FOSTERING RESILIENCE FOR THE FAMILY IN RECOVERY: A Guide to Helping You and Your Loved One Get Out of the Swamp of Substance Abuse and Addiction

A Preface to Recovery

Every addiction starts with pain and ends with pain.

- Eckhart Tolle

The crying was non-stop. I couldn’t seem to go for more than an hour before the tears would start flowing again. Sometimes they were silent tears, no motion, no sound, just tears. Other times, the weeping would take over my entire body; chest-heaving sobs that seemed to be coming from somewhere deep within my soul. An emotional pain I’d never experienced before, or since. It would be weeks later when I finally realized it was grief. I was grieving his death. A death I was certain I had caused. My absolute worst fear realized. It was a logical conclusion based on what had happened, and the fact that there had been no sign of him for over a month. It was the longest time Nathan had ever gone without contact and my sense of dread had been growing with each passing day. A foreboding that was present from the moment he refused treatment and disappeared into the unknown.

Nathan’s drug problem was nothing new. We had been through the same vicious cycle many times. I had already filed two Marchman Act petitions that year. A Marchman Act is a legal process in the State of Florida where you can petition the court to mandate a loved one into treatment. But each time I filed a petition, Nathan would immediately start to wear me down. He would make promises to stop using and agree to go back to participating in his 12-Step program. That’s typically all it took for me to cave and withdraw the petition.

Nathan would follow through and attend meetings for a while, he even got a sponsor at one point. Unfortunately, Nathan’s progress was always short-lived, and he would relapse within a month or two, if not sooner. I tried to convince him he needed to go to treatment, but at 19 years old I couldn’t make him go, he had to agree. The only leverage I seemed to have, at least the only leverage I thought I had on that particular day, that fateful day, was not allowing him to continue to live with me if he refused to go to treatment. Nathan, like so many others whose brains and bodies have been altered as a result of their drug use, was deep in his own denial, and refusing any efforts to help him.

It all came to a head on a hot summer day in August 2009. I was at work when I received a frantic call from my youngest son, James.  He was 13 at the time, and had just arrived home from school to find Nathan sitting in his bedroom sticking a needle into his arm. I was beside myself, in part because I had been living in my own state of denial about just how much James knew about his brother’s addiction, let alone the impact it was having on him. But now, in an instant, that denial, my denial, was shattered. There was absolutely no doubt just how much James knew, and now there was absolutely no denying the degree to which he was being exposed to Nathan’s drug use.

When I answered the call that day, James was clearly distraught. His voice conveyed disappointment and a nervous exasperation, as he uttered the words I wasn’t altogether surprised to hear, He relapsed again, Mom! I felt my heart drop into my stomach and my mind began to swirl. A visceral response that was painfully familiar.

James continued, I walked up the stairs and his door was wide open, Mom. James seemed to be assuring me, as if he somehow was going to be blamed for doing something wrong.

My mind was still struggling to process the initial blow, as he quickly rambled on.  I was just standing there, and he was sitting on his bed injecting something into his arm. Then he looked up and saw me standing there and realized I saw him, you know, doing what he was doing, and he totally flipped out and started screaming at me to get out. 

This too, was not at all surprising to hear. We both had become very familiar with Nathan’s intense reactions, mood swings and otherwise erratic behavior. A symptom and consequence of his chronic drug use.

Where are you now? I asked, trying my best to portray a sense of calm and suppress my own escalating anxiety.

I’m in my room, James responded.

Okay, stay in your room. I’ll be home in a few minutes. I replied.  Before I had even hung up the phone, my car keys were in hand, readying myself to head straight out the door. Luckily, it was only a ten-minute drive.

From the moment I heard the words he relapsed again I was nauseous, literally sick to my stomach. James confirmed what I had already suspected for weeks but didn’t want to believe. Truthfully, there was this part of me that preferred to be in denial, not wanting to fully accept it. Because, if it were true, it meant that I would have to do something about it, I would have to take action. But there was certainly no denying it now. It was happening again, in the worst possible way, and it felt like this nightmare was never going to end.

By the time I arrived home, Nathan was gone. When I went to check on James, he was sitting on his bed playing a video game. Do you know where he went? I asked, standing in the doorway to James’ room.

James paused the game he was playing, turned toward me and sighed, No, he didn’t say.

But you just missed him, he continued. I heard him leave a few minutes ago." James then fixed his attention back on his video game.

As I stood there with my mind racing, still trying desperately to figure out what I should do, James suddenly and very matter-of-factly asked, do you think Nathan’s going to die? All the while, continuing to stare straight ahead, seemingly still focused on his video game.

I felt my heart once again drop into my stomach. My biggest fear was now shared by his brother. I hope not. I nervously replied.

I feel like he’s going to die, James continued, devoid of any emotion.

As I stood there frozen by my own fear and struggling to respond, James then asked the next logical question, are you going to kick him out again?

My reply was swift and emphatic. Not if he agrees to go to treatment, I exclaimed.

James once again turned toward me, this time with a skeptical glance. "That’s not going to happen, Mom" he retorted.

It was becoming increasingly clear that James was aware of way more than I had been willing to admit to myself.

Well, I don’t know what else to do, he needs to get help, I bellowed, my frustration and despair clearly evident as tears welled up in my eyes.

I pushed down the tears, trying my best to keep my emotions under control in front of James. I didn’t want to let my emotions override my thinking, but it was certainly hard to do. The anger, frustration, fear, it was all so overwhelming, especially to think what it must’ve been like for James to come home from school and see Nathan like he did. But I wasn’t angry with Nathan. He was suffering too, if not most of all.

There was so much trauma that had contributed to Nathan’s drug use and the progression of his addiction. Let alone the trauma of the addiction experience itself. An experience that causes considerable pain and suffering for the person afflicted, as well as everyone who loves them.

Nathan’s father was the first to struggle with substance abuse in our immediate family. From a genetic standpoint, there was a significant history of alcoholism present on both sides of our extended families. My marriage to Nathan and James’ father had ended five years earlier, when Nathan and James started to become targets of his abusive behavior. A pattern of behavior that resulted from his alcohol abuse and had previously only been directed toward me. Behavior that, in the end, left all of us (Nathan, James and me) with significant PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder).

The divorce occurred when Nathan was 14 and James was 8. I had been with their father for 22 years, since I was 17 years old, and the divorce was beyond contentious. It was ugly and painful, the effects of which only added more trauma to an already toxic situation.

Our family had been shattered and, the truth is, I hadn’t been the best role model since the divorce. I was struggling with my own trauma and a tremendous sense of anxiety, insecurity and responsibility in my new role as a single mother. An experience that, ironically, quickly resulted in my own problem with alcohol.

No, I wasn’t angry with Nathan. I was angry with myself! Disgusted and disappointed by the depth and magnitude of my own failures and for not taking action sooner. My anger was also fueled by intense fear. I was well-aware of just how powerful and dangerous of an addiction Nathan was up against, and I was absolutely terrified. I was afraid of Nathan dying and afraid that I wouldn’t be strong enough to help him.

I remember feeling like my entire world was this house of cards and if there was one more card… just one more… placed on the stack, I would completely fall apart and lose my mind. In fact, I was amazed that I was keeping it together at all. Somehow, though, I was. I was keeping it together and handling it. And not just handling it but handling it sober. Fourteen months earlier, I would’ve been drowning my sorrows with several bottles of wine or enough Captain Morgan and Coke to sink me deep into oblivion. A place that I now know as the treacherous swamp, the fertile breeding ground for fear, despair, anger, resentment, self-pity, and shame. A place I had lived for so many years, too many years. I would later come to learn that you don’t have to be abusing substances or suffering with addiction to be living in the swamp.

But things were starting to change, I was starting to change, and I didn’t want to live in the swamp anymore. Instead of sticking my head in the sand and pretending everything was okay, I was starting to take action, and this time I knew I needed to take drastic action. Each time Nathan relapsed it was getting worse. I despaired, as I had over and over and over again, that this was going to end tragically for all of us. Yet, every time that thought entered my mind, I would push it right out. I couldn’t allow it any space. I feared that if I allowed the thought to stay in my mind, if I gave it any energy at all, that it would somehow become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Little did I know just how real it would ultimately become for me.

Turning his attention back to his video game, James confidently declared, so yeah, you’re kicking him out again.

James had this way of compartmentalizing everything. He was the straight arrow, the family peacekeeper, the one who just wanted everyone to get along. He wanted everything and everyone to be okay, no matter what. And when things weren’t okay, he did everything he could to either fix it or tuck it away somewhere safe, and at least pretend everything was okay. It seems we all did our fair share of pretending.

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I remember one time, right before I got sober. James was 11, maybe 12. It was a Sunday afternoon and I had already indulged in way too much wine. My reaction to the end of yet another toxic relationship. I was starting to realize that I was attracting a different version of the same relationship over and over again, and I was feeling sorry for myself for my latest failure after another 2 years seemingly wasted. I wound up passing out on the couch in the family room, right next to the huge magnum of wine I had just polished off all by myself. Not something I generally did around the kids, but this was at the very end of my drinking, when it was progressing to the extent that I was doing things I normally wouldn’t do under