After my children’s father — a lifelong athlete — died in his sleep, my son spiraled into the depths of despair, depression, and alcohol addiction. For over nine years, I screamed at God, pulled my son out of bars, and stayed awake all night waiting for the calls that always came from my son, from the police, and from emergency rooms. I rushed to my son at 5 a.m. each morning as he screamed that babies were coming out of his walls. I argued with psychiatrists, prosecutors, probation officers, hospital administrators, and judges. I took him to counselors and forced him to go to detox — dozens of times. I pulled him out of busy streets and begged for help from his father’s friends — the people in programs his father had created to help others, the people his father had trained as family and marriage therapists and recovery therapists in his doctoral programs — but they said helping my son was a ‘conflict of interest’.
It was not a conflict.
Each night and each morning the same thing. Over and over. I called the police. I called EMTs dozens of times to take my son to the ER. His blood alcohol content (BAC) was .5 — every time. At .3, you become comatose and at .5 you die.
I sat in the ER all night long watching the clock and watching helplessly as the doctors and nurses strapped my son to the bed. In the morning, they released him, assuring me he was safe, just before he went into seizures and atrial fibrillation.
I forced my son into outpatient programs, residential programs (many times), and psychiatric wards, but the psychiatric doctors said he could tell them his name, date of birth, and address, so he was not a danger to himself or others. They suggested I get therapy. I cried. I sobbed. I screamed. No one listened. For months, my son was a missing person, but the police had no program for adult missing persons. My energy was gone. Second-by-second, minute-by-minute, year-by-year, I died.
I have held the grief for years, but I have not allowed myself to grieve. My highest priority was keeping my children alive. The pain of losing my children’s father has been too deep to either experience or write about. The emotion of writing is overwhelming but it is also healing. Writing is healing. Words are magic. Creativity is healing. So as I write, I am also healing.
I invite you to walk with me through this process of healing as I struggle to put into words the emotion — energy in motion.
