Addiction stinks
Holidays fill your life with thoughts of love and home. But this year, the holidays filled me with sadness.
I planned the Thanksgiving meal.
I cooked the Thanksgiving meal.
I washed five million Thanksgiving dishes, breaking only one plate and one wine glass.
While sweeping, I realized my five million parenting worries don’t end when a child becomes an adult.
I found the Christmas decorations and killed the spiders hanging around the edges of the boxes.
I decorated the Christmas tree and swore to sort the decorations and throw out the broken ornaments.
I cried in my bathroom on Christmas Eve because my 21 year was not with us, and so much felt broken in my life.
I tried to talk my family into taking down the Christmas decorations the day after Christmas. I attempted to replace my anxiety for my daughter with controlling my house.
The decorations stayed up. My anxiety remained in place.
I put the boxes away without sorting through the broken and old decorations because my life held more significant worries than a Santa with a dirty beard and an angel with one wing.
And deep in my soul, I hurt.
I celebrated New Year’s Eve with a glass of champagne. I wished for a better 2023, where I would fix my broken bike and mend ripped clothes.
I wished to turn back the clock and fix something so my daughter would not be on this path. Maybe it would all be okay if I had done one thing differently.
I took my two younger daughters to a Lacrosse tournament over Martin Luther King Junior weekend.
I tried to find joy in the events, but my mind kept spinning to my 21-year-old struggling.
I thought about Martin Luther King Junior’s speech:
“Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.
So even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream.”
I dream that I will not wallow in the valley of despair but will find a way to cope with a 21-year-old battling depression and addiction.
I watched Punxsutawney Phil on Ground Hog’s Day.
Since Phil saw his shadow, there will be six more weeks of winter.
I thought about my 21-year-old and how she is stuck in her winter, frozen in place by addiction. I hope Phil is wrong. I hope spring arrives sooner and thaws the frozen icicles gripping my beloved first baby, struggling under the weight of her winter.
Valentine’s Day rolled around. My heart breaks for my child.
Everyone is broken in some way.
Saint Patrick’s Day is coming up. Maybe the luck of the Irish will be with her. Maybe my daughter will get the help she needs. Maybe she can fight the raging battle in her soul.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. So much unknown.
But what is known is my love for her.
I love you, my baby. I love you always.
This was originally published on Black Bear on Medium.com