My dear child,
Today I attended the funeral of one of your friends. Jake was only 24, and it was hard. I felt compelled to go to the funeral for a number of reasons. He had been one of my students, he was one of your closest friends, and because I felt such pain for his mother.
I knew it was going to be hard. I saw some of your friends, some of my former students, and co-workers who know what kind of trouble we've been through over the years. Of course, you weren't there, not physically, but you were really all over the place for me. You have been since I learned of Jake's death. This one hits very close to home on every level, especially since you are once again in your wandering mode and I don't even know if you're aware of what happened. As I sat there, I wondered how long it will be before I have to plan this for you. As that thought enters, it makes me angry again, as it always does when that darkness creeps in. How can a mother even go there? She can go there after you've been a fraction of a millimeter from death numerous times. She can go there when she knows any waking moment could be your last when you pick up that needle, snort that line, smoke that bowl, or pop that pill. You think you're invincible and know when to stop. You always say that, and then you end up in an ambulance, a hospital, or detox again. I always fear that the next time will be the last.
I can't trust your words. I so badly want to, more than you can imagine. It's not because you don't mean them. It's because you will say anything to convince me, or more so to convince yourself that you have some semblance of control over your addiction. In the last six years or so of this struggle, you have had so many words of reassurance to offer, but they are more often than not, hollow. Your intentions are good on some level, but the active drug addict brain is pulling the punches. I can no longer trust your words, only your actions. The only words I believe are, "I love you." I will always know in the depths of my heart that you love me. Of course, that knowledge is always dampened by the truth that you will "love" me more if I do whatever it is you want. But, I know you love me, and you know how deeply I love you. That knowledge comforts me.
In six years, I stood by you through juvenile detention stays, adolescent "behavioral hospitals" (and I use the term very loosely,) treatment programs, county jail, arrests, your life in a trap house, desperate and frantic phone calls, and numerous detox and treatment centers as an adult. I have used every speck of strength to maintain hope each time, hope that THIS time it would click, you'd get it, you'd push through the hardest part, you'd sincerely decide that you wanted out of that life and push for another one, that it would work. I know that when you hear of Jake's death, if you haven't already, it's going to hit you very, very hard. Ethan, his mother told me, "Tell your son to live every moment, to live." Please live.
So many people have told me over the years that I needed to let you go because of the damage each relapse and disappointment does to me. Just how does one let their child go? I understand what they mean is that I need to distance myself, to let things fall where they will, and I can and have done that on many levels, but I can't just let you go. When things are bad, it is very consuming because I just want a change so badly. When things are better, that's when I can sit back and let you go easier. I know I can't fix any of it. I don't try to fix it, but I do continue to be there when you need my emotional support, and every time, I start to hope again. I don't know how to turn that off. I don't do all of this right, I never have. There's so much I've done wrong, but I've done the best I've known how to do. I pray that's enough and that I won't one day be planning your funeral.
You know as well as I do that there isn't any explanation as to why you're still alive. The pericarditis alone should have killed you if all of the overdoses haven't. How many times has it been? How many more times will it be? When will it stop? As I've said before, I will never be able to understand any of this from your perspective. The irrationality of the addict thinking is beyond my comprehension. However, you will never understand it from my perspective. The pain of watching your child suffer is terrible. I get angry when people say, "It's his choice. He keeps choosing the drugs." Hell, I even say it myself sometimes. Unfortunately, I know it's not that simple.
So here I am, after your friend's funeral, wondering what is coming next for us. Will I find myself in that same position or will it be better? As I finish writing this, I just got your phone call. You left treatment (your 11th attempt at this point, if I haven't lost count) two days ago, after I once again got that hope back. I hadn't had an opportunity to tell you about Jake when you were in a safe environment so I had to do it tonight, when you were high. Your devastation at this news was heart wrenching on this end of the phone. I know how much you loved him. I hated telling you, but maybe this will convince you that it's time. You are 20 years old but you've lived three lifetimes. As any mother will tell you, you're still my child, and I still wish I could cuddle you on my lap as you cry and make it all better. I can't. When you called back after the initial shock and said you were calling to go back to treatment again, that this was too hard and you don't want to die like Jake, hope began to rise again. How can I lose hope completely? I know that sweet, joyful, happy soul is still in there under the darkness. Jake is no longer living with the struggle, but he's also no longer living. You have squandered so many chances for a new life. I pray that you'll take this next chance.
I love you.
