Category Archives: BPD

NO CONTACT

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Three months ago I had a sadly familiar phone call with my son.

“Mom, I need a ride. Send me money for Uber.”

“Why do you need a ride?”

“It’s dangerous here. This is a f***ing emergency.”

“Dad and I offered to pay for Sober Living last week. You refused.”

“Mom, I’m not playing around. I need this, don’t mess with me,” his voice crescendos, angry and afraid as he yells into the phone. This is where I usually cave-in…

“No.” I say without as much strength as I’d like. Then, after a pause, “You got yourself into this, figure out how to get yourself out.”

“Mom…”

“I gave you an answer.”

“Listen, I’m serious.”

“I am too.”

“Mom, don’t screw with me. You have to help me.”

There was another long pause as I worked to keep myself centered and do what I had promised myself a hundred times to do.

 “You will have to figure this out,” I finally said.  That is a sentence my therapist had been drilling into my head for two years. I’d been working on giving his problems back to him when he tried to give them to me.

He hung up on me and then called my husband to try his luck with him. This phone call, one of hundreds, was finally the one that caused my husband and I to decide to go ‘no contact’ with our son. It’s a move we had been contemplating for a while. The phone call wasn’t particularly abusive, it was just the frequency of the calls and his unwillingness to accept any offers of real help that were wearing on us. We were tired of being forced into daily crisis management of problems that we did not create.

It’s been a long road for us to get here, we had to truly believed that we needed to stop helping him in order for this to happen. Rescuing him from one crisis after another was not correcting the source of his problems – addiction. We had helped him so often that we finally knew in our hearts that he needed much more than a break, a bill paid, his car fixed, a ride, or a meal. We finally knew that his need to be rescued was never going to end.  We decided on ‘no contact’ because the constant effort to say ‘no’ and be argued with about it for hours on end was exhausting. To stop helping him, we needed to stop hearing him beg, plead, threaten and harass us for help. Several times he had even stooped to threatening suicide. The days were long and depressing when he called relentlessly.

We realized that we didn’t need to hear his stories. Whether he was lying or telling the truth didn’t matter. Whether he was sober or not didn’t matter. Even his safety didn’t matter, because everytime we rescued him from a horrid situation, he just got into another one. Until he was ready to leave this life it wouldn’t change. Every time we rescued him, we just enabled him to ignore his real problem.

               ‘No contact’ is our last resort. I don’t know if it will save him, but it just may save us.

Once the calls stopped life changed. My husband and I found new things to talk about, besides our addicted son – new recipes, new movies, places we want to visit after Covid. We instituted a nightly “Happy Hour” – after my husband leaves his home office at 5:00, we spend an hour outside on the patio, throwing a tennis ball for the dogs and talking about “happy” stuff. Wine, cocktails or a favorite snack are often involved. Sometimes a neighbor will join us.

I stopped reading books about addiction. I have hundreds in my library. I finally decided to pick up a novel for the first time in years. Reading it was lovely.

I joined a Facebook group about painting and one for cooking and another to get involved in the upcoming election. I found new things to keep my brain busy.

The last thing to go was my writing. I always thought that ‘at least’ I would be able to help other people by writing about what I have gone through. I wanted the suffering to have meaning and to help others. It was important, I felt, to tell parents not to feel guilty or blame themselves for their child’s addiction. But it pulled me into a sad place and honestly kept me feeling like a victim. I will write the book one day, after I’ve healed emotionally. But right now, I’m trying to reclaim my life.

I now focus on living each day fully. No thoughts about the past, no worries about the future. I get outside in nature, play with my dogs, swim, paddleboard, practice yoga, cook and visit my grandson. I still write, but I’ve been writing fiction, which is really fun.

Happily, my husband and I have discovered that we still truly enjoy each other’s company. Our bond wasn’t just forged in crisis management. We discovered that we still have great fun teasing each other, now that we aren’t walking on eggshells. Before we were always working to protect each other from the latest tragedy, trying to keep from revealing the panic and sadness. We had forgotten how it felt to laugh together and have fun. Our home is no longer a bomb shelter where we huddle to survive the latest attack. It is bright and busy and full of teasing, good food and laughter.

There are moments where I think I should feel guilty for going on with my life, that I must be horrible for not knowing where my son is or how he is caring for himself. I feel guilty for not suffering right along with him. In this judgmental narrative, wanting a life, makes me selfish and an unfit mother. But my relationship with my son cannot be judged by normal parent-child parameters. Our relationship is twisted by a cruel toxicity that turns my love into a instrument of manipulation.

So, I have decided to go ‘no contact’ with guillt as well. When my mind begins to flirt with feelings of shame, I push them away and remind myself that I have analyzed and argued with myself for years. My guilt never improved my son’s situation or my own. After much practice, I can stop those thoughts. Distraction, relaxation, exercises – I’ll use any tool necessary to move my thoughts to a healthier place.  And it’s easier without daily contact. Without the onslaught of blame and harassment, once the unrelenting voice of addiction was quieted, we can think rationally.

Calmness and peace feel amazing.  I’m shocked that I can fall asleep easily at night and I don’t wake up in a panic in the mornings. I’m astonished that the ding of a text message doesn’t cause an anxiety attack anymore.

And, yes, I can still love my son while not being in contact with him. I still want the best for him, pray he finds his way and will be the first one to step-up the moment he wants treatment, or wants a relationship that is not toxic. If one day we can again coexist peacefully, I’ll be incredibly happy. But until then, “no contact” has allowed me to reclaim my life.

You’re Killing Me.

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I wake up thinking about my son. As I’m floating up, out of deep sleep into the twilight of wakefulness, I feel a moment of panic, like when you lose a toddler in a store. It’s visceral, I feel it in my chest and my gut – a nebulous awareness that he’s not safe.

Thoughts of him cross my mind at least once every day and with it the stab of anxiety. I’m trying to live an emotionally healthy life, despite his choices, but he and his addiction are slowly trying to kill me.

He’s angry at the world – homeless, jobless, no car, broke – and he believes it’s everyone’s fault but his own. He left the sober house, that we were paying for, and missed his intake date when he could have returned.

After refusing to go back to the sober house, he calls daily wanting food, a hotel room, money and to complain about our neglect.  We told him that he must figure his situation out, since he chose it. But that doesn’t stop his calls and texts. We tried blocking his phone number, but at the current count he has seventeen, and just keeps adding new ones – whatever it takes to make sure we are aware of how much pain our neglect has caused. His resentment is malignant.

His greatest scorn is reserved for me. I’m the mother who doesn’t love him enough to take his calls. Somehow his dad gets a pass, I guess men aren’t supposed to be as loving and forgiving as moms. He also has serious issues with women. He’s been twisted in knots by girlfriends, and his ex-wife ‘abandoned’ him. There are also issues with his birth mother because she ‘didn’t want him’.

Although we’ve had him since he was four weeks old, he resents being adopted, but I guess he’s not alone. Studies show that adoptees are overrepresented among those with Substance Abuse disorder.

So, to say he has issues with women is an understatement.  Given that, it’s not surprising that when he talks to me his anger rachets up several notches.  Today he called and I answered because I’m hoping to convince him to return to the sober house again.

I’ve been listening to him complaints about being homeless for twenty minutes, when I interrupt, “Welcome House gives you food, a bed, wi-fi, meetings, a bus pass, a job – everything you need.”

“You’re obsessed with Welcome House.”

“I’m obsessed with getting you to a safe place where you don’t have to be miserable.”  

“Buying me a car, co-signing on an apartment, giving me a loan or letting me move home would do the same thing.”

We’ve done all these things before, too many times. The results have been disastrous. “That’s not an option, but we will pay for Welcome House.”

“I’m NEVER going back to Welcome House because YOU want me to.”

“So, you’ll destroy yourself, just to hurt me?” Can he make it any harder?

“Yes!” He’s adamant and petulant, but quickly switches to the victim. “What kind of mother won’t answer her son’s calls.”

“If you had a friend who called you every day asking for money, or attacking you, you’d stop taking the calls too. “

My thirty-three-year-old son goes silent. After a few moments he begins to sob. “I would never let my child be homeless or hungry. Never!”

Your killing me son. No matter how angry and abusive he gets I can’t stop my mother’s heart from reacting.

“That’s why we want you to go to Welcome House. You’d be safe and fed, have a place to sleep and the support you need. We want you there because we want you to be safe and we love you.” I stress the last three words, trying to get through to him.

I hear a sob, then another, then…Silence…

“Son, are you there?”

 He’s hung up. 

Buying him meals and hotel rooms, just makes it easier to stay on the streets. I can’t help with that, and I won’t spend hours every day arguing about it. But, he’s hurting, so, I try to call him back, but he won’t answer.

My mind swirls in circles, worry, fear, frustration, anger… My stomach and head join the party and I feel sick. My brain won’t be quiet.

I argue with myself: He creates impossible situations – by his choices, then blames us.

Logic responds: They are his choices. He has free will.

He refuses real help, then tells us we don’t love him when we won’t rescue him.

 You can’t enable him. It will only prolong the suffering.

How can I convince him I love him?coping

He may die if he keeps this up…

You can’t control him, so yes, he may die.

How can I live with myself if he dies?

The same way anyone handles death, it will hurt, but you can’t protect him from himself.

It’s so hard and I’m so tired of it.

Detach with love.

But it’s a disease.

Addiction is not a choice, but recovery is.

But I want to help him!

He must learn to manage his disease. Help him when he chooses recovery.

He needs support.

You can’t force him, you’ve tried, so many times. He’s an adult.

It’s killing me.

Take care of yourself. You can only control you.

It is so hard.

Do what you can live with.

I can’t live with this torture every day.

If nothing changes, nothing changes. You can’t keep rescuing.

It hurts to think about it.

Change your thoughts. You are giving him freedom to find his way.

It’s really tough

You’re stronger than you think.

I need to stop thinking about it.

Detach. Stop ruminating, do something constructive.

I’ll walk the dogs, weed the flowers, start dinner.

You’ll be okay.

I’ll be okay.

OXYGEN MASK

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“Put the oxygen mask on yourself first.”

This is excellent self care advice, but for parents of addicts it’s an oversimplification. If your child has SUD and especially if it’s combined or other mental illness this advice can feel impossible. I believe in self-care, but it can be very hard to accomplish.

I think of it like this. The airplane is flying along when suddenly there is turbulence and the flight gets rough. The masks drop down and you reach to put yours on before you try to help your child. Normally, you would place your mask on yourself and then reach over and place your child’s mask on them. Everyone is safe and you both get the oxygen you need. Care for yourself first, then care for the other person.

However, if you child suffers from SUD it’s never that easy. Imagine this instead.

The flight gets bumpy and your addicted child immediately begins to act out, yelling and panicking as the oxygen masks drop from the ceiling. You reach for your mask as you simultaneously try to calm them down. They flail and scream knocking the masks around and your mask is swinging wildly, making it difficult to grab. As you work to get your mask with one hand and push your child’s flapping arms out of the way the other, they begin to cuss at you.

“Don’t touch me, why aren’t you helping me? Give me my mask!”

You try to explain that you are attempting to get your mask on, then you will help them with theirs, to no avail. The thrashing and panic continues as you work desperately to reach your mask. You finally seize it and try to place it on your face only to have your child knock it from your hands in their erratic grasping.

You reach for it again, but you are getting short of breath and it’s getting harder to fight for that mask. Your child seems unaffected by the lack of air, drama and chaos they are causing, but you are overwhelmed and afraid you both may die if you don’t get the damn mask.

You tell your child they must calm down, and let you get masks on you both and they argue with you about your ‘demands.’

“How dare you tell me what to do, you don’t understand me”. They draw more of your energy and further exhaust you as they argue about how you are handling the crisis.

With a single minded determination, you ignore the tirade and push them away so you can reach your mask.

“How can you be so heartless?” they yell, “You know I need your help! How can you push me away?”

 It hurts to have them attack you when you’re only trying to help you both, but you don’t have time to deal with the hurt or even acknowledge it. As they rant you make one last grab for the mask. Your fingers wrap around it and quickly you pull the elastic over your head. You feel the fresh air filling your lungs and for just a moment your body relaxes as oxygen renews you.

Then to your surprise your child, suddenly aware of the life saving mask, tries to pull the mask off of you instead of reaching for their own. You work to protect yourself, and reach for their mask, hoping to get them the air they need, but they push your hands away. In their irrational state they think your are trying to take something that is theirs. They lunge for it and in their anxiety and frustration, they rip the mask from the ceiling and pull the tube loose. Their mask is no longer functional.

Their eyes go wide with realization and they start pulling and fighting for your mask again.

You realize that someone is going to suffer, maybe die. Will it be you or them? You want them to calm down, you want help, you want it to stop, you want this to be easier, you wish you had never gotten on this flight.

You wish it was a movie, where something magical happens and at the last minute someone comes along and saves you both. This isn’t a movie and the flight may last years.

Yeah…

Put the oxygen mask on yourself first.

I try not to beat myself up because it feels so hard to care for myself, because loving an addict is incredibly complicated and simple answers have a way of becoming very convoluted when addiction is involved.

It’s not simple and it’s not easy. I need help and support. I will go to a meeting, see a therapist, take an antidepressant, detach, block phone numbers, go no contact for a while.  I will do what I need to. Self-care isn’t just scented candles and long walks. Sometimes it’s protecting myself and preserving my very survival and my mental health.

It’s gonna be a long flight.

CHASING HAPPINESS

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I’ve been chasing happiness for the last few years. It’s been an elusive creature. I sneak up on it and think I have a good hold on it, and then it slips through my fingers. It’s not that I’ve been in the depths of depression for two years, but I’ve worked hard for every shred of happiness I’ve found. I lost my grip on happiness when my son relapsed two years ago. I tried hard to hold onto it, in spite of his drug use, homelessness, angry violent outbursts, and meth-induced psychosis.

I crept up on moments of happiness by focusing on the positive things in my life, instead of his addiction. I did a twelve-step program and saw a therapist. I read scores of books on codependence and drug addiction and detachment. I worked on detachment a lot. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary for my sanity.

Detachment was really hard. When he was using my son would call incessantly. When I stopped answering he would call from a new number. When I quit answering that he would show up at my house. When I said “no” to him in person he would get aggressive and angry. I called the police on my own son and I finally got a restraining order.

I continued to paint, cook, do yoga, swim and write while all this was happening, but no matter how hard I tried, the drama was always in the back of my mind. I found happiness at times, but it was contingent happiness. It required a guardedness a determination to not feel sorry for myself or my situation. It was happiness derived from effort.

My first grandson was born and I was able to completely enjoy that time because of the restraining order, although I knew my son was homeless and probably on a crime spree, I pushed it aside and immersed myself in being a grandmother.

I had taken in his two dogs when he relapsed and I found great joy in training and working with them. I started painting with watercolor and found I enjoyed the challenge. I discovered writing competitions. I really enjoy those, and I’ve done well in them.

I’ve been feeling pretty pleased with myself for not letting his addiction destroy me. Glad I was getting on with my life. I was convinced I would be just fine if he never got sober. And just like so many other moms have discovered, it seems when you finally let go and realize that their sobriety is up to them, the impossible happened.

My son got arrested, which forced him into sobriety. When he was released, to my surprise he agreed to go to a sober living facility. He has currently been sober for 30 days and is working on 90 meetings in 90 days. He has a job and just picked up a second job.

When he first went to Sober Living I was very skeptical and guarded. He has always complained about 12 step programs. So I thought he was just taking advantage of a warm bed and three squares a day. But he surprised me. He has followed every rule and has completely embraced working the program.

After 30 days of sobriety, I agreed to see him again. I am amazed at his attitude and the effort he is putting into working the program. He’s no longer angry and aggressive or rude and entitled. He’s a wonderful person to be around again.

After spending time with him last week an amazing thing happened. Happiness snuck up on me. I wasn’t working at it, or trying, I just realized one day that was happy in a deeply significant way. At first, I had a really strange reaction to it. I got angry. I don’t want my happiness to be tied up in his sobriety. I don’t want to dependent on him to feel deep fulfilling joy. But then I realized that really, as long we love people our happiness will be tied up in their health and well being. That can just be extra hard when the person we love is an addict.

For now, I will enjoy not having to chase happiness. I will relish the fact that it comes right up to me out in the open, no longer a skittish creature I pursue. I will enjoy every moment and try not to worry that it might become elusive again. I will live in the moment. One day at a time.

 

A GOOD DAY

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The air in the car was heavy with emotion. My son, in the passenger seat, sat and looked out the window towards the gray naked branches of the two lonely trees at the edge of the parking lot. His deep voice was uneven and agitated.  I listened with my heart in my throat. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what he was saying.

“I almost killed a man, mom. I had a knife in my hand, and I wanted to. The anger and the drugs had built up in me and I didn’t care who I hurt or if I spent the rest of my life in jail. . .  At least I’d be warm.” He was remembering an incident during a drug-fueled crime spree he had been on just a few weeks ago when he was homeless, cold, desperate and high on meth. He had been freezing for days and something as simple as being warm was completely out of his reach.

“Some sort of feminine magic stopped me,” he said. I assumed he meant the girl who had been with him on these forays into lawlessness. Thankfully he had not killed anyone, but he had been picked up by the police. He spent three weeks in county lock up. The only thing they could convict him of was evading arrest when he ran from the police on a routine traffic stop.

“Mom I started sobering up in jail, but I couldn’t get rid of the horrible thoughts. I just wanted to hurt someone. I didn’t care who.” He looked shattered, “I haven’t prayed in years.” He whispered, “But I started praying. I needed my higher power to help me. Sometimes I would pray all day. The evil thoughts wouldn’t stop. I prayed so hard.”

I reached over and rubbed his shoulder, small gentle caresses, trying to pass my love and support through my fingertips. “I’m so relieved you found a way through it son- that you chose to fight it.”

I’m stunned, I had no idea how deep his despair had been. Although I’m glad he shared this with me, I’m also very sad. It is crushing to know these things- that he has such capabilities and so much rage. I hurt for him and I fear for him. His whole life will be spent fighting addiction and the rage it unleashes. I’ve never had to fight against urges inside me that could tempt me to break the law or hurt others. I’ve never dealt with addiction to something that could destroy me. I feel profound sadness.

“I’m glad you’re praying and so glad to have you back,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”

He smiled sadly. Then he spotted a friend in the parking lot and pushed all the emotion away, “Look there’s Joe,” he said as he waved at his roommate. We were sitting in the parking lot of the sober house where he is now living. He had left jail sober and willing to work a program.

“Joe’s doing good now,” he said. He knew Joe from years ago. They got in a lot of trouble together in their teens – drugs, alcohol crime. But my son and he had lost touch when he was sober for seven-year. Now they were both in the same boat again. I could be resentful of Joe, but he had convinced my son that this sober house was “cool”. So, maybe they could find long term sobriety together in their thirties.

“I should go,” my son said.

“Can I have a hug?” I asked.

He leans over and hugs me, “I love you mom.”

I hold on too long and whisper against his hair, “I love you too, son.”

I drove home with a heavy heart. It’s hard to hear my son’s anguish. I had gone through hell watching him careen out of control during his relapse but had been so happy when he went to sober living. Now, hearing firsthand about his emotional pain made me suffer all over again. It’s a strange place to be- happy for his sobriety, joyful at having him back in my life, but also very sad to be learning firsthand of the emotional toll it’s taken. I knew it was bad, but sitting with him as he recounted it was devastating. It hurts to become reacquainted with my sober son and fully realize the pain he’s endured, and the battle he fights every day. It’s painful to see how each relapse changes him and brings new horrors for him to process. These were heavy thoughts to carry home in an empty car on a Saturday night.

He had been at our house to celebrate my birthday. It was only the third time I had seen him since lifting the restraining order I had taken out when he was using. The day had been wonderful. It was the first birthday he had been sober for in two years. His dad had picked him up early and he had spent the whole day with us. He was open about his meetings and his work on the twelve-step program. His sister-in-law had asked thoughtful questions and encouraged him to talk. He and his brother had gotten along well, and we had all enjoyed our newest family member, my six-month-old grandson. It had been a very good day. But driving him home, just the two of us, he had opened up even more. Listening to him unburdened himself of some of his deepest pain was a sad ending to a happy day.

I struggled with how I felt about it. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to hear about these things. I don’t feel like “normal” moms end their birthdays with stories of their child almost committing murder. But I know that there is no such thing as a “normal”. We all have our secret burdens. This is mine.

After some mental gymnastics, rolling these thoughts around in my head, I realize I can approach these talks like the ones I have with my other son when he shares that he’s frustrated with work, or the baby isn’t sleeping. I offer support and understanding and remind him I love him, and he can talk to me any time.  That’s also the solution to these difficult situations.

Although the stories are much harder for me to relate to and I may not want to hear them, I can listen. All he needs is my ear and my love. I can’t change who he is or what he’s been through. He just needs to know I love him exactly as he is. I am not required to be comfortable with these difficult stories, or the addiction or the anger. I just need to love him and that’s the easy part. I do love him. He’s my son, the child whose smile I adored, the toddler whose first steps I applauded. The man whose emotions I can read from a distance. The man whose quirky sense of humor I totally get and whose face I’ve memorized. Loving him, the true core of his being is easy.

I just have to remember to leave his sobriety alone. Only he can find it. I must leave the twelve-steps and the hard work of facing his demons to him. It’s something only he can do.

So, for the thousandth time in this journey I will remember that I am powerless over the addict. I can only do this one day, one hour, one minute at a time. I will treasure each sober day and soak it in, because I know that there are no guarantees. And finally, I will not let fear rob me of the joy of a good day, because today was a very good day.

SOBER AGAIN

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YEAH!!!! My son has chosen to go to a sober living facility. I’m very happy. The two years leading up to this point have been really awful. My son, an addict since his teen years, relapsed in 2018 after being sober since 2011. Experiencing those seven years of sobriety, made the relapse extremely painful. We thought we were out of danger.

Obviously, we were not. Now that he’s sober again, I’ve been thinking a lot about 2011 when he came out of prison sober for the first time in ten years. My husband and I approached his sobriety with strong boundaries and a certain degree of skepticism. We were veterans of the struggle, so we were very realistic. We didn’t let him move home, we didn’t give money, we limited our time with him. But as his sobriety progressed, we let our joy at having him back, erode the boundaries.

After a year on his own and some unexpected complications with his living arrangements, we let him move home. Then I employed him at the family business. Then we started paying for car repairs and medical bills (even though he was working). He leaned heavily on us.

We were so happy that he was sober, that we didn’t worry about his dependence. We became so vested in his sobriety, that we were afraid to let him struggle. We were always stepping in to help him out. In retrospect, this probably set him up for failure. When he ran into problems that we couldn’t fix – marriage problems, anxiety, poor financial choices, temptations – he relapsed.

It also became very taxing for us. We began to get tired and maybe a little resentful that he wasn’t becoming independent and growing in his sobriety. Just being sober, it turns out, isn’t enough. He needed a bigger circle of support and he needed to grow and become independent.

We want to do things differently this time.  We are going to try very hard to keep him from leaning too heavily on us for his recovery. We want him to develop a strong network of support, particularly people who have been in his shoes and understand the struggle for sobriety.

We are telling him how very proud we are that he made this choice. We are expressing our love and desire to have him back, whole and healthy, in our lives. However, we are determined to allow this recovery to be his.

We will give him room to struggle, fail and then find his own support. A sober living facility gives him a safety net while he does this. They offer groups, counseling and job assistance. It’s huge that he’s chosen to go there and be in a place that can give him the support he needs.

It only happened after we refused to help him any longer. We made him leave our house in the dead of winter, refused to bail him out of jail and all the really hard things we parents hate to do.  But he finally made a good choice.

I hope he will take full advantage of all the assistance the sober house has to offer. He must choose to turn to them and use the tools they give him, instead of coming to us for help. My husband and I are determined to help him by letting his recovery belong to him.

We are discussing boundaries and ways to continue to say ‘no’ as lovingly as possible. Our son needs to find his independence. My husband and I want our son back so badly that it will be hard to hold ourselves back from coddling and being too helpful. My son is a wonderful man when he’s sober and we’ve missed him since his relapse. But we cannot feel like his sobriety is dependent on our responses to him or our actions. This needs to be something he can look back on and say “I did it!” with pride and confidence.

It’s not going to be easy, because he sounds wonderful sober. Every fiber of our being wants him to stay that way and we tend to be fixers. We want to jump in and fix problems. But we have to stop.

When he was using, we told ourselves, “We didn’t cause it, we can’t control it, and we can’t cure it.” This is still true. This is not our problem to solve. We have to let him do this on his own. He will get our unending love and support, but he is an adult and we will give him the respect of treating him like one.

PARABLE

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Once there was a kind old woman who lived near a beautiful lake. Every day she sat on her porch and enjoyed the view. In the summer she swam in the cool water. In the fall she took long walks along the shore.  In the winter she watched the sparkling water and felt thankful for the wonderful place she lived.

One day a man came and fished from the public dock near her house. He fished often and they became friends.

After a time, he brought a boat and launched it into the water. Soon he decided to stand in the boat, and he fell overboard. He could not swim and called for help. The old woman jumped in to save him. She pulled him ashore and he thanked her profusely.

The next day he came again with his boat. “Don’t stand up,” called the kind, old woman. The man nodded, but soon he stood and fell. Once again, the old woman swam out to save him. “Don’t stand in the boat!” she said as she shook the water from her clothes.

Over the next few weeks, this occurrence was repeated. Some days the man managed not to fall overboard, but often he did. The old woman began to dread looking out her window. She stopped sitting on the porch and taking walks.

She offered to teach him to swim, but he said he couldn’t learn. She bought him a life jacket and he lost it. She bought another, he forgot to wear it. She asked him to stop using the boat, but his promise never lasted long. She hid the boat, but he soon found another.

She told herself she would not save him. One day she tried, but she could not bear to hear his cries for help. She jumped in again.

Every day she worried if he would show up. Even on the days that he didn’t come, she spent the day wondering if he would. Winter was the worst- jumping into the freezing water. Her paradise had become a torture chamber.

In desperation, she called the police, but they said the lake was public and she could not stop him from using it. “But he’s crazy,” she said.

“Fishing is not a crime,” the officer said.

“He should wear a life vest,” the woman said.

“I’ll write him a ticket,” said the officer.

The man paid his ticket and wore his vest for a while, but soon forgot. The old woman called the police again and again, but they could only write tickets and soon tired of her calls and began to act as if she were the problem. She begged them to put him in jail, where at least he would be safe, but they said they could not.

She continued to beg her friend to stop fishing from a boat, to wear a life jacket, or learn to swim, but there was no convincing him.

“But your survival is dependent on me,” she said, “you need to be able to save yourself.”

“But you always save me,” he said.

“I’m tired of saving you, it’s destroying my life,” she said.

“But I cannot save myself,” he said, “would you let me die?”

Next, the old woman talked to her friends at church and they said, “How can you not save him? You must love your fellow man,” and she felt guilty for thinking about letting him drown.

She talked to her friend the psychologist and she said. “He needs help, but we cannot force him to get help unless he says he wants to die. He obviously does not, because he calls for help. You must understand he is sick,” and the old woman felt guilty for not wanting to help a friend who was sick.

She talked to her strong, old friend who was a veteran of many wars and he said, “Only the strong survive. How have you let him ruin your life for this long? Ignore him.” and the old woman felt guilty for not being able to ignore him.

So, feeling like no one really understood her dilemma the kind, old woman felt totally lost. Would she ever be able to return to the life she had before he took it from her?

*****

Parables usually have a moral. What is the moral of this story? Maybe you think the story sounds ridiculous. Who would be so irrational? Who would refuse to stop behavior that could kill them? Who would refuse to find a way to save themselves? And would someone really destroy their own life to save another?

Unfortunately, it’s not as ridiculous as it sounds. Repeating self-destructive behavior is exactly what an addict does when they return to drugs and life-threatening situations over and over again and refuse the help that could save them.

And the dilemma the kind old woman faced? It is exactly what the person that loves an addict faces. Every. Single. Day.

HOSTAGE

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I have spent the last seven months practicing extreme forgiveness, understanding, patience, and kindness with my recovering addict. I’ve written many times about our ups and downs when he came to live with us after a yearlong relapse. He started out really trying to get along and respect our boundaries. But then things begin to change.

I don’t know if he began using Meth again, but I do know he started using other addictions to deal with his sadness and anger. He seemed to think gambling and women were perfectly acceptable ways to deal with his sorrows. But I wanted him to work towards healthy coping mechanisms.

He is triggered by ultimatums, yelling, and demands. So, we patiently and kindly tried to point him to positive activities, to no avail. We finally realized our situation had deteriorated to the point that we were being held hostage in our own home. We had become so compliant, so unwilling to upset him, that instead of being angry because he was living in our house, making no efforts towards independence, we were telling ourselves that we were lucky that he hadn’t stolen from us or become violent. Such a low bar we had set.

We thought with a good job, he could get back on his feet and improve his attitude. He finally got hired and we tried so hard to help him. When he wrecked his car and we feared it would derail his progress, I agreed to drive him to work while he saved to buy another one. I was now hostage to his schedule. But we were excited by the possibilities. A good job, a reliable car… he was on his way.

After eight weeks of driving him to work, we suggested that we all needed to have a talk. This infuriated him (it always does). We asked how much he had saved for a car. His answer “Nothing.” We had feared this answer and had carefully planned our response – hoping to avoid escalating the situation further.

We told him we had allowed him to stay in our home to get a new start and he could not live here while being irresponsible. We offered him three options:

  1. I would continue to drive him, but he must turn most of his paychecks over to us to hold until he had $2000 saved. (We knew he would claim this was treating him like a child, which is a pet peeve of his.)
  2. He could pay us rent and find his own rides to work and he could do what he wanted with his remaining paycheck. (This was our rebuttal to being treated like a child.)
  3. He could come up with an alternative solution that we all could agree on.

He disgustedly turned them all down. He raged about how unfair we were and at some point, swiped a bowl off the table sending it flying across the room and then made vague threats.

I saw my husband’s anger rising. I slipped out of the room and called the police non-emergency line. “The situation is not an emergency, but I’m concerned it may turn violent…” I whispered into the phone.

Fortunately, that day did not end in violence, and the police were kind and helpful. When they arrived, my son was in the basement angrily packing his things. The police said, “If he’s packing, that’s good. We don’t want to exacerbate the situation. You need him to leave willingly, otherwise, you will have to evict him. If he gets violent call 911 and we will be back immediately.”

That day he chose homelessness over responsibility. It’s a sign of mental illness, I know, but I no longer know how to help him. He is back on the streets and has lost his job. Of course, he calls daily begging for money, food, to shower or wash his clothes. He’s working to make sure we see his suffering. He wants us to know what we have “done to him.” Although when he stormed out of the house, he knew he had no place to go.

It’s horrible. We struggle with the pain of it, but this encounter made it clear that we can’t save him. We had spent months thinking he just needed a break, being held hostage by the hope that he could make it if everything went right.

However, the eight weeks I had driven him to work, an offer by his grandparents to match his savings, the excellent job with Amazon offering paid benefits were undeniably great opportunities. The fact that he had thrown it all away was also undeniable. We could no longer fool ourselves into believing that he just needed a break.

Whether it was drugs or alcohol or his mental disorder (BPD) that made him blow this chance, is impossible to tell, because he is seldom truthful. But it’s obvious that he was not going to allow us to help him. Any effort to “tell him what to do” was going to be met with threats and fury. We are not willing to be held hostage by his temper in our own home.

I will always love him, but I can’t control him or save him. It’s is so sad knowing his uncontrollable impulses and anger will continue to destroy his life. I know it is very difficult for him to have self-control. But, he will have to seek out the help he so desperately needs, and so far, he had been unwilling.

So now we are back where we were seven months ago, trying to set and keep boundaries that will keep us healthy. I found a quote that helps:

“Detachment with love is letting someone be themselves while separating yourself from the consequences of their actions.”

I wish this had ended differently. I wish I had a success story to share, but unfortunately, that is out of my control. The only thing in my control is my life and I refuse to live it as a hostage. Instead, I intend to make each day count and find my way to peace and contentment no matter how my son chooses to live.

THE FIGHT

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“Son,” I say, “You slept all day and I had work for you to do.”

“Mom, I do everything right for weeks and then one screw-up and you’re all over me. Quit treating me like I’m twelve! Leave me alone. “

“If you don’t want to be treated like a 12-year-old don’t act like one!”

It’s been like this all day. “We have snapped and snarled at each other non-stop.

“Mom, I’m getting really angry, you need to get out of my room NOW!”

“My house, my room,” I snap.

My 33-year-old son, who is twice my size puffs up with rage and glares at me. He’s never struck me, but I’m scared. I turn to leave, but I’m angry, and I slam the door.

Suddenly, behind me the door comes flying out into the hallway, the frame splintering. “I can’t believe you!” I scream. Then I come to my senses and I walk away and try to calm down.

I sit on the couch, stony faced, thinking how ungrateful he is. I’m full of self-righteous anger. He has been living with us for the last three months after a year-long meth relapse. We offered him a chance to start over. Now I’m thinking, “and this is the thanks I get.”

He comes out of his room. He is silent and his face is an impenetrable mask of fury.

As I sit and use every bit of self-control to keep my mouth shut, I realize he is replacing the broken pieces of the door jam. He’s pulled out his tools and is rehanging the door.  I get up and start dishes. We move carefully around each other in strained silence the rest of the day.

The next morning, I notice he is doing every chore I ask with childlike obedience, I can tell he’s trying to make amends, although he would never say sorry.

He is acting better, but I want him to acknowledge that his behavior was inappropriate and promise that it won’t happen again. This conversation makes the fight flare back up and I wonder if twelve weeks of sobriety are headed down the drain. He yells about leaving and I tell him he’ll be walking since he doesn’t have a car.

At some point I say, “watch it, I can kick you out!”

We are supposed drive into Kansas City today for his psychologist appointment and have been preparing to leave while we argue.

Finally I sigh, “We should leave.”

“Why should I bother,” he says, “if you’re kicking me out it’s pointless.”

“I haven’t decided if I’m kicking you out yet, and it’s a requirement for living here,” I say, “I’m very angry and I don’t make decisions while I’m angry.”

We drag ourselves into the car. The two of us in a confined space isn’t good. He will not talk calmly or listen to anything I say. He is irrational and refuses all responsibility for his actions. Everything is my fault and he screams it at me over and over.  I pull over, in the middle of no-where, “Get out,” I say with extreme calmness. His rage in the confined space of the car is distressing me. He gets out and slams the door, I burn rubber. I drive a while and cool down. I really don’t want him back in the car, but I know I will do nothing but worry if I leave him. I turn around and go back for him. At first he won’t get in, but he finally flings himself into the passenger seat. We don’t speak the rest of the trip.

I have an appointment with my counselor at the same time as his appointment, so I drop him off first. As he’s leaving the car, I say, “Tell your psychologist how you’re about to lose everything because of your temper.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he snarls and slams the door.

I talk to my counselor for an hour. I go from furious, to defeated, to sad. My son had been doing so well. As I discussed his behavior, I realize he is truly mentally ill. I know he is sober, so I can’t blame his behavior on drugs. For the first time it hits me that his problems are really about his unregulated emotions. He usually gets furious and leaves and does drugs when we fight, but because he didn’t have a car and we were at the lake far from his friends, he couldn’t run off like he normally does. This was the first time a fight had been able to play out and I could see how out of control his emotions were even without drugs.

I pick my son up from his appointment and my husband calls while we are in the car together. My husband says we will discuss this when he gets home on Friday. He encourages us both to just breath and try to drop it till we we’re all together.

After my husband hangs up, I ask my son, “shall we just start over?”

“I don’t care,” he growls and stares angrily ahead. I’m hurt, but I am beginning to realize that he is in a dark place he does not know how to get out of.  For the first time I’m thinking about how he is held hostage by his rage.  I decide to follow my husband’s advice and just breath.

We go home and do not speak to each other. We sit in front of the TV and he falls asleep. I seethed on the couch across the room. I am still irritated and hurt. Eventually we go our separate ways to bed.

In bed, with the help of google, I study his diagnosis, Borderline Personality Disorder. I learn how a BPD person is like a burn victim with no skin and every touch is painful. Only with BPD it’s the emotions that are raw and exposed to the world and everything is emotionally painful. Today, I really saw that play out. I saw what those raw emotions do to him.

I also read how a BPD sufferers biggest fear is abandonment and I realized how threatening to kick him out, must feel like the ultimate abandonment.

Then I turn to my own feelings and realize that I am angry because I feel trapped since we let him come home. I don’t have as much freedom. But it hit me that I do not need to feel like a victim. I have all the power, it’s my home. I can make him leave at any time, no one is forcing me to let him stay. I should not feel powerless.

My son, on the other hand, has nothing, except us and a fear so big that it comes out as rage. I know that if he is trying, I want to help him. And I know he’s trying. He’s stayed sober, he’s been communicative, he’s been helpful and until yesterday he had been working very hard at not losing his temper.

The next morning, I attempt normal conversation over coffee. I ask him how his meeting with the counselor was.

“Mom, I told her how I raged out. I told her how I knew I was destroying everything and still couldn’t stop. I told her I knew I was being irrational, but I couldn’t make myself calm down.”

I was really surprised to hear this. He seldom shows remorse or takes responsibility for his actions.

“She told me the Lexapro I’ve been taking could increase my rage. So, she gave me a mood stabilizer to counteract it.”

I decide to be positive, “I’m so proud of you for being honest with her.”

“Well, I was so mad at you when I got there that I told her all about it, I think I dropped the F-bomb a hundred times.”

“Well, I may have used the F-bomb a few times in my session too.” I say.

Then I decide that I am going to try a new approach, and I say,” I need to tell you something. I’m sorry that I haven’t been acknowledge how hard you’ve been trying. I’ve seen it, but I’ve mostly been telling you how you need to improve. But you’ve been trying hard, and I really do appreciate it.”

He doesn’t say anything, so I go on, “I also need to acknowledge that you told me you were getting angry yesterday and I didn’t listen, I kept pushing you, because I was mad. I hope you will keep communicating with me. I’ll try to listen next time. We still have to talk about everything when dad gets home. But we will figure this out.”

He smiles at me. This is not a fairy tale, he doesn’t suddenly become a cherubic, perfect son.

He is standing in front of me with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, no shirt, sagging pants, and prison tattoos. I am certain we will still have difficulties communicating and life will not be easy. He is far from cherubic, but underneath the ragged exterior, I see in his eyes that he hears me saying “I love you” in a language that reaches him.  I’ve affirmed him, acknowledged his effort and I’m giving him another chance.