Portrait of Despair

I see someone I love very much on the train tracks.  She looks so small and vulnerable in the distance.  And all of a sudden, I see that a train is coming. It’s far away, but I can see the tiny prick of light from the headlight and hear the quiet whistle in a distance.

I start to yell in hopes that help will arrive.  I see others coming to her aid, but the temporary wave of relief is fleeting as I realize that the others don’t hear the train getting closer.

Now everyone is on the tracks, and I am instantly filled with anxiety because they don’t hear me screaming at them to get off the tracks nor do they hear this train rushing towards them.  This train is loud and scary, and that tiny light and whistle heard in the distance is becoming brighter and more thunderous by the second.

I yell louder and louder, desperate for someone to hear me.  I am afraid to get closer to the tracks because I don’t want to get injured.  I’ve been hit by that train more than once, more than twice.  And now I am responsible for other human beings other than myself, human beings that are now old enough to discern when something is not right,

Instead I continue to scream, “Don't you hear the train? It’s coming so fast!  Why are you ignoring it?  Why are you ignoring me?”

The train roar is deafening, covering up my desperate cries.  I cannot fathom how the people on the tracks cannot hear this.

I yell some more, but it’s futile.

The next logical step would be to run and get help, however, I’m afraid to tell anyone else because this train that is coming to destroy my loved ones, it's a secret.  When discussed with loved ones, big, angry fireworks explode to cause a distraction from the real issue, the issue of the train barreling down the tracks with no regard to anyone or anything.

 
I am stuck; immobilized by fear. No one can hear me over the rumble of the train and the blast of the fireworks, but I’m scared to tell anyone.

Even though the train is so close now and it is clear no one on the tracks can see it, self- doubt starts to creep in.  No, creep is not the right word.  More like flood in, and I am drowning in self-doubt.   Maybe this train isn't really here. Maybe I am the one imagining all of this.  It’s hard to stay focused on the train with all these volatile, abrasive fireworks going off all around me.

Until the trains hits.

It’s messy and sad and unbearable.

I thought nothing could be worse than the anxiety of trying to get others to listen.

Wrong.

Guilt. The guilt that pierces right through to my core and sickens me with its vileness - that is the worst.  It’s the guilt that I didn't protect my loved ones and keep them safe.  The guilt that I let my warped distorted sense of loyalty and the irrational duty of secret keeping prevent me from doing what was right is the worse.  It makes me feel dirty and no amount of hand washing will ever make it go away.

 
Only time seems to make the guilt slowly fade away, and I start to feel hopeful that I may start to feel normal.  I do normal things, like brush my teeth, brush my kids’ teeth, make meals, and do laundry.

But when it’s quiet, I find that guilt slowly undulates into anger and back into guilt.

When I am exhausted from the raging course of my emotions, I lay still in hopes that it is peace that emerges from the dark waters.

But right now, that is not the case.  I am left with steady flow of despair which constantly erodes my sense of well-being.    

When the Other Shoe Drops. . .

I have said in the past that I believe what people tell me. I think, for the most part, trusting others is a good trait. I think it’s a bad trait when someone tells me something, and when their actions don’t match up to their lip service, I blame myself for the “misunderstanding.” This has not served me well. It has served me even worse when dealing with a loved one who happens to be an addict.

And I hate that word addict because it sounds so dirty. I feel it doesn’t encompass what the whole picture is to me: a disease that one uses drugs and alcohol to self-medicate. I liken it to a diabetic: both are medical conditions, but there is still that personal responsibility to take care of oneself. The diabetic knows his body can’t process a stack of pancakes with extra syrup with a side of Dunkin’ Donut Munchkins, anymore than an alcoholic who can’t process alcohol. But either way you cut it, when being close to someone who is deep in his addiction, loved one live with holding their breath and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Well, the other shoe recently dropped. And this time, for me, is different. Usually, I go into panic mode and wring my hands and try to wave flags to get the people to see the severity of the situation. I feel like it’s my fault if this person doesn’t get help. I get frustrated and sad and drained when my words fall on deaf ears.

For the past 15 years, I’ve always been the whistle blower. And for the past 14 years, I have felt that no one has ever taken me seriously. The person in question has hated me for this, claiming I am a tattle tale. And everyone knows, no one likes a truth-sayer. The people most affected by this situation have told me it is not what it seems, that everything will be fine. But this time, I bravely accept that this situation is not fine. This time I stand strong that what I am seeing is not going to get better on its own. This time I don’t feel the need to scurry and rant and rave for others to see my point of view. Because, this time, I see the sad truth with kind of clarity only healing and time can deliver. This time, I have never been more grateful for the time and money that I have spent on my therapy. I am also grateful for the Don’t Get Drunk Friday posts by Stefani Wilder Taylor at Baby on Bored for helping me understand this disease. This post, and this post by Aunt Becky at Mommy Wants Vodka also helped me see the families of addiction more clearly. Thank you, both, so much.

I believe that although the other shoe has dropped, rock bottom has not yet been met. I love this person more than words can say, but I watch the situation from afar. Someone who is not well is unpredictable and lashes out; I am not ready for those emotional scars to be ripped open to bleed again. I can’t be drained like that again, not with two Babes, now one who is old enough to understand when something is not right. I help from behind the scenes, the person never knowing my involvement. And even though I know in my heart, these boundaries are the right and healthy thing to do, I feel guilty.

My hope is that one day this person will accept help and become the person he is meant to be. My hope is that he will want to be with his family and help create that special fabric only extended family can make. My hope is that the Babes will get a chance to know him. My hope is that I will get to know him.