Oh Carri, I agree. Not knowing is simply the hardest. I often thought I would rather know something than not know anything, even if the something is bad.
It's so hard.
Then, in time, I often would think this: Is my want/desire/need/longing to just know he is "somewhere" part of my need to control, to be "sure" about something, to "gather my chicks" and breathe a deep breath knowing everybody is somewhere and is safe, at least for this minute?
I don't know.
There were times when I didn't know where Difficult Child was. Days would go by. At first it was sheer agony but in time, I was able more and more to let it go. I would still have moments when my heart would race and for whatever reason, I would give in to the anxiety of just wishing to know something, anything.
In time, I would be able to relax while he was in jail, like you said. Who ever would have thought? The first time he went to jail I thought I would literally die, and by the last time, I was grateful for jail.
It's amazing how we can change.
And how they can too, if they decide to work for it.
All change takes work. It doesn't "just happen."
My mother and I were talking about our sons (my Difficult Child and my brother) who have addiction problems. Right now, my brother, who is 51 years old, lives with my 83-year-old parents. He works full time and drinks and helps them with the physical things around the house that they are increasingly unable to do. His drinking is progressing. My Difficult Child is now on a better path.
My mother and father are struggling with my brother's disease and how to respond to it. They are having "sit down talks" with him, and have talked with him about rehab and detox and AA, etc. This isn't the first time. In the past, they would have these talks with him, or write letters to him, about once every year or two. Now, it's under their nose, and they can see that it's getting much worse.
My mother said this the other day: I don't know how in the world you ever were able to let Difficult Child be homeless.
I said: I know. It was the hardest thing I have ever done.
She said: I don't think I can do it.
I said: I know. You can only do what you can do.
I've talked with both of my parents about Al-Anon and have given them a couple of Al-Anon books over the years. They know I write on an online forum.
I don't push it with them. They know very little about addiction and they are lukewarm about understanding that they need to know more in order to deal with all of this, right under their roof, in a healthy way. I can't make them see that.
They aren't sick and tired enough. My mother even closed the conversation with this: Well, it's really not that bad. He does drink a lot but...well...you know, he still goes to work every day.
My mother is terrified for her precious son. All wrapped up in her terror is her fear and her grief and her guilt and her shame. My dad just gets mad, because my brother "had so much potential" and my dad sees him as a failure (my dad is all about being successful). That comes through to my brother loud and clear of course, his father's only son.
Addiction is so complicated. All of this is so complicated. As I told my sister, who lives right there, two miles away: Just step back.
She is so stressed out with it all. Doing nothing about problems isn't in her vocabulary (and I get that, because that's exactly how I used to be).
We can't fix other people. We can't make other people do things. We can't talk long enough and loud enough and cry hard enough to "make them see."
They will see when they see and not before. It took me more than 10 years to see this myself.
I have compassion for all of us, on this journey. You, Carri, my parents, my brother, Difficult Child, my sister, all of us who struggle and mourn and try so hard to deal with this awful awful disease...this mental illness.
We just want them to be okay. Sounds simple, doesn't it?
Warm hugs this morning. You're a true Warrior Mom.
