I think it's the loneliness of being the mother of a drug addict that most surprises me. The isolation. The feeling like few know, fewer care, and only the rare will actually ask - how are you? How is your son? What do you really want to talk about? I don't want advice - I want someone to listen and to give a damn.
I admit I am not naturally a person who shares my deepest hurts and fears and what's really going on for me. I takes practice and an effort of will to say what's really on my mind. Which is kind of ironic given that I work in Communications, am active here and there on social media, have 2 blogs, and write daily in one way or another. For most of my life I've kept a busy outgoing facade in order to protect the quiet, scared girl inside
I started this blog to try to get out some of what I was struggling the most to share with people. To try to connect with other parents of hungry ghosts. To get my thoughts out in black and white and see if I can make sense of them. To practice saying "My son is a drug addict and I don't know how to help him." To get related to the truth of what we're dealing with, and to let others in. And to give hope when there's hope to share, to share info and strength where I find them.
But in the dark nights, I'm still alone with my fears even when I'm in My Man's arms. More than one friend with whom I've shared this blog has told me they can't read it - they don't want to know the truth of what we're dealing with. I suppose it's nice that they're honest. But what am I supposed to do with that? Why can't they show up with a bottle of wine and just talk about something else instead of leaving me alone with the nightmares?
There's an irony, I suppose. In my master's thesis I wrote about trauma theory and how when people go through an extreme trauma there's a part of themselves that they can not integrate into their sense of self until someone else both hears AND believes it. Most of the research comes out of the Jewish Holocaust. I still find it fascinating and illuminating 10 years later.
I am loved, and The Oldest is loved as well - people don't really want to know the truth. I guess that's why for Holocaust survivors, the listener was generally a grand child - their children were too close to want to hear. And yet that is what I truly need. A listener, preferably someone who can listen without judging, advising, or getting upset themselves. I guess maybe that's too much to expect of friends.