An Open Letter to the Parents of Addicts

From the very first moment you found out that you would be parents, you imagined the life your child would lead. You painted a nursery and assembled a crib and you dreamed of the milestones to come. You stood behind your fearless kindergartener on the first day of school, barely holding it together as they ran off into the world, for the first time, without you.

You sat in the cold ice rink at five in the morning, watching your little one take on the hard, cold ice, covered head to toe in so many pads that they could barely move their little feet. You stood in the blistering heat on the soccer field, trying not to laugh as your four year old tripped over the ball that would eventually become an extension of their foot. You put bandaids on skinned knees which gave way to broken hearts. You laced up ballet slippers which gave way to high heels. You painted cartoon characters on their bedroom wall which gave way to black pleather curtains and posters for bands with names that you couldn’t even pronounce.

You got through the terrible twos which gave way to terrible teens. You watched that fearless kindergartener give way to an anxious adolescent, and maybe you thought the worst was over. You looked at colleges and helped them get their first car. You raised a happy, competent, capable young adult and then you watched in horror as your child became lost.

You didn’t know what was wrong at first, just that something was wrong. You find out your child is doing drugs, and you think maybe they’re just experimenting. You think it’s a phase and it will pass. They’re out partying until all hours and you think they’re just kids being kids.

Then the partying gives way to solitude. Good friends from childhood are replaced by shady characters you don’t recognize, whose parents you’ve never met. The upward trajectory of your child’s life is suddenly stalled out, and like a standard car stopped at the top of a very intimidating hill, your child starts slowly rolling backward.

They roll and they roll and they pick up speed and suddenly they’re flying at 100 miles per hour, backward, in the wrong direction.

They’ve lost control of the car and no matter how badly you want to intervene and grab that steering wheel, or stomp as hard as you possibly can on the brakes, there’s nothing you can do because you’re not the one driving the car.

You watch in horror as your little fearless kindergartener becomes a fearful, dulled down version of themselves. You watch them fight and you watch them stumble and you watch them fall. You do your best to pick them back up, only to become exasperated as they fall again. You get tired and you get angry and you get upset but most of all you get hurt.

You wage war beside them and try your best to help them, but you don’t know how. You would give your own life to see them live theirs, but it just doesn’t work that way. You have small victories and big setbacks. You spend a lot of time praying, a lot of time crying, a lot of time remembering those days when the most danger your fearless kindergartner was in was from a pair of safety scissors.

You pray and you make devil’s bargains, willing to give up anything or pay any price to save your child’s life.

You take a second mortgage on your home to send them to a world renowned treatment center. You lock your purse in your car and wear the keys around your neck. You start checking your child’s breathing in their sleep.

If your child gets sober, you wait with baited breath for the other shoe to drop. Maybe your child is in jail, and you are surprised to find yourself relieved because at least you know where they are and that they’ll likely still be alive tomorrow morning. Maybe you’re living the very real nightmare in which you’ve buried your child.

No matter what chapter of the story you’re currently living in, it’s likely the hardest thing you’ve ever done in your life. You’re watching your child die of a chronic, progressive, often fatal disease while the world scoffs at you and tells you it’s your fault. People ask “Where were the parents?” like you haven’t been standing beside your child this whole time, since the day they were born, fighting for them.

Addiction is a family disease, and for every active addict out there, countless others are affected. For every addict out there, there is a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a husband, a wife, a son, a daughter, a friend. Every single addict was once a fearless kindergartner, taking their first steps into the world.

Nobody could ever imagine the pain and anguish that an addict goes through, except maybe their parents. Because they watch it, helplessly. They feel it in their bones. There’s nothing in this world more painful than loving an addict, except losing one.

As the dialogue shifts and the world begins to display a little compassion for those afflicted with this deadly disease, it’s important that we remember that none of us can win this war alone. It’s important that we acknowledge those who have walked beside us in our struggles, who have wiped our brow when we were tired and when we were truly broken, they carried us.

Our parents carry us as infants, and they don’t expect to be carrying us as adults. But they do it without hesitation, over and over again, until we learn to walk again or until our battle ends. They carry us through the hardest times of our lives, and though they may get weary, they are stronger than any of us could ever imagine.

They are the parents of addicts, and they deserve our respect, admiration, and compassion.

They are the parents of addicts, and they are the unsung heroes of this epidemic.

©Copyright 2018 In Angel’s Arms and Lauren Goodkin

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