The poisons are part of the solution as well as the problem. As you emerge from the fog of your haze (alcohol, benzos, pot, Adderall) the real world comes up at you pretty quickly. Things like jobs, car payments, health insurance, even rent, all tend to make their importance known when things aren’t going well.
That doesn’t mean that going back to the poisons is going to help. That’s actually part of the bigger problem. Getting off the stuff is hard. Staying off the stuff is infinitely harder. We associate the “high” with fun. And without the high, well, life just sort of plods on. Yes, you’ve got to find other reasons. You need new friends. New activities to take up the time you used to spend looking for, using, or recovering from your poison of choice.
Sometimes, people like me, are called dry drunks. In some ways, I exhibit the same traits as an alcoholic even if I’ve never been one. I abstain more than not. I restrict indulgences. I work on my side of the fence and leave the other person unmolested. But, underneath, I am still harboring my rage at the users, at my father, even at my son, for his weakness, his inability to control his urges, and his choices toward the poison. They drink the poison. They wish for everyone else in their story to vanish, die, or at least get out of their way.
If not for me… My son would be happy? Hmm. I don’t think that’s it. Dead? Maybe. High? Probably. And what can be the harm in using the drugs you are prescribed? Right? I mean, how can it be a problem if a doctor wrote you a script for a highly addictive anxiety med? Doing a bit more than prescribed? So. That can’t be the problem right?
It’s never the drugs. The damage is more nuanced, internal, hidden. And if you don’t go looking for it, if you run, if you suppress with drugs and alcohol, perhaps you can put down the fire in the belly. In my son’s case, as written by a doctor, “He’s using 90% of his resources suppressing his shame and anger. He’s unable to end the cycle because he can’t get out of it. His greatest fear is to crack and let the sadness overwhelm him.”
I’d say this is probably my ex-wife’s current issue as well. Plus, you ad her culpability for my son’s speed connection. She’s atoning for a lot. Maybe too much. Her suppressive fire is threatened by the phrase “family systems” therapy. See, in *recovery* when one person enters treatment, the entire family enters treatment.
Yeah.
That’s not how it’s going to go. No wonder my ex-wife is terrified of 12-step recovery programs. Not only will the origin stories be told, the family of origin will also need to own up to their addictions and personal accountability. She and her husband are not going to participate in the 12-step recovery process. Not a chance. Today, it comes out as skepticism about the 12-step process. And her support of my son’s aversion to sitting in a circle with a bunch of broken-down white dudes talking about trying not to drink.
See, the problem is…
The story is less important than the person, the struggle, the community of like-minded people. It does not matter if your poison is alcohol or opioids. It is the same struggle. Impulse control. Cravings. Enticements. Old friends. Old parties. Ongoing struggles with the realities of adult life.
It’s time for my son to grow up. He’s going to have to start paying for things. He’s going to have to get a job. And stick to the job, or not have things. He’s holding his breath to see if he can make it through his college degree without ever having a “day job.” Well, now, with a denial by the university to give him an accommodation, he’s got 4 months to recover, reset, and reapproach The University of Texas at Dallas.
The hill is steeper than it might appear. His mom is an enabler and emotional zero. His 12-step coach has coaxed him into the breach again. Try rehab again. For real this time. You don’t have any more chances.
And the dear husband, “And rehab isn’t the end of it. He’s going to have medical expenses and mental health needs for a long time.”
Right you are. Thus, dear co-parents, the 12 steps offers a lifetime of connection and community. It’s the only proven method for staying sober. It’s not just the drugs. It’s the habits, the friends and parties you used to go to, the fantasies about fun requiring alcohol or drugs. It’s all of it. And then, you’re out, you’re on your own again, and some tough shit happens, that’s the moment you’re supported by your recovery family, your care team.
It’s got to be more than mom and dad. We can’t do it. We don’t have the resources or the bandwidth to handle your day-to-day requirements. This is where you grow up and get off.
My poison is sugar. Ice cream is one of my favorite delivery systems. I always want ice cream. For the most part, I don’t buy ice cream, so it’s never in my reach on a lonely Sunday night. My son also likes ice cream. The pint of Mint Chocolate Chip stares at me from the freezer as I’m getting ice for my bubbly water.
I can buy him another pint tomorrow. Poof. It’s gone.
Today, I recover fairly easily. I go back to not buying ice cream, as a rule. I replace his Mint Chocolate Chip pint with two. Then I eat both of them. He’s too slow. He probably never noticed. His suppressive fire is dialed up to the max. He never takes his AirPods out. Eats on the screen porch while smoking. Floats from there back to his bedroom and closes the door.
I cannot rescue my son. I understand. I am in the process of rescuing myself. Each day, I am taking steps toward my goal. It wasn’t too long ago I had no idea what my goal might be. What my “purpose” was. I know now.
It was not to rescue my dad. That didn’t work out. It is also not to rescue my kid. Certainly, I can’t save my ex-wife from her avoidance first approach to life. I can help my kid see a supportive father. I am not making demands. I am replacing the ice cream when I eat it. I’m letting you buy junk food from the convenience store down the street. I just don’t buy that shit.
I am turning a new page, beginning a new book, looking to deep space for signs of god. My god is here with me. I am here to sing. I am singing at the top of my voice. This is it. The melodies and counterpoints have been building all along. The rock opera of my life. One letter, one book, one song at a time.
Welcome to my wonderlust. Wanderlust? Wonderland?
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