I'm watching my grandson again today. He's adorable and full of energy and I love spending time with him. He lights up my world, especially as I see him gaining new skills through his therapy. I handed him a chicken nugget today and he said, "Thank you Nana" Not many other people would have recognized those words, but I did. And my entire being smiled.
We've had a month or so without my grandson's father being in the picture. It's been the nicest, smoothest month since the beginning of his entry into our lives. He's coming back on Friday. My daughter, finally standing up for herself, told him to get a cab from the airport because she has plans. That's progress. Hopefully there will be more progress.
Tonight hubby and I will attend a family meeting at a detox center where our son is being treated for heroin addiction. Yea...heroin. It's not something I've been able to talk or write about in the past year, but I can now. What a horrible destructive drug. It's like a cancer that he invited into his life, but that damages everyone in his circle. If he ever gets clean can we call ourselves survivors? I don't know. I don't care. I hope this fifth trip through rehab will be the magic bullet for this awfulness. I do not have the enthusiastic hope I had the first time around. I'm more jaded than before, but I try to kindle what small spark of hope that I have left. If he doesn't get clean he will die. I know this to be truth. A sad and bitter truth, but truth nonetheless. We have even looked into getting life insurance on our son because of the high risk of death by overdose--accidental or otherwise.
I love my son and I miss him. This shadow, this ghost that has been living with us is not my son. He hasn't been my son for quite a long time now. It's like walking death. He's not dead but neither is he alive.
For a time I blamed every sin, every poor decision, every bad behaviour my children engaged in on myself. I didn't do enough. I did too much. I was a bad mother, I was too strict, I was too lenient. Their lives were a reflection of my mothering, of me. It took some very serious awfulness for me to finally come to the realization that I was not responsible for my children's lives. How dare I believe I had that much power? How could I? We taught them to pray, we taught them right from wrong, we took them to church and we walked the talk. We didn't drink or smoke or swear. We taught them about modesty, about virtue, about honesty. From the moment I knew I was pregnant I loved my babies with everything I had.
Train up a child the way that they should go and when they are old they will not depart from it is what the scripture says. Sadly, I have not found that to be the case.
My previously high expecations are extremely low to non-existent right now. Life is easier without expectations, less painful and admittedly a bit more bleak. I do believe that with God, all things are possible. I've been taught that we are an eternal family. My heart wishes and hopes, despite my best attempts at being pragmatic about things.
What has hurt the most has been the judgement from family and ward members. The gossiping, the talking, the looks. On second thought, this hasn't hurt the worst, but it has added to my pain. We spent a great deal of money to fix my father's house so we could move in and help him. He could not have stayed in his home otherwise. He complains and talks about us to my sister constantly. It hurts. I understand on some level, but it still hurts. I am doing my best not to be bitter and let it effect a change in my feelings towards him. He's 83, he's stubborn, unhappy with the changes age has wrought in his body and unwilling to aceept most reccomendations for help. He makes gay jokes that aren't funny, racist joke that are embarrassing and no matter how many times I tell him I'd rather not hear that kind of thing, he continues. I worry about him falling constantly. I've taken him to the ER countless times. I'm weary. My children do not like living with him because he doesn't talk to them as much as at them, telling them they've done something wrong each and every time he comes into contact with them. They are so unhappy. My husband is unhappy. I am doing my best to be a buffer between all of them but it's wearing on me.
I think I shall go play trucks with my sweet grandson and treasure his giggles. His light is helping me through the darkness I've been in. I am blessed to have him.
We've had a month or so without my grandson's father being in the picture. It's been the nicest, smoothest month since the beginning of his entry into our lives. He's coming back on Friday. My daughter, finally standing up for herself, told him to get a cab from the airport because she has plans. That's progress. Hopefully there will be more progress.
Tonight hubby and I will attend a family meeting at a detox center where our son is being treated for heroin addiction. Yea...heroin. It's not something I've been able to talk or write about in the past year, but I can now. What a horrible destructive drug. It's like a cancer that he invited into his life, but that damages everyone in his circle. If he ever gets clean can we call ourselves survivors? I don't know. I don't care. I hope this fifth trip through rehab will be the magic bullet for this awfulness. I do not have the enthusiastic hope I had the first time around. I'm more jaded than before, but I try to kindle what small spark of hope that I have left. If he doesn't get clean he will die. I know this to be truth. A sad and bitter truth, but truth nonetheless. We have even looked into getting life insurance on our son because of the high risk of death by overdose--accidental or otherwise.
I love my son and I miss him. This shadow, this ghost that has been living with us is not my son. He hasn't been my son for quite a long time now. It's like walking death. He's not dead but neither is he alive.
For a time I blamed every sin, every poor decision, every bad behaviour my children engaged in on myself. I didn't do enough. I did too much. I was a bad mother, I was too strict, I was too lenient. Their lives were a reflection of my mothering, of me. It took some very serious awfulness for me to finally come to the realization that I was not responsible for my children's lives. How dare I believe I had that much power? How could I? We taught them to pray, we taught them right from wrong, we took them to church and we walked the talk. We didn't drink or smoke or swear. We taught them about modesty, about virtue, about honesty. From the moment I knew I was pregnant I loved my babies with everything I had.
Train up a child the way that they should go and when they are old they will not depart from it is what the scripture says. Sadly, I have not found that to be the case.
My previously high expecations are extremely low to non-existent right now. Life is easier without expectations, less painful and admittedly a bit more bleak. I do believe that with God, all things are possible. I've been taught that we are an eternal family. My heart wishes and hopes, despite my best attempts at being pragmatic about things.
What has hurt the most has been the judgement from family and ward members. The gossiping, the talking, the looks. On second thought, this hasn't hurt the worst, but it has added to my pain. We spent a great deal of money to fix my father's house so we could move in and help him. He could not have stayed in his home otherwise. He complains and talks about us to my sister constantly. It hurts. I understand on some level, but it still hurts. I am doing my best not to be bitter and let it effect a change in my feelings towards him. He's 83, he's stubborn, unhappy with the changes age has wrought in his body and unwilling to aceept most reccomendations for help. He makes gay jokes that aren't funny, racist joke that are embarrassing and no matter how many times I tell him I'd rather not hear that kind of thing, he continues. I worry about him falling constantly. I've taken him to the ER countless times. I'm weary. My children do not like living with him because he doesn't talk to them as much as at them, telling them they've done something wrong each and every time he comes into contact with them. They are so unhappy. My husband is unhappy. I am doing my best to be a buffer between all of them but it's wearing on me.
I think I shall go play trucks with my sweet grandson and treasure his giggles. His light is helping me through the darkness I've been in. I am blessed to have him.
Wow...I'm famous! lol You're sweet to mention me. I'm really wishing we lived in Washington right now so I could come visit and see if I couldn't help you find joy in life again. Please know you are in my thoughts. I know you are loved. What are the odds some strange woman in Utah would be reading your words of pain and want to help? The Lord is watching over you, even when you feel so alone. Take care my friend!
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