branches

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, StellaLeave a comment

I seem to be having the same conversation with different people.  They may come at it from a different world view but we end up at the same place.  We talk about being lured into getting a new phone every two years even if ours is just fine.  We bemoan the work ethic of the 20 somethings, who feel they need to be told daily how great they are doing yet they still leave with no notice.  The ability to say and do things anonymously on the internet brings out the worst in humanity.  Without longterm relationships, without accountability to others, we are losing the ability to manage conflict.  This disturbing trend of disposability has led to fractured relationships.  My newsfeed on Facebook reminds me often that it is my right to remove toxic people from my life.  It is my duty to stand up for me, to live my life free from those who hurt me.   I do agree that abusive relationships are ones that need to be broken, left, fractured.  But what constitutes abuse?

As we have come out of the shadows regarding the estrangement with our daughter, sharing our pain, our heartache and also our utter disbelief, we have found many others who are in the same place.  Too many.  Stories of parents who dared tell the truth to their children, parents who made mistakes, parents who are human.  All share the same result of being cast out of their children’s lives, grandchildren never seen.  Most have tried all forms of communication: mail, email, texts, phone calls.  Apologies, pleas fall on deaf ears.  The children seem to stand on their right to cast us off and select shiny new people who bring bling and no history.  They don’t have to worry about accountability for their role, these new people will only know their side and support how wonderful they are. “ Of course you were right to leave, how could you not with such a horrible mother?”  Until that new friend no longer holds value.  No worries, a new one will be there, packaged enticingly, a fresh start.

What is missing is conflict resolution, the ability to work through the hard stuff to maintain relationships with those who know us deeply.  Valuing our shared histories, getting more than the medal for participating but the pin for years served, means we stick it out when life gets tough.  The rewards are greater but this generation doesn’t know that.  They have cut them selves off before actually achieving anything of worth.  Taking a fierce moral inventory of myself, I can see, though it isn’t just this millennial generation.  I am guilty as well.  I have bought into the idea of removing toxicity without considering what truly is poison and what is just a bad day.

I can’t fix them all but I can start with me.  I am creating a list of those who I need to forgive, those who I have disagreed with and just stopped talking to.  I am called to forgive, I am called to restore.  I accept that I have a right not to be hurt yet I also have a responsibility to practice conflict resolution that doesn’t look like conflict avoidance.  I am reevaluating whether the hurt was great enough to sever the relationship or just take a break.  Then I am going to practice the grace that I have received.  I am extending some olive branches.  I want our shared histories back.  I don’t know if those on the other side do as well, but if I sit in silence I will never know.

Included in our Church

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

I knew the topic of the sermon before I entered church, “Finding Hope in Addiction”, yet I wasn’t prepared to be preached with.  I have listened to sermons for too many years about how to bring up children in the faith, how we need to set the right example, make them come to church even when they don’t want to.  Sermons that led me to ask the pastor afterward, but what about us?  With gentle eyes and a quiet recognition, we would hear that yes, we have done all we could.  Still, we sat in the chairs and listened and felt judged as the message out loud was that we must have done something wrong.  Our son’s struggles with addiction, our frequent trips to rehab and ultimately his arrest and incarceration meant we were different.  We continued to share during prayers and concerns and many members prayed faithfully for years alongside us.  They celebrated our joys in his recovery.  They ask about him. They care genuinely.  Then yesterday happened.

By focusing solely on addiction and our roles as believers, Pastor Chris blazed new territory in our congregation.  He spoke so directly to my heart, I couldn’t stop the tears.  As my little Plum lay between us, hubby and I clasped hands, soaking up his words.  As he challenged the congregation to see the addicted differently, to no longer judge the families, I looked down at this sweet child between us.  This child born to two using parents, who has been through more trauma and turmoil than most of the congregation put together, this sweet child who loves and laughs and brings such joy.  This child who spends most of his time with his grandparents and always has, to escape the challenges of young parents trying to grow up and establish their lives.  I looked at my husband, exhausted after only 2 days back at work, the rest from a vacation erased by the late-in-life parenting that we are doing and the worry we carry at all times about our son.  Pastor Chris talked about the brain chemistry, about the hostage -taking, the thought process of the addicted.  He discussed the pain and isolation of the families of addicted.  Then he went further to share what we as the body of Christ can do.   It was beauty.  It was soul-embracing.  It was real understanding of us.  Our life, our struggles.

Maybe this week , many people couldn’t relate so well to the sermon but all were included.  All were reminded that as believers, they can pray into our chaos with earnest.   They can stay alongside us in this long journey.  And they can leave the judgement behind.

Mom still

On By LisaIn Arrow, Mom, StellaLeave a comment

 

We watched her take her last breath, held her hand and played music as she crossed over, 4 years ago today.  Still so fresh in my memory, a memory that seems to be failing more and more.  The constant in my life was gone.  Such a complicated relationship, she was a complicated woman.  Her life was never easy, time has given me the chance to forgive and the distance to see her with more forgiveness and grace.

I think of all that she has missed and would delight in.   She would love my grandson, her great granddaughters.  She would see the similarities in us, would tell stories that I have forgotten.  She would be so proud of my brother in all that he has accomplished, would grow ever closer to my sister-in-law, whom she adored.  My husband, whom she loved to tease, had an easier rapport with her, something I was slightly jealous of sometimes.  She took comfort in our love for each other.  She would have loved to hear about our trips and our dogs would bring her immense pleasure.  To hear that her granddaughter is living on her own in Indianapolis, working, rescuing dogs, Mom would have been secretly envious and oh so proud.  The trip my sister-in-law just took would have reminded her of times the 3 of us went, the laughs we had.  She would love the closeness we still share.

But she has also been spared much pain.  I can’t imagine telling her about Stella, I just can’t.  It would break her heart.  And if Stella cut her off too, which I imagine would have inevitably happened, the pain would have been even greater for me.  Arrow’s relapse would have hurt her deeply, reminding her of her own son that just was too far out of reach.  Another grandson on the fringe would have caused great worry.

I understand that it was her time.  I still just want to show her pictures and tell her what I ate and tell her what my dogs did today.  I want to tell her that I love her and that I am glad she is spared the pain of this world but I sure wish she could share in our joy. I want her to see the videos my niece makes and watch my grandson build legos.  I want to talk recipes again.  After all this time, I still miss my mom.

Crayons and The Cross

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, StellaLeave a comment

About 17 years ago I quit smoking.  I was a bad smoker, starting as an adult who knew better but caving to the culture surrounding me as my attempts to cope with a horrific situation failed.  So I smoked for about 4 years, maybe less.  My children hated it, put Mr. Yuck stickers on my cigarette packs and knocked on the windows from inside whenever I stole away to just have that moment.  I didn’t smoke around them, not in the car, not with them but they knew it was happening and I knew it was wrong.  My son was caught in a school function wearing a “no smoking” sandwich board that was published in the local paper, further breaking my heart.  I summoned my willpower and I quit.  Not that easily but it happened.

And then 14 months ago my daughter stopped talking to me.  I lasted until her wedding 5 months later and then a little nudge on a drunken spree from someone who can have the occasional cigarette and I was hooked again.  Coupled with crippling depression and isolation, the added flare up of an old eating disorder, I found the perfect milieu for an old addiction to take hold.

This time I was hiding it from my grandson which I did pretty well for several months.  The first time he saw me smoke, he cried and I am ashamed to say that wasn’t enough to make me stop.  I wanted to but I thought I could just not do it around him and all would be well.  My husband hated it, told me I smelled, avoided kissing me or even hugging me.  My feelings were hurt and so were his.  How could I put this habit above all of them?  My son, now grown, hated it, even as he fought his own battles with addictions.  Still not enough.

And then comes Lent, wondering what will I give up this year?  The obvious choice was smoking but I just didn’t know if I was strong enough.  Pastor Chris gave a sermon which brought me to tears.  He suggested that we consider saying to Jesus, “i love you more than….” whatever it is that is getting in the way of our relationship with Him.  And lay that down.  I cried and knew.  But still i worried that what had become my method of coping with the greatest heartache I have ever known would be gone like my grandson’s blankie.  Without that security, what is left?

I still wasn’t all in.

I sat on the porch, huddled under layers in the cold, puffing away while he was supposed to be watching a video, when I heard a rap on the window.  Damnit.  Busted again.  When I came in he said, “nan, I saw you.”  Ouch.  Then he handed me two crayons, both blue, my favorite color.  He had them crossing each other in an x and asked me if I could make them stay that way.  Relieved that we had moved on so quickly, I assured him I could and found some rubber bands.  When I joined them together and handed them back to him, he said, “no, you keep that.  It means no smoking.  Put it in your pocket to remind you.”  That X turn sideways was also a cross.

I shared the story with my son who set me up with a vape to ease the withdrawal.  It worked.  I’m done.  Who can argue with a 5 year old who seems to be working for Jesus?

Broken and Free

On By LisaIn ArrowLeave a comment

Something broke in me that night.  A full day of listening to my son spew the conflicts that have separated us from our daughter, watching in horror as it all began again.  As I measured every word, tried desperately to explain, sought peace, I came to realize this is an evil I cannot defeat.

I rose the next morning, a sleepless night allowing thoughts to settle and shift, pieces to fit, I discovered I was done.  I was broken.  My desire to save my relationships with my children had cost me twenty years of hard time, paying repeatedly a debt that new collectors came for.  With the brokenness came the realization that I can never satisfy the ones who have to have more of me, never give them the answer they want.  They insist I agree that I am a monster, I must accept and proclaim their truth.

I broke that night and what left was hope.  While it should have left me more depressed, the weight of it had held me down for a year.  My sanity, health and relationship with my husband all threatened, hopelessness ruled for a year.  Every conversation started with pain and plans to fix the estrangement.  Lost in thoughts and memories, I missed the moments in front of me.  Without hope, I found I was not hopeless.  I was free.

The demons exorcised, I began in earnest.  I drove out of town, I stopped giving extra to my son, I looked around my home and saw the neglect.  Closets emptied, bathrooms cleaned, sheets changed.  Totes full of my daughter’s memories moved recklessly into trash bags and sent to her father’s home.  Pictures taken down from the walls, the demons not just leaving me but my home.

It has been almost a week, each day I wake and wonder if the energy that spurred this activity was a manic rush that has worn itself out, only to find I am truly revived.  Until that day and long evening, I would have welcomed her back with arms full of grace, not expecting an apology, ready to begin again.  With hope went all that grace, replaced by accountability to those who seek it from me for wrongs that have nothing to do with them, wrongs I have paid in measures they will never accept or understand with hard hearts.  Now should she ever return, she will need to build her section of the bridge as well.  Mine burnt in the exorcism. And it feels freeing.

Coats

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

The catalogs come, the flyers in the paper, the ads with great bargains and ideas for holiday shopping.  My list this year is filled with legos and flannel shirts and men’s socks. Arrow’s needs are so great it is too easy to find things for him.  Plum still wants every toy in the ads but no dolls, nothing pink or frilly.  Chef is always the hardest, most particular.  Same things every year, few surprises.  For the first time in 27 years, I won’t be buying anything for my daughter, the girl who has now decided she doesn’t want her mother.  I won’t be sending packages to her daughter either, not knowing if she gets them or they are discarded.  Money is too precious.  Last year I sent the special nail polish for babies that Stella wanted, put that in the stockings we sent.  I never saw little toes with pink or purple nails.  I didn’t even get the stockings back, which match our collection.  I persevered for a while, sending books and toys for my granddaughter but finally gave in to Stella’s desire to be left alone.

The ads with little girls in warm winter coats call to me, beg me to carry on the tradition begun with my grandmother.  She always purchased our winter coats, knowing what a help this would be to my parents as they struggled financially.  My mother continued on when my kids were little, the help coming at just the right time.  She was able to buy the heavier, warmer coats that were out of our budget, not caring that the kids would grow out of them each season.  I bought warm clothes for my granddaughter for her first two seasons, to carry her through, but it is time again for a coat.   Too many times I have selected the coat, carried it throughout the store, made it all the way to the checkout, only to stop.  Defeated, I put it aside and rush from the store, into my car with the tears threatening to alarm holiday shoppers.

I found several adorable outfits in one store that I couldn’t resist.  I took my time putting together leggings with tops and little poncho covers, found ways to mix and match to help a mama get the most out of the outfits.  Satisfied, I purchased the lot, not making eye contact or responding to the clerk’s attempts at small talk.  When the charge came across Chef’s alert, he called and I had to confess that I just wanted so desperately to pretend that I have a granddaughter, that I get to shop for her as well.  Back to the store I went, no eye contact, more tears.

I haven’t bought any Tom’s for Stella, none of the sweaters she would love, no boots, no socks, no chocolate covered cherries or make up for her stocking.  I haven’t stashed away the special avon dew kiss lip gloss she likes for the winter.  The boxes of beignet mix stay on the shelves.  Bath and Body works will get none of my money, there will be no cherry blossom lotion sent this year.

Skype tells me I last used it Dec 25, 2014 at 12:37 am.  An application I once praised as straight from God, one that kept me connected to my sweet girl so far away, now is taking up memory on my mac. If only I had recorded those sessions, to visit with her again and again.  If shopping and visiting on line are indications of relationship health, we are dead.  Can anything resurrect us?  I have lived in this town for 20 years, avoiding roads and areas that hold horror.  Now I find myself averting my eyes when toddling chubby cheeked girls with fuzzy brown hair are giggling with their mamas, the desire to rush in overwhelming.  I avoid foods that remind me of Stella, no longer able to find an appetite at all.  I search out willowy blonds on campus and then hate that I am still seeking where I know nothing will be found.  More and more to avoid, until it is easier to stay in bed.

The story of the prodigal son happened, right?  Our son came back and we have celebrated him, fatted calf and all.  But the obedient child chose to leave, not sticking around to finish out the parable.  Maybe she was the prodigal all along.  Clearly I missed something.  I am sure of one thing, I would welcome her back with open arms and Tom’s and dew kiss and sweaters and boots.  And me.

Choosing Hope

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith5 Comments

The second reading from the group was about a little girl anticipating her daddy’s return. Not having a great childhood, I didn’t plug into this reading the way I should have. I listened but was still feeling my awakening from the previous verses. It caught my ear when they asked about having a childlike hope. I felt like things were so hopeless but that was an idea only in my head by then, I knew in my heart that hope was returning. I let the soothing talk surround me. After we prayed and I walked out, searching for Chef, I found him in a quiet corner, playing on his phone. He told me someone had just contacted him on Facebook and I would never in a million years guess who it was. I wasn’t feeling like talking about Facebook or his phone, having just had a pretty awesome experience that I was trying to process but I guessed anyway. Dumb guesses like Michael Jordan and the president of Texas Roadhouse. He could see I was frustrated and just as we left the doors of the church he told me. This guy who sent him a message on Facebook was one of the heaviest drinkers I have ever met. Chef tried several times to help him, got him jobs, he used to come to the house, he appeared in and out of our lives but has been gone for a few now. it was heartbreaking for Chef at the time to let go, it just was clear this guy who had been thru every program and jail multiple times, just wanted to die from drinking. so my first thought was how could he get on Facebook… I imagined him on skid row….

As we got into the car in front of the church, chef said, he is a rehab counselor in Arizona. My instant reaction was THERE’S HOPE THERE’S HOPE THERE’S HOPE THERE’S HOPE. I lost all control and sobbed on my husband’s shoulder, with the chant in my head that could only have come from God… THERE IS HOPE.

I didn’t have an amazing childhood but I can still be that girl who waits on her Daddy, because He has been so gentle and loving with me.  When I was so desperate for hope, He sent me a message even I couldn’t miss. Today I am choosing hope.