My daughter is an addict too.
A year ago, loose ends that had never been tidied up unraveled and wove themselves into a perfect noose that threatened to choke the life out of Banana. It had been a difficult few months. There had been issues with kids at the high school, I had actually withdrawn her for a couple of months and homeschooled her. She did great work for me. She completed college level work at home regularly and accurately. I think she needed a couple of months away from there to recoup and get her head on straight. The kids that had spent years sleeping on my couches and eating dinner with our family were no longer fixtures at my house. The new kids didn't have that familiar feel to them. They didn't go out of their way to be friendly to my younger children or ever want to stay for dinner. Nobody slept over anymore. When Banana returned to school in the spring, her grades didn't reflect how smart she is. She started ditching occasionally. Her demeanor by and large wasn't hugely different, at first the changes were subtle. She didn't go out of her way to share with me what was going on with her life but I chalked that up to the fact that most 15-year-old girls pull away from their moms. God knows I would have rather gnawed off my own arm than to confide anything in my own mom at that age. Our family was simply experiencing the normal growing pains of any house with teenage girls in it. I got used to missing her, even if she was in the same room as me. It was difficult, but it was normal. Right?
I got my answer the day my quiet street was lined with squad cars, a fire truck and an ambulance and my home was full of officers and paramedics. Instead of the usual sounds of my dishwasher, laughing elementary school children and cartoons in the background, radios beeped and muffled voices from dispatch filled the air under the yelling of a hysterical and intoxicated teenage girl. The officers responded to her volume in kind and my dog would yelp and whine from outside because we wouldn't let him in to protect us against these people who obviously didn't belong in our home. The only time I would hear my gradeschoolers weeping was when I would check on them in my bedroom upstairs where we sequestered them to keep them as safe as we could in what I can only describe as utter chaos. As I looked into the bedroom that Bean and Banana shared across the hall from mine, it looked like it had been ransacked by burglars. The screen was off the window, her furniture had been destroyed, I'm quite sure everything she owned had been dumped onto the floor. It looked like a bomb went off in there. Shit was nuclear downstairs, I shouldn't have been surprised.
The emergency room had found a pediatric inpatient bed for her that night at a psychiatric hospital about 40 miles from our house. It would serve as a holding cell of sorts until we could find her a bed at a pediatric substance abuse facility, which through what Banana had told us in her drunken anger was something that would not be an option. What she had been doing went well beyond sharing a bottle or two of Boone's farm and passing a couple of joints around a bonfire. She was in way over her head. As I followed the ambulance with my daughter in the back to the psychiatric hospital, my mind raced. I could hear her slurring to me that I was a fucking idiot for missing this. She was right. The weight of what was happening was finally settling onto me. I remember when Red and Banana were small and we were shopping for clothes and they thought it would be funny to hide in a rack. Those few seconds until I heard them giggling paralyzed me with panic and terror. It was like my world had closed in completely and I was claustrophobic, crushed and suffocating. This feeling only lasted a few seconds then. I couldn't prepare myself for it but the feeling would last several weeks now. I'd lost my child to something far scarier than a rack of clothes this time. How the fuck could I have let this happen?
She spent a week at that shithole psychiatric hospital. It was filthy and a lot of the other kids in there had been transferred in from juvenile detention centers for various reasons. Some of these kids were huge, many of them violent. It was the last place I wanted to leave her, but it was a locked facility and she certainly couldn't come home. When my husband and I made our way down the hall to the community room for our first Sunday visitation, she stood 5 feet in front of us. Her dad had his neck stretched trying to catch a glimpse of her because she was unrecognizable in her blue scrubs, wearing her dirty hair in a messy ponytail and not a bit of makeup. She was distant and angry with me for keeping her there. That was fine with me. As angry as she was with me, my helplessness was now mixed with a silent rage. I was as furious with me as she was. The day she was discharged from there she thought she was coming home. I engaged the child locks on my van and didn't bring her shoes in case she tried to make a break for it on her way to rehab 30 miles away in the suburbs. The only time she would look at me was to shoot daggers and the only words she spoke to me during the car ride were to tell me I was wasting my time. She had no intention of getting clean.
We wouldn't be allowed to see her for 3 days after she was admitted to rehab. It was to give her time to acclimate to the program. After I checked her in, the staff asked her if she wanted to say goodbye to me because it would be 3 days. I wanted to throw my arms around her and bury my face in her hair and breathe her in like I did when she was a baby. I wanted to hold her face in my hands and trace her features with my fingers. I desperately wanted something tangible that would connect me to the child I carried in my body for 9 months because even though she looked like my girl, there was no trace of her. She very flatly told them that no, she didn't want to say goodbye. She wanted to be taken to her room, and with that, she left.
The next several weeks were consumed with her treatment. We went to family group meetings, where the kids and their families would publicly hash out issues. It was difficult to hear and be heard. While the drugs of choice varied, a lot of the behaviors were the same. I felt guilty taking comfort in knowing that we weren't the only family going through this horrific shit. In my mind it teetered on schadenfreude. I was very honest about my own history of substance abuse. Some of the parents expressions let me know that they believed it was no wonder my daughter had a problem because I had one too. What I was less honest about was that I was struggling very hard with my own sobriety at this point. My life was in complete shambles, my children were all suffering and my husband's heart was a disaster. It didn't matter to me that Banana went out of her way to hide all of this from us, and was very good at doing it. She was every bit as good at it as I was when I was using. I still should have seen it, and hindsight comes with the gift and curse of clarity. It took me a long time to forgive myself for putting my parents, family and friends through what I did all those years ago. I never really understood how deeply my addiction punished those who loved me and suffered helplessly through it all but I did now. My guilt consumed me, and the sickest part of it all is how desperately I was fighting against throwing away the last almost 8 years just to drown it all out.
Out of everything we were taught at rehab, it all boiled down to the one truth I already knew. An addict will never be cured, and their recovery is completely contingent upon themselves. That's a hard pill to swallow. I only got better after I was utterly broken by the contant bullshit my life had become and I no longer used whatever straw man argument I had at my disposal to rationalize why I was justified in continuing to use. I know I will never win the lottery because I had already found my fortune years ago in the man that I would marry, who loved me at a point in my life that I had not a thing worth loving in me. Could I reasonably expect that a 15 year old child that was full of all the invincibility they're notorious for pull her head out of her ass and at least try getting her shit together? I'm too old to believe that wishes made on shooting stars and birthday candles have possibility, but I would have sold my soul to the devil himself (not that it was worth much at this point) had I thought it upped our chances of getting our lives back.
Shit happens, so do miracles.
The only thing I would let myself have any hope over was that she would have just one minute of clarity and at least open herself to the possibility of a sober life. All I needed was a split second of pure fucking luck. The painful and seemingly unconquerable work that comes after that decision would have to be her weight to bear. The arguing that went on over the details of the home contract that would be in place when she came home coupled with some intense family therapy sessions made that hope of the moment of clarity wane a little more each day that passed. She would call her dad after especially tense days, I think it part to punish me for my signature brand of brutal honesty, and she would tell me that I didn't understand. Problem was, I understood probably better than anyone. Then one day it clicked. I don't know if it was the supportive environment rehab provided, or fear of what would lie ahead for her if she didn't clean up. I don't know if she simply didn't want to end up back where she was if she relapsed like a few of the kids she was in treatment with. I don't know if it was a desire to come home and rebuild with our family what had been leveled to the ground. Maybe she missed us and her sisters. I think she realized she missed her old friends since they were the ones that wrote her letters offering their love and support, instead of the ones she fought with us in family meetings to be able to hang out with again when she got home. Maybe she realized the rest of her life was out there waiting for her to reclaim it. One evening after a family session, she handed me a letter and told me to read it when I got home. I cried as I read it, and when I folded it back up I knew she had hope. That was good enough for me. That note has remained in my wallet ever since, and has served as a talisman many times for me over the last year.
We brought her home on a Sunday afternoon, 6 weeks and 2 days after that chaotic Friday she had last been home. None of us were the same people as we were the day she left. We had all dealt with the full range of emotions from abject hopelessness to burning rage to crushing grief in our own ways, and I don't think there were two of us on the same page at the same time after the initial shock of it all those first few days. It was not a flawless transition home. Our goal was to mimic as much of the structure that was in place during inpatient and to create opportunity for her to earn some of our trust-and her life-back. We had a security system installed in the house and she had returned to a room where every inch had been carefully gone though by me to ensure she wasn't coming home to anything she had hidden away. I'm sure it seemed invasive, but I didn't care. Even though my mind knew that building up a perfect recovery would likely prove counterproductive, it had a hard time convincing my heart to not get it's hopes up. There were a couple of rough patches, and I am ashamed to admit there was one time in her first week home I lost my shit in a spectacular fashion, complete with dish slamming, screaming and a flood of angry tears. In retrospect, it was over the most inconsequential shit. I was supposed to be the adult, and the example. If I expected more from her, I needed to expect more from myself.
The first few weeks she was home were even busier than the weeks she was in inpatient. Her level of care had been stepped down to a partial hospitalization, which meant she went to treatment during the day and slept at home at night. We still had group on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturday conferences for several weeks. Since she wasn't allowed out, she opted to go to a lot of 12 Step meetings. While she was still in inpatient, she asked me to go to meetings with her. Most meetings are closed, which means only somebody seeking recovery can attend. Since I'm the addict parent, I was the only one that qualified to participate. She didn't have to ask me to go with her, I would have been happy to drop her off and wait in the parking lot but I took it as a sign she wanted me to participate in her recovery so I was happy to agree. When I got sober, I didn't have the advantage of any structured program. It was hard for me at first because all my years of Catholic upbringing left me with a serious distaste for organized religion in my mouth and I was worried that my point of view would poison the atmosphere for the people that clung to this program to keep them afloat in their own recovery. I rationalized this as that the program didn't push religion or prophecy per se, all I had to do was get my head around that there is a higher power. I didn't seek to define that power as many do. All I had to believe was that there is something out there somewhere greater than myself, and that isn't hard to do. I met some resistance from some people in regards to whether or not 12 Step was the best choice for her. What they didn't understand is that I would have drunk the purple Kool-Aid from Jim Jones himself had I thought it would have helped her continue to choose sobriety. One of their sayings is "Take what you need and leave the rest." I took a lot, but I left a lot too. So did Banana, and that's ok.
As summer progressed, she bit by bit earned back some trust and privileges. Letting her out of the house unattended the first time was harder than letting my babies drive off in a car that anyone other than myself was driving. I've always been a control freak. As hard as it was, I knew I was going to have to let her make her way back into the world. I couldn't very well chain her up, that's a felony. She didn't like the abbreviated curfew but she stuck to it. She continued to submit and pass all breathalyzer and drug tests, which I administered as often as every two days. Sometimes I would wait for her to walk in the door so I could breathalyze her. I became that helicopter parent I usually mock. She backed off on the meetings. That panicked me at first but I reminded myself that I didn't use them at all when I got sober. Everyone is different, and there is no magic solution. She had a good sober network, and if that worked for her, I should let it. I admit I'm guilty of projecting and comparing my own experiences and thoughts on things, and this was no different. When I got clean, there was a substantial gap between between when I got off the drugs and when I quit drinking. I think if I had done anything but a graduated process, I would have likely failed. She did it all at once. Quite frankly, she did a better job than I did.
She went back to school and got on with her life. She played volleyball for the school and then tried out for and made club volleyball after that. She has even gotten her license. She starts her new job today. If you didn't know her, you'd never suspect her past. That's how it should be, she doesn't let it define her.
So here we are a year later. Has it been perfect? No. Nothing ever is. But it's good. If you would have told me a year ago that I would have picked her up after prom and she would be stone cold sober, I probably wouldn't have believed you, but that's exactly what happened this weekend. Hallelujah.
This is why it's important to celebrate sober anniversaries and embrace the irony. People on the outside looking in won't understand. Some are even critical, and can't wrap their heads around addicts being anything other than selfish assholes that don't want to get better. Have you ever met a really happy addict? If getting sober was easy, then everyone could do it. I can't control anything other than my own reactions to these things, but this explains why my claws come out when I hear disparaging remarks about addicts.
The truth of the matter is that she won't be valedictorian. She won't get a full-ride scholarship to Harvard. There is a long list of things that all parents dream of their children accomplishing. I'm not most parents and she isn't most kids. She has managed somehow to do the impossible. I know plenty of people much older than she is that have never gotten their shit together, and likely never will. From that desperate, hopeless place she was a year ago, she has managed to pick up the pieces and gain dignity, honesty and integrity. It's more than I could have ever hoped for, and I assure you I couldn't be prouder. This kid has fought tooth and nail to get where she's at. First it was a month, then two. A couple more would go by. Some days were easier than others for her. Some days I am sure were a real struggle, but she did it. She continues to do it. Her name means "graceful warrior", and she has more than lived up to it these last 12 months. My grandmother used to say that your children will be your greatest heartache and your greatest joy. I believe that. Parenting is not for sissies.
I've always told my daughters that there is nothing they could ever say or do that would make me stop loving them. This still holds true. I can't know for sure what the future holds, but no matter what comes my way this will never change. All I can do is the best I can, just like every other parent out there. The hardest part of raising kids is learning when to let go. We want to protect them from anything that might hurt them, but that just isn't possible. Sometimes we have to let them fall so they can learn to get back up. We have to let them experience pain and disappointment so they learn things don't always turn out the way we want them to. We have to let them make mistakes so they can learn from them. None of this is easy, but it's necessary. With a little luck, things eventually fall into place and life goes on.
Happy one year, kid. Hold your head high and be proud, you've earned it. I love you more than any words could ever say.
