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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 654564" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>I'm sorry this is happening. I think the most damning after-effects of the drugs some of the kids use is a lack of empathy. It is easier to hate, and they do ~ but I think it is themselves they hate.</p><p></p><p>Addiction is a terrible thing.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>That was a key understanding for me, too. Once I could know about these similarities, I could let go of the guilty thinking that I had done something correctable in how I parented him. </p><p></p><p>After that, I could allow myself to heal, instead of devoting my energies to trying to save him or correct him or reteach him or love him out of it.</p><p></p><p>Those were such bad times for all of us.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>I don't think we arrive at acceptance. It is a daily struggle. One of us here (Child of Mine) posts about our figurative tool boxes. This is where we keep things, thoughts, prayers, exercises, that help us when it is too hard for us to do it, alone. When we are thrown into that shocky place, just remembering our tool box can be calming. </p><p></p><p>Tool box.</p><p></p><p>And posting here.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>This helped me. It was the only thing that did.</p><p></p><p>"God, grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change</p><p>the Courage to change the things I can</p><p>and the Wisdom to know the difference."</p><p></p><p>One of the moms here told me to read it again and again until I got it. </p><p></p><p>I did that, and it worked.</p><p></p><p>I used to repeat it when I woke up worrying. Its repetitive rhythms break the chain of cataclysmic events erupting from some hellish place in our brains, maybe. </p><p></p><p>Or maybe, God hears us.</p><p></p><p>I am no longer so proud as to think that whether I believe or do not believe has anything to do with anything.</p><p></p><p>This helped me, too: Find a palm-sized talisman that represents your son to you. It can be anything. A pebble or a marble or anything at all. Wrap it in layers of fabric of different colors. Place it carefully in a box with a lid. Put the box in a drawer. When I did not hear from my son, when I was so worried I cannot describe the intensity of it, I would take out that box. I would rage, or I would cry, or I would remember my son as I knew him to be, before he was taken by his addiction. Then, I would rewrap the talisman that was all I had of him, and put it carefully back in the drawer.</p><p></p><p>Carl Jung, a famous psychiatrist, did something similar with an object representing himself to him. He wrapped the item and kept it safe and hidden away, all of his life.</p><p></p><p>That is where I got the idea.</p><p></p><p>It comforted me.</p><p></p><p>I think it did not affect my son at all, but it comforted me. And in the darkest parts of all this, I was not too proud to try any of those things that might help me survive it.</p><p></p><p>Here I am.</p><p></p><p>:O)</p><p></p><p>Another thing: Especially on the holidays, or on his birthday, when things were so hard to accept, I would light a white candle for my son. In my thinking, maybe that light that his mother lit for him would somehow guide him home. To this day, though my son is doing well now, I put those electric candle Christmas decorations in my windows at Christmas.</p><p></p><p>You never know.</p><p></p><p>Intention is intention, and I suppose any mom's love is a good thing, whether the son or daughter is mine or someone else's.</p><p></p><p>So, those are the things that helped me.</p><p></p><p>Cedar</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 654564, member: 17461"] I'm sorry this is happening. I think the most damning after-effects of the drugs some of the kids use is a lack of empathy. It is easier to hate, and they do ~ but I think it is themselves they hate. Addiction is a terrible thing. That was a key understanding for me, too. Once I could know about these similarities, I could let go of the guilty thinking that I had done something correctable in how I parented him. After that, I could allow myself to heal, instead of devoting my energies to trying to save him or correct him or reteach him or love him out of it. Those were such bad times for all of us. I don't think we arrive at acceptance. It is a daily struggle. One of us here (Child of Mine) posts about our figurative tool boxes. This is where we keep things, thoughts, prayers, exercises, that help us when it is too hard for us to do it, alone. When we are thrown into that shocky place, just remembering our tool box can be calming. Tool box. And posting here. *** This helped me. It was the only thing that did. "God, grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change the Courage to change the things I can and the Wisdom to know the difference." One of the moms here told me to read it again and again until I got it. I did that, and it worked. I used to repeat it when I woke up worrying. Its repetitive rhythms break the chain of cataclysmic events erupting from some hellish place in our brains, maybe. Or maybe, God hears us. I am no longer so proud as to think that whether I believe or do not believe has anything to do with anything. This helped me, too: Find a palm-sized talisman that represents your son to you. It can be anything. A pebble or a marble or anything at all. Wrap it in layers of fabric of different colors. Place it carefully in a box with a lid. Put the box in a drawer. When I did not hear from my son, when I was so worried I cannot describe the intensity of it, I would take out that box. I would rage, or I would cry, or I would remember my son as I knew him to be, before he was taken by his addiction. Then, I would rewrap the talisman that was all I had of him, and put it carefully back in the drawer. Carl Jung, a famous psychiatrist, did something similar with an object representing himself to him. He wrapped the item and kept it safe and hidden away, all of his life. That is where I got the idea. It comforted me. I think it did not affect my son at all, but it comforted me. And in the darkest parts of all this, I was not too proud to try any of those things that might help me survive it. Here I am. :O) Another thing: Especially on the holidays, or on his birthday, when things were so hard to accept, I would light a white candle for my son. In my thinking, maybe that light that his mother lit for him would somehow guide him home. To this day, though my son is doing well now, I put those electric candle Christmas decorations in my windows at Christmas. You never know. Intention is intention, and I suppose any mom's love is a good thing, whether the son or daughter is mine or someone else's. So, those are the things that helped me. Cedar [/QUOTE]
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