Summary: We all are very independent individuals. Some of our first words – perhaps even our first sentence – expressed that self-reliance. "I can do it myself." This is healthy when we’re dressing and cleaning up. It becomes unhealthy when we try to control o
Introduction: The names in this story have been changed out of respect for their privacy. Julie W told her family’s story in a magazine article.
[My daughter], Allison, came home for the weekend. She opened the door, didn’t speak, and dropped her duffel bag. Smudges of mascara circled her eyes. I whispered a “God-please-no” prayer.
“Come tell me about your classes.” I patted the sofa.
“Gotta take a shower.”
As she clomped upstairs, I analyzed the recent changes in her: complaints of not having any money, rarely answers the phone, weight loss, pinpoint pupils, and a “who gives a rip” [façade]. I searched her purse and found a leopard-colored pipe and the unmistakable sweet odor of pot. My heart fluttered wildly like a bird stuck inside my chest.
She plodded down the stairs, hair in a towel, wearing the same wrinkled clothes. Be still and talk in a sweet voice, I told myself. You must convince her to stop.
“We need to talk, honey.”
“Not now. I’m tired.”
“I found your pipe.”
She stared at me with death-row eyes. “Chill, it’s not that big of a deal.”
The tightness in the den suffocated me. I needed air. “Want to walk?” I asked brightly. “Like we used to?”
I knew I could talk some sense into her. “Honey, please. You’ve gotta stop.” I grabbed her hand.
“Mom!” She jerked away.
“We have a strong family history. You don’t want to—”
I never got to finish the sentence. Allison stormed out of the room and within minutes was headed back to college. I knew what I had to do — abandon everything in my life and start to worry/fix/control full-time.
I began spending most days by the phone. I evaluated Allison’s reactions, gestures, and comments. Thoughts circled my mind like buzzards: What if she never stops? What if I never see her again? What if she overdoses? Or goes to jail?
I lured Allison into therapy by promising we’d go to an Italian restaurant before visits. Her first appointment day arrived. She played with her spaghetti, and I couldn’t eat.
“So, what do you plan to say to the counselor?” I asked.
“How should I know?”
When they called her name at the office, I hurried in to make sure the counselor understood. Allison refused to sign for me to have any information. I considered eavesdropping, but too many people were around. An hour later, she walked past me as I paid.
“What’d you talk about?”
Our therapy/lunch charade continued that way for a few weeks. Then Allison’s sister informed me she was still using. She denied it, refused to see the counselor, dropped out of college, and stopped answering my calls.
I was convinced if I forgot about Allison, even for a second, or enjoyed anything, something bad might happen. Several months later, after another night of little sleep, I glanced in the mirror. I could have passed for the addict: dark circles under hopeless eyes.
I called my friend Linda. Her son, also an addict, had been sentenced to state prison. “You can’t imagine all that’s going on here,” I said.
“Come over for coffee,” she urged.
I wanted to stand guard at home but knew she’d listen and understand.