After my column on Fort Lauderdale’s unregulated pill mills,
I received an e-mail from a Broward County woman that spoke, in the most
heartbreaking language, of the consequences of easy access to narcotic pain
prescriptions. What follows are excerpts from the journal of the mother of an
addicted daughter. It’s long for a blog item but it captures the pain and
frustration and tattered hopes of a parent perfectly. Her words echoed the
conversations of friends who’ve similarly struggled to save their own children
from addiction. And were forced into exhausting self-examination and self-doubt,
ever wondering if their child’s descent into addiction was due to some mistaken
parenting.
I’ve removed the
names of the mother and her three daughters. (The middle daughter is the
addicted child, in case the editing is confusing). But I suspect many readers
will recognize the circumstances as nearly their own.
I don’t know how
my situation got to where it is today. I seemed to be part of an average
American family, with my beautiful three daughters, good husband and houseful
of pets. I look at my life today and I feel as if I have descended the gates of
hell and am hopefully climbing back out. My story is the story of so many
mothers who don’t seem to have the right answers, just so many questions that we
need help with.
I am an ordinary
woman. Not too pretty, not too smart but basically pretty content in my world.
I had my oldest daughter who gave us so much pleasure, that my husband and I
decided to have a second. We were so lucky. Twenty three years ago, the most
beautiful perfect little girl was placed in my arms. I lost my heart at that
very second, little did I know that one day she would make me lose my mind as
well.
My new baby was
all one could hope for. She was truly the fulfillment of our dreams. She was
blond, with big green eyes and so good natured. Never a cry or a peep from her,
just smiles and happiness. I thought how wonderful and lucky our world was to
have this incredible human being.
There is no one day
that life started to change for us. I suppose looking back, we always excused
her temper and bad moods. My mom and I always thought this was a stage that she
would grow out of and learn to be a more tolerant agreeable daughter but things
always seemed to just get worse. I continued to make excuses for her -- no one
wants to learn that they are a bad mother doing a lousy job raising their
daughter.
I look back at my
daughter’s childhood and slowly I start to remember things that were never
right. Little things I believed. Little did I realize how fast little problems evolve
into big ones. I never thought my dreams for my daughter would include so many
sleepless nights. I never thought that the nights I managed to sleep would be
so full of nightmares and terrors. I never thought that my daughter could cause
so many tears and so much unhappiness. The truth is I never thought that this
would be my life. I don’t have an imagination large enough to have ever thought
of all that has happened.
My daughter is
not a bad person. As she will say, she knew right from wrong and simply chose
wrong. No matter what she did, I went along with it. I’m not really stupid
either. I just didn’t know what else to do. You’re beginning to wonder what has
happened to make me so miserable.
My daughter was
arrested last week and put in jail awaiting state mandated drug treatment. She
hasn’t killed anyone -- just my dreams for her. If this program is successfully
completed, she won’t even have a record. My question is: How do I get through
this? How do I ever close my eyes and not see her behind barbed wire. How do I
ever trust again? Love isn’t really a question. I love my daughters
unconditionally no matter what. I love their faces, their expressions, the
memories that I have of them growing up. I love the right to hold their hand as
we walk down a street or grab their face to drop a kiss on it. I loved them my
whole life, long before they were born and I will love them long after I am
gone. That is me -- their mom.
I believe that
all mothers love unconditionally. I suppose this goes back to ideas of Jesus
and his Mother. As mothers, we accept our children. I’m trying to remember though
when I stopped liking my daughter. And that scares the hell out of me. I want
to grow old with her; sit on a rocking chair with her and remember our life together.
I’m so angry now and so hurt that I can’t stand it. I want to shake her and
have her know that she actually broke my heart and I don’t know how to fix it.
How will I ever go back to the point of needing her to be close to me, to touch
her hand and caress her face?
I seem to cry all
the time now and yet, I didn’t do this to her. Or did I? I am not a spokeswoman
for motherhood. As all mothers seem to do, we do the best that we can and we do
what we think is right at that moment. It is the guilt twenty years later that
seems to consume me. Could I have done better or different? Could I done more?
I remember when she
was about seven or eight and she wanted to go to her girlfriend’s home for a
sleepover. “Of course,” I answered when she excitedly asked me. I was so delighted
for her. We packed up her overnight bag with new pajamas and her toothbrush. We
put in her favorite doll and clothes for the next day. I drove her over and was
so thrilled that she never called to ask to come home. When my phone rang the
next day, her first words were nothing I expected. Michelle’s mom is so much
better than you she informed me. I want to stay another night. When I replied
that I thought one night was enough, she started to yell at me, telling me how
horrid I was and how much she hated me. I began to realize that day that
nothing I did was ever going to be enough.
This story is not
being written to make you feel sorry for me. My life was as I lived it. Most
moments were good and I was basically content with all I have. But somewhere in
the very back of my mind, I knew that we were not the perfect family.
Having a child
with an addiction is an everyday life reality. One learns to hide their
jewelry, their purse or wallet and their checkbook. Money is never left on a
bathroom counter or jewelry in a jewelry box. Hiding and secrets become a way
of living.
I refuse to
continue. I want my life back and I intend to take control starting right now.
I refuse to have secrets anymore. I refuse to hide my things. I refuse to
accept all that I have allowed for too many years. I pledge to try and find one
thing to smile at a day. I plan to find my sense of humor. I remember that I
once was funny and I want it back! I want to walk out of my house without
hiding my car keys. I want to give my ten year old her allowance and not make
her hide it immediately. I want to be free for that is my right and I want it
back. I want to close my eyes at night and not wait for the phone to ring
informing me of a problem. I want to answer my phone and not hear a demand for
money that would never be paid back. I want to stop crying. I want to start all
over again and have my perfect dreams not be destroyed by drugs. I want to be
happy.
Most of all, I
want my daughter back.
My daughter
doesn’t understand how she is when she is not sober. Gone is the beautiful,
bright woman she could be. Instead is this slobbering, half asleep,
inarticulate scary person. I’m not stoned she mumbles. I’m not yelling, she
screeches at us. I never stole anything she insists as I show her a check she
has written out and signed my name. I find my earrings in her purse and a pawn
slip in her room.
How to lose your
mind? Look for a ring that you know was on your dresser. First you run your
hand over the top of the dresser. Then open your top drawer and search through
all your bras and panties. Move the dresser away from the wall and get down on
your hands and knees. Examine the floor with a flashlight in the behind a
dresser. Ask everyone if they saw your ring. Never accuse for that makes you
the enemy.
Then when you’re
all alone, check your daughter’s room and belongings. Find the ring in her
purse and slip it on your finger. Try to remember that your child is sick. Pray
that a bandage can be found to make her all better. Hope that something will
wake her up.
I never
understood the concept of a broken heart. Then I watched a judge ask for a drug
test. I looked at my daughter’s and knew we had big problems. Yes I said we. I
don’t want these things to happen to my child. I want things to get better and
to miraculously correct themselves. I want a miracle to occur and selfishly, I
want it now.
But instead I sat
in that courtroom and waited for her to walk out of the bathroom. I saw her
face and knew she had used drugs again. I sat and waited for the judge to
speak. I sat and felt my heart break at that moment. I actually felt a part of
me die. Dramatic sounding isn’t it? Unless you, as a parent, wife or husband or
a child has been through something like this you can’t imagine how it feels. I
sat and watched as my daughter, the one that I tried to protect for
twenty-three years, get handcuffed and taken away from me.
I sat there long
after she left because I didn’t know what else to do. Does one just get up and
walk away? My helplessness at that moment was overwhelming. And yet, deep down
inside of me, I knew that this was for the best. I knew that for the next
couple of months, my daughter would be safe. I thought, foolishly, that for the
first time in years, I would close my eyes at night and actually sleep through
the night.
A little over two
years ago, I lost my mother. Mom was a huge part of our lives. She would come
almost every day. She helped me school my youngest daughter teaching her how to
spell and read. Most important, she was someone that I could talk to. She
listened and never judged me. She told me to hold on for one more day. One time
she had a gold cat made for me. “Wear this,” she said . “Remember that like a
cat, you too have nine chances to make things better. Like a cat, you too, can
start a new way of living and a new chance at better beginnings.”
I miss my mother’s
wisdom and kindness that she gave me. I miss her common sense. I miss having
someone to share my bad times, sad times and glad times. I’m not sure how to
cope with everyday living anymore. I find that I just want to hide away, perhaps
under a blanket, and sleep my life away. In this house though, when I hide, my
ten year old thinks I’m playing hide and seek. She yells, “Come out, come out,
wherever you are!” Reluctantly my head appears. Please don’t find me, I beg. I
need time alone because I find that I am grieving just as I did when Mom died.
I’m not even sure
why I feel this way. I haven’t lost my troubled daughter and I hope that I
never will. I think that I am grieving for what we have lost as a mother and
daughter. I’m grieving for all the days lost when she was too stoned to even
realize another day had passed. I grieve for all the joys that I am entitled to
as her Mom. I grieve for the loss of my smile and feeling of joy. And right
now, I realize that maybe life isn’t fair. I know that somewhere, somehow, as a
mother, I need to find myself again so that my ten year old doesn’t lose out on
what she is entitled to. She is entitled to a sister who is there for her. A
sister who doesn’t judge her, doesn’t yell at her and doesn’t accuse her of
things she didn’t do. My addicted daughter can no longer take her anger and
frustrations over her own life out on my ten year old.
So I am done
being morose over things that I could have done. As of right now, my new
mission in life is to make things better. I will try harder not to yell at the
ten year old for normal things. I will try harder to smile more though I’m not
sure what there is to smile at. I will try harder to stop crying when I hear
from her troubled sister. I will try harder to focus only on the positive
things that I pray will come out of this nightmare. I will try to be the
strong, positive woman that I want and believe my daughters to be.
My story -- from
this point on -- will reflect the positive moments of my day. I am so afraid
that if I don’t pull out from under this cloud of misery now, I never will. I
need to see my glass as half full, instead of almost empty. I need to want to
wake up and face each day that my daughter may have chosen this life. Or
perhaps the drugs chose her. I’m not sure . . . but I didn’t. I need to face
the fact that I am not totally responsible for her choices in life. She has to
face that challenge alone. I can only pray she does.
Now that I am no
longer wallowing in my own misery, let me tell you about my days. Monday was visiting day at the facility. I
decide that I will map quest the address but first I have to figure out where
my daughter is being held. I ask her for the address. She has no idea. I
suggest she ask someone but am told that the best thing she can do is keep her
mouth shut. She tells me to look it up online. Okay so where do I look. I put
her name in. Her name did come up but as part of my father in law’s obituary. Well
that didn’t help so I type in police department. Hundreds appeared on my
screen. I call my husband. He suggested I try public records. All of her
tickets showed up but still no address. Finally I type in sheriff’s department.
I finally learned what North meant.
I get in my car
and drive up to see her. I leave early in case I get lost but I arrive about
thirty minutes early. I get to see her between eight and ten at night. All I
can take in with me is my driver’s license and car key. In the first door, I go
through security. Then I ring a bell and a second door is opened. I walk up the
stairs to another closed door. I ring and am asked why I am there. Hello? Why
do you think I’m there? This is not my idea of a field trip. I smile nicely and
tell him I would like to see my daughter.
He takes my
picture, all my information and then puts my driver’s license behind him on a
table. He points to a cubicle and tells me to sit down. I’m not very big so I
try to pull the stool closer to the window. Surprise. The damn stool is bolted
to the ground. I suppose they think someone might throw it in a moment of
anger. In walks my daughter. To my relief, she looks a lot better than I ever
imagined. I don’t know what I thought she would look like after a week. I guess
I thought her eyes would be red and swollen from crying but they weren’t. She
almost seemed relieved that any choices about treatment had been taken out of
her hands. I know I am. We mostly discussed everyday things and tried not to
dwell on why she was there. It was only when I had to go that the situation
really hit me. I couldn’t give her a kiss or touch her hand. I put my hands up
to the glass partition and she put hers up against mine. It’s not the same as
holding someone close.
I retrieved my
license and walked out to my car. In order to get to the parking lot one walks
about a block. I assumed the place would be heavily guarded with lots of
security. It isn’t. I was the only one
walking to my car. I was the last one to leave. I stood by my car waving to the
building where I assumed she was being held. I stood there crying.
The next morning
I wake up the ten year old. We’re going on an adventure I tell her. We’re going
to find the place to put money down on commissary fees. Please try to remember
that I have had only one ticket in my entire life that I fought and won. I am
not familiar with courts and jails and commissary fees. We drive to the main
jail which is what the recording informs me I am required to do. I follow the
signs to the parking lot. There are thirty two spots and at least one hundred
cars waiting. It’s nine o’clock in the morning and visiting hours have begun at
the main jail. I drive around the lot. Up one side and down the other. I do
this again and again and again for the next hour. It’s now ten o’clock and I
have to get my daughter to her class. I drive fifteen minutes, drop her off and
turn around to get back into line. I finally follow a woman to her car and wait
while she pulls out. That was my first mistake. While I waited nicely for her
to get out, giving her room, a huge SUV pulls right in front of me. I can’t
move. This bitch stole my spot! I couldn’t believe this could happen. I sat
there stunned for the minute and then I started to laugh. I actually was
sitting in my car wishing horrid things to a woman who was probably visiting a
family member in jail. What was I becoming? How much worse could it be than to
visit a loved one in jail? I finally got my well deserved parking spot and raced into the building to pay her fees.
For those who are lucky enough not to know, commissary fees allow her to
purchase cookies, candy, shampoo and deodorant to use. I get my number and sit
to wait my turn. I’m number 117 and they have just called 108. I look at my
watch and breathe a sigh of relief. I have fifty minutes to pay, get back in my
car and pick up my daughter. I stand up when the number 115 comes up. Finally
something is going right. Except… a sign appears on the window. She’s taking a
fifteen minute break. I look at my watch. Even having to wait, I figure I
should be okay. Ten minutes pass, then fifteen, then twenty. Apparently the
jail has a different way of keeping time than I do. I finally get called, and
quickly pay. I’m only going to be a few minutes late to pick up the ten year
old. Except, I have to cross New River to get back and the bridge is going up.
At that point, one doesn’t know if they should scream, cry or laugh. I assumed
that it was God having a joke on me. The good news, I finally picked my younger
daughter up.
Speaking of God,
I am not a religious woman. I was raised in a house without religion and so I
celebrate all the religious holidays. Easter, Chanukah, Christmas, they all get
decorated for in my house. Since my daughter is gone, I find that I am talking
with a God of sorts. I make bargains such as keep her safe and I’ll try to be a
better person. Let this program be a success and I’ll start to be more
religious. Help me get through this without losing my mind and I’ll start to go
to temple. I’m not sure God is listening to me yet but I find myself still
doing it. My husband tells me that if there was a God then none of this would
have happened. Life would be perfect with no recessions, layoffs or illnesses.
I think I’ll still continue making deals with God -- just in case.
My daughter was
moved into a program called Life Skills on Tuesday. Last night she called me
and she is so angry. I seem to be the receiver of her frustrations and anger.
She’s angry that she was moved onto a floor with coke users and hard drug
abusers. She doesn’t feel that she belongs there or that the judge was being fair
with her. I’m angry as well, but more at the fact that she never took the rules
seriously. Do I want her with drug abusers? Of course not, but the reality is,
my daughter also abused drugs. I have been told that anything done to an excess
will be a danger to her wellbeing.
Every day, I hope
that she realizes what she has done, not only to herself but to all the people
that love her. She’s angry that her boyfriend is buying a house while she is
there. She doesn’t realize that he’s not telling her to make her cry, but to
try to make her a part of an exciting time of his life. We cannot imagine what
she is enduring and so we try to talk to her as if things are okay. It seems to
be a no-win situation especially for me. She feels that I am unsympathetic to
her situation. I feel she thinks that I want her there.
She asks me to
call the Broward Addiction Recovery Center and explain that she doesn’t belong
in jail and to try to get her into the program faster. I call all the time and
talk to a machine. There is not much I can do. The judge is a much higher
authority than I am and her voice will be the last one heard. The man at BARC
thinks that the Judge likes my daughter and sees a successful future. Hard for
me to believe at this moment but the man at BARC believes that is why she was recommended.
Is this time
waiting at jail harsh? Of course it is. I find that there is a very thin line
between reality and depression. One wants to make sure there their child is
aware of the consequences of ignoring what the judge says but to start
treatment before a deep depression sets in. Listening to my daughter argue with
me is painful but so far she is not in a depression. She is angry at the
situation she finds herself in and somehow believes that if I wanted, I could
change it.
I think being at the
Life Skills program has to be better than just waiting. My daughter may not
feel that she belongs with the others but at least she is doing something
throughout the day. I am not with her so I can only hope that some of what the
counselors talk about is making an impression on her. It was pleasant to hear from her tonight. She
seemed much more upbeat. She told me that she received my letter and some
pictures. Some pictures were being sent back because she was in them. I’ll
never understand why that would make a difference. Every day I seem to learn
something new and the more I learn the less it seems to make sense. The
pictures I sent were family ones of her and her sisters. Maybe one day, I’ll
get a handbook that will explain why she can’t have a picture of herself, why
there is no parking at the main jail and why there is only one person to take
money for the commissary. I would ask someone but I’m afraid to draw attention
to myself.
.
I think that
things were be easier if there was someone to share my experiences with. The
problem is we are in the middle of a recession and foreclosures and layoffs. My
problems which seem overwhelming to me are small to someone facing foreclosure.
How can I complain to someone who has just lost their job after forty years. How dare I bitch to someone who has cancer?
So instead, I just try to handle this on my own. I’m not sure I’m doing such a
good job of it though. It’s times like this that I miss having my family
around. I think I’ll add that to my list of needs. I need my sister, brother, Mom.
Friends are great but you can’t discuss family issues with them. Families are
too widespread. Sometimes you just need someone to hold your hand and listen.
My husband can’t do that for he is too close to all of this. Not only that, but
he finds it easier to hold me responsible for all of this. He thinks I spoiled
the girls too much and never learned how to say no to them. George could have
thrown our daughter out years ago and let her sink or swim on her own. I
couldn’t do that.
Friday is movie day
at the facility. My daughter just called to tell me she spent the day watching
movies and eating junk food. Yes the food I bought at the commissary arrived
today and my daughter ate most of it. Her meals at this place are unbelievable.
She is awakened at three o’clock in the morning to eat breakfast. Breakfast is
juice, bread, jelly and bologna. Lunch is peanut butter and bologna with mayo
on bread. She wasn’t quite sure what dinner was. It was brown. So in order to
supplement this healthy diet she added a
bag of chips, cupcake, cookies, cheese and crackers, a honey bun and three bags
of M&Ms. The good news is, I think she ate most of what I got her, so
she’ll have all week to take off the calories. She played basketball with her
dormies and at seven tonight she will go for a N.A. meeting. Her spirits are up
and she is enjoyable to talk with. I am extremely proud of how she is coping. I
take a minute to thank God for helping.
Today she was
moved over to BARC. This is the Broward Addiction Recovery Center. I drove over
this morning to bring her some clothes. I was told that last night she had
spent at the main jail in downtown Fort Lauderdale, I spoke to her for just a
minute. I am so relieved to know that she is finally being moved. I was so
worried that something would happen while she was locked up. People tell me
that they sleep best when their child is in jail but I didn’t. I was afraid
that she would be hurt or even raped. I think I watch too many movies about
jails because my imagination was running at high speed. All I could think of
was how her Dad and I protected her while she was growing up. I explained about
staying away from strangers and not getting into cars with people she didn’t
know. I checked out the parents of her friends when she slept over. All I can
think of is where she is now. I can’t check anyone out anymore. She’ll spend a
month ate rehab center. I can’t help but hope that it will be long enough.
Eight years on drugs and thirty days to get off and stay off. It’s just another
thing that I will worry about. And yes, my hair is turning grey and I am very
tired. So I call BARC and ask what I am allowed to bring her. I am told to read
all labels to make sure that there is no alcohol in the contents. I check out
the mouthwash. I learned it is made with alcohol. So no mouthwash. I move on to
the toothpaste. That is acceptable. I work my way over to the shampoo aisle.
Some conditioners and gels have alcohol. Twenty minutes have passed while I
stand there. I realize that tears are falling down my cheeks and think to myself
how low things have sunk. To think that some of the clients are so desperate
that they will drink anything has depressed me beyond words. Again that damn
imagination of mine moves into overtime. What will my daughter do to get more
pills? Will a month really be able to control the cravings? Is there a God that
will help me? It is at moments like this that I miss my mother the most and yet
I am so glad she is not here to see all of this. I realize how lonely I am and
call my sister at work. She listens to me and advises me to keep looking at the
glass as half full. She repeats over and over that things have reached their
low and can only move up. I tell her the same for she has her own issues in
life to deal with. We ask each other over and over again how things could have
gotten this awful. We finish the conversation not depressed, but rather two
older women trying to fix the world and ourselves along with it. We laugh and
decide to blame our problems on the Bush administration. I drive over to BARC
with my ten year old. I stop on the way and pull over to the side of the rode
where I am sick to my stomach. I am so nervous and again have imagined her
still behind barbed wire. To my great surprise and relief, my7 daughter is in a
place that looks like a college dorm. There are no guards patrolling the area
nor are there any fences. I grab her things and instruct my youngest daughter to
stay in the car with the doors locked. I know I’m imagining the worse but I
can’t help it. I am living a life that is totally controlled by fear. It may be
irrational but unfortunately I can’t stop the feelings. Imagine my shock when I
walked into a building that almost resembled a hotel lobby. There was a lovely
waiting room and a front desk with the most wonderful kind face looking at me.
Am I in the right place I asked her? She stood up and walked around the desk
and hugged me. This was what I was so worried about. This is what I locked my
ten year old in the car for? She asked me to list what I had brought for my
daughter but she didn’t even check the stuff out. For the first time in weeks I
felt better. Her one act of kindness to a total stranger did more for me than
anything else. I won’t hear from my daughter now for a week. I take a deep
breath and walk out. I realize that I am smiling as I approach the car and free
my 10-year-old. We laugh together as I explain my fears for her and how stupid
they were. I feel as if a weight has been taken off my shoulders. Maybe a
miracle will happen in the next thirty days. I call my sister back and we laugh
together as I explain how nice everything was. I wish I had the money to get on
a plane to see her. I need a hug. I need my sister.
A week has
already passed and I am getting ready to see my daughter. Visiting hours are
from seven to nine fifteen at night. In order to see a client, the visitor has
to do a meeting first. After the meeting, there is a forty-five minute visitation.
I am nervous but excited. I realize that I am more excited than anxious. It’s a
good feeling. Since most of us in the meeting were fairly new, the counselor
explained the disease of addiction. I didn’t learn anything new but it makes
one feel better to know that you’re not alone. I listen to others talk about
their loved ones and I know it’s okay to worry. It’s more than all right. Many
of the clients are return visitors. I learn that my low may not be someone
else’s low. I am told to let go of my concerns for I can’t change an addict. We
go over the process of what an enabler is. It wasn’t a surprise to see how I
fit every description. What I did was wrong and now I must learn to change. I
am in for the biggest fight of my life. I have to learn the word no. How could
two little letters install such fear in me. I am so disgusted with myself. I am
guilty of everything that was mentioned. Yes, I gave money and my car. Yes, I
thought it was a phase. Yes, I took all her abuse and overlooked it. All these
yeses have to change or I will continue to enable her in her choices. I have so
much to learn. No wonder I walk around in a state of nervous tension. I realize
exactly how weak I am. I realize that what I thought was concern and love was
enabling. All this has to change and soon. She comes home in three weeks. The
meeting ends and I finally get to visit with her. Again, to my surprise there
was only one counselor in the room with all of us. We sat side by side not
really knowing what to say or how to act. People around us were laughing and
talking and here I was, afraid to say anything to my daughter. I have so many
questions that need to be answered but she doesn’t want to answer me now. For
her this is visitation, For me, I’m finding it hard to know that I have a
limited amount of time. I am afraid to ask too much in case I upset the apple
cart. I am so afraid for the future. The visit ends with so much left unsaid. I
walk out leaving her there to get better. I realize how many horrible moments I
am having. And yet, I really am able to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
I can already see a maturity that wasn’t there before. I see the beginnings of
an acceptance of the fact that she is an addict. I begin to understand taking
it one day at a time. Perhaps hope is beginning to take the place of utter
despair.
For those of you
who are fortunate enough not to ever go through any moments of great despair,
it is hard to understand what my life has become. There is a great weight
inside of me. I have been lucky enough not to have to bury my child from an
overdose but I have buried so much. My dreams and hopes for her have been
buried for so long that I wonder if they can ever be excavated . I walk down
the mall and find myself studying faces of the people that I pass, wondering if
their life is happier than mine. I wonder what strangers can read in my face.
Do they see the empty hole in my heart. I spend a great deal of time thinking
about how I could have made a difference in her life. Was I truly this
horrible, selfish person who should have saved her earlier. Over and over, I
tell myself that I was the best mother that I could be. I may not have been the
best mother that they wanted, just the best one that I could be. My head
understands that, just my heart is a little slower in getting the message. For
the first time in my life I am overwhelmed with feelings of frustration and
loss. I feel such a loss of control and that’s what scares me most. I have to
let my daughter make her own choices in life, right or wrong. I have to let her
be an adult and not just my child. I have to let go and for a mother, that is
so difficult. I am so unhappy. Deep down unbearably unhappy.
I also have an
older daughter who couldn’t face her addicted sister and her problems and so
she created her own life. As a mother I am both proud and disappointed in her. Her
sister has a disease and my older daughter will not accept that. She sees
things only in black and white. She blames me for allowing the addicted
daughter to take over my life. I don’t think that until she is a mother, she
will ever understand. She would repeat over and over again that I should throw
her out. Let her suffer from what she is doing. She almost seems to hate sister
for what she is doing. I worry about that. I want my children to be close and
yet I understand the resentment. The addicted daughter still doesn’t realize
how much my life has revolved around her and the things she did. I cannot
remember one trip away from her that I wasn’t called. I can still hear my
husband calling me in Orlando because she had come home stoned and was fighting
with the boyfriend. I remember one trip when she was found in our guesthouse
smoking weed with a girlfriend. My husband always felt that we needed to throw
her out but I never could bring myself to do it. I would wonder where she would
live and what would she live on. Would she steal to get food? Would she add a
zero to a prescription that she had obtained? Would I find her dead lying under
a bridge somewhere? I never could bring myself to actually cut the umbilical
cord. I was the eternal enabler. I am learning to say no. I have learned the
hard way that I will never go back to how things were. I am learning that I am
a strong person and can survive if my daughter chooses drugs over us. It is her
decision and one that I will learn to live with. I seem to worry a great deal
about the effect that this has had on my youngest. I think back on the number
of times that our lives have been disrupted because of this illness.
As I sit here and
look back on my life, I think of so many things I should have done differently.
It is only now when I was shown exactly what the drugs my daughter has taken
can do to her, that I am waking up. Over the last five years, I can probably
count the nights that I’ve slept through over the nights that I am up walking
the floors. I have always made sure that the cell phone bill was paid and up to
date so that I could stay in contact with my daughters. It’s amazing how often
the phone died or was left in a car. I would dial and wait. One ring, two
rings, then the voice would get on. Leave a message. What could I say? Call me
please. You’re four hours late. Do you have any idea what you are doing to me?
I imagine you either in a hospital or a police station. I worry if you have
been in an accident? I wonder if you have any idea what you are doing to me? Do
you care what you are doing to me or has your life become so self centered
around you and your needs? I can’t tell her how I feel for at this point she
doesn’t really care. And so I hang up the phone and I leave no message. But I
sit and watch the clock. Fifteen minutes later, I start the whole thing over
again. I can’t help myself. I am so worried that the truth is I can’t be
rational. My mom would tell me that bad news always has a way of finding you --
don’t go looking for it. My head would tell me not to call but the heart would
make me try again, over and over, hoping that one time she’ll answer. It was no
better if she did answer. I could tell immediately from her voice if she was
high. New worries would start. Is she going to drive? Where is she sleeping/
Why is she doing this? It took until now for me to see that she didn’t have any
more control than I did. All her rational thought was gone once that pill went
into her mouth. All my rational thought was gone once she took those pills.
Today I read in
the paper that Florida was the pain pill capital of the United States. Over six
million pills were given out last year.
A patient can even go to a pain management clinic that is a drive up.
Get a prescription without even leaving your car. Broward County is the leading
provider of pain pills in all of Florida. Some states have puppy mills, Florida
is known for having pill mills. The drugs are sold on site by these so called
healers. They post signs that offer gas for out of state patients. They neglect
to mention that over seven hundred patients died in 2007. In the last ten
months, the DEA estimates that almost a hundred new clinics opened their doors.
Remember this is in just two counties in South Florida. I wonder where are the
regulations to stop this. How is it allowed that a Doctor is able to see over
sixty-five patients in one day? Every patient is issued a prescription for pain
pills. Many of them have their prescriptions filled right at the clinic. They
then cross the street and sell them to people like my daughter.
Are the pills
legal? Sure, they were obtained by a prescription. These clinics advertise in
the pages of alternative newspapers. It’s not right that my daughter took them,
but it certainly was easy.
I read that many
of these pain clinics are owned by people who have no medical training. It has
become a business to them. I want them to suffer as I have suffered these last
few years. I want these owners to cry as I have. I want them to watch someone
sink without life preserver available.
I think how lucky
I am. My child is getting help. More important, my child is accepting the help
that is being offered.
For the first
time in so long, I see a future ahead for both of us. But I am still so angry
at the system. I am so angry at these clinics and at the pill makers. Pain
pills are so addicting and yet they are so easy to obtain. The Miami Herald
posted figures of the amount of doctors and pills that are in South Florida.
Forty-five doctors sold over nine million oxycodone pills in the last six
months. That breaks down to four pills per resident. It’s absolutely insane
that this is allowed to continue. Thirty-three of the top fifty
pill-prescribing doctors operate out of Broward County. I think to myself that
this can’t possibly be allowed to continue. How can this be legal?
Better
yet, how have these doctors escaped the pain of watching a child become
addicted?
